“I’ll see you at your place, Gordon, I promise, but I want to know what you’ve got now and if you refuse, then don’t bother to call again.”
“No, that’s all right, I’ll read it.”
Which he did and when he was finished she said, “Good boy, Gordon, I’ll see you later.”
He put the phone down and turned, folding the copy of the report. The door to the phone box was jerked open and Ferguson plucked the report from his fingers.
TEN
DILLON WAS IN his room at the hotel when Tania called him. “I’ve got rather hot news,” she said. “The hunt for a lead on you is moving to Belfast.”
“Tell me,” he said.
Which she did. When she was finished, she said, “Does any of this make any sense?”
“Yes,” he said. “The McGuire fella was a big name with the Provos in those days.”
“And he’s dead, is he, or is he still around?”
“Devlin’s right about that. His death was reported, supposedly because of in-fighting in the Movement, but it was just a ruse to help him drop out of sight.”
“If they found him, could it give you problems?”
“Maybe, but not if I found him first.”
“And how could you do that?”
“I know his half-brother, a fella called Macey. He would know where he is.”
“But that would mean a trip to Belfast yourself.”
“That would be no big deal. An hour and a quarter by British Airways. I don’t know what time the last plane tonight gets in. I’d have to check.”
“Just a minute, I’ve got a B.A. Worldwide Timetable here,” she said and opened her desk drawer. She found it and looked at the Belfast schedule. “The last plane is eight-thirty. You’ll never make it. It’s quarter to seven now. It’s murder getting out to Heathrow in the evening traffic and this weather will make it worse. Probably at least an hour or maybe an hour and a half.”
“I know,” Dillon said. “What about the morning?”
“Same time, eight-thirty.”
“I’ll just have to get up early.”
“Is it wise?”
“Is anything in this life? I’ll handle it, don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”
He put the phone down, thought about it for a while, then called British Airways and booked a seat on the morning flight with an open return. He lit a cigarette and walked to the window. Was it wise, she’d said, and he tried to remember what Tommy McGuire had known about him in eighty-one. Nothing about Danny Fahy, that was certain, because Fahy wasn’t supposed to be involved that time. That had been personal. But Jack Harvey was another matter. After all, it had been McGuire who’d put him onto Harvey as an arms supplier in the first place.
He pulled on his jacket, got his trenchcoat from the wardrobe and went out. Five minutes later he was hailing a cab on the corner. He got in and told the driver to take him to Covent Garden.
Gordon Brown sat on the other side of Ferguson’s desk in the half-light. He had never been so frightened in his life. “I didn’t mean any harm, Brigadier, I swear it.”
“Then why did you take a copy of the report?”
“It was just a whim. Stupid, I know, but I was so intrigued with it being for the Prime Minister.”
“You realize what you’ve done, Gordon, a man of your service? All those years in the Army? This could mean your pension.”
Detective Inspector Lane of Special Branch was in his late thirties and in his crumpled tweed suit and glasses looked like a schoolmaster. He said, “I’m going to ask you again, Mr. Brown.” He leaned on the end of the desk. “Have you ever taken copies like this before?”
“Absolutely not, I swear it.”
“You’ve never been asked by another person to do such a thing?”
Gordon managed to look suitably shocked. “Good heavens, Inspector, that would be treason. I was a Sergeant-Major in the Intelligence Corps.”
“Yes, Mr. Brown, we know all that,” Lane said.
The internal phone went and Ferguson lifted it. It was Lane’s sergeant, Mackie. “I’m outside, Brigadier, just back from the flat in Camden. I think you and the Inspector should come out.”
“Thank you.” Ferguson put the phone down. “Right, I think we’ll give you time to think things over, Gordon. Inspector?”
He nodded to Lane, got up and moved to the door and Lane followed him. Mackie was standing in the anteroom still in trilby and raincoat, a plastic bag in one hand.
“You found something, Sergeant?” Lane asked.
“You could call it that, sir.” Mackie took a cardboard file from his plastic bag and opened it. “A rather interesting collection.”
The copies of the reports were neatly stacked in order, the latest ones for the Prime Minister’s attention on top.
Lane said, “Christ, Brigadier, he’s been at it for a while.”
“So it would seem,” Ferguson said. “But to what purpose?”
“You mean he’s working for someone, sir?”
“Without a doubt. The present operation I’m engaged on is most delicate. There was an attack on a man working for me in Paris. A woman died. We wondered how the villain of the piece knew about them, if you follow me. Now we know. Details of these reports were passed on to a third party. They must have been.”
Lane nodded. “Then we’ll have to work on him some more.”
“No, we don’t have the time. Let’s try another way. Let’s just let him go. He’s a simple man. I think he’d do the simple thing.”
“Right, sir.” Lane turned to Mackie. “If you lose him, you’ll be back pounding the pavement in Brixton, and so will I, because I’m coming with you.”
They hurried out and Ferguson opened the door and went back in the office. He sat down behind the desk. “A sad business, Gordon.”
“What’s going to happen to me, Brigadier?”
“I’ll have to think about it.” Ferguson picked up the copy of the report. “Such an incredibly stupid thing to do.” He sighed. “Go home, Gordon, go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Gordon Brown couldn’t believe his luck. He got the door open somehow and left, hurrying down the corridor to the staff cloakroom. The narrowest escape of his life. It could have meant the end of everything. Not only his career and pension, but prison. But that was it: no more and Tania would have to accept that. He went downstairs to the car park, pulling on his coat, found his car and was turning into Whitehall a few moments later, Mackie and Lane hard on his tail in the Sergeant’s unmarked Ford Capri.
Dillon knew that late-night shopping was the thing in the Covent Garden area. There were still plenty of people around in spite of the winter cold and he hurried along until he came to the theatrical shop, Clayton’s, near Neal’s Yard. The lights were on in the window, the door opened to his touch, the bell tinkling.
Clayton came through the bead curtain and smiled. “Oh, it’s you. What can I do for you?”
“Wigs,” Dillon told him.
“A nice selection over here.” He was right. There was everything-short, long, permed, blonde, redhead. Dillon selected one that was shoulder-length and gray.
“I see,” Clayton said. “The granny look?”
