“Something like that. What about costume? I don’t mean anything fancy. Second-hand?”
“In here.”
Clayton went through the bead curtain and Dillon followed him. There was rack upon rack of clothes and a jumbled heap in the corner. He worked very quickly, sorting through, selected a long brown skirt with an elastic waist and a shabby raincoat that almost came down to his ankles.
Clayton said, “What are you going to play, Old Mother Riley or a bag lady?”
“You’d be surprised.” Dillon had seen a pair of jeans on top of the jumble in the corner. He picked them up and searched through a pile of shoes beside them, selecting a pair of runners that had seen better days.
“These will do,” he said. “Oh, and this,” and he picked an old headscarf from a stand. “Stick ’em all in a couple of plastic bags. How much?”
Clayton started to pack them. “By rights I should thank you for taking them away, but we’ve all got to live. Ten quid to you.”
Dillon paid him and picked up the bags. “Thanks a lot.”
Clayton opened the door for him. “Have a good show, luv, give ’em hell.”
“Oh, I will,” Dillon said and he hurried down to the corner, hailed a cab and told the driver to take him back to the hotel.
When Tania Novikova went down to answer the bell and opened the door to find Gordon Brown there, she knew, by instinct, that something was wrong.
“What’s this, Gordon? I told you I’d come round to your place.”
“I must see you, Tania, it’s essential. Something terrible has happened!”
“Calm down,” she said. “Just take it easy. Come upstairs and tell me all about it.”
Lane and Mackie were parked at the end of the street and the Inspector was already on the car phone to Ferguson, giving him the address.
“Sergeant Mackie’s done a quick check at the door, sir. The card says a Miss Tania Novikova.”
“Oh, dear,” Ferguson said.
“You know her, sir?”
“Supposedly a secretary at the Soviet Embassy, Inspector. In fact she’s a captain in the KGB.”
“That means she’s one of Colonel Yuri Gatov’s people, sir. He runs London Station.”
“I’m not so sure. Gatov is a Gorbachev man and very pro-West. On the other hand, I always understood the Novikova woman to be to the right of Genghis Khan. I’d be surprised if Gatov knew about this.”
“Are you going to notify him, sir?”
“Not yet. Let’s see what she’s got to say first. It’s information we’re after.”
“Shall we go in, sir?”
“No, wait for me. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”
Tania peered cautiously through a chink in the curtains. She saw Mackie standing by his car at the end of the street and it was enough. She could smell policemen anywhere in the world, Moscow, Paris, London-it was always the same.
“Tell me again, Gordon, exactly what happened.”
Gordon Brown did as he was told and she sat there listening patiently. She nodded when he’d finished. “We were lucky, Gordon, very lucky. Go and make us a cup of coffee in the kitchen. I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make.” She squeezed his hand. “Afterwards we’ll have a very special time together.”
“Really?” His face brightened and he went out.
She picked up the phone and called Makeev at his Paris apartment. It rang for quite a time and she was about to put it down when it was picked up at the other end.
“Josef, it’s Tania.”
“I was in the shower,” he said. “I’m dripping all over the carpet.”
“I’ve only got seconds, Josef. I just wanted to say goodbye. I’m blown. My mole was exposed. They’ll be kicking in the door any minute.”
“My God!” he said. “And Dillon?”
“He’s safe. All systems go. What that man has planned will set the world on fire.”
“But you, Tania?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let them take me. Goodbye, Josef.”
She put the phone down, lit a cigarette, then called the hotel and asked for Dillon’s room. He answered at once.
“It’s Tania,” she said. “We’ve got trouble.”
He was quite calm. “How bad?”
“They rumbled my mole, let him go, and the poor idiot came straight here. I smell Special Branch at the end of the street.”
“I see. What are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be around to tell them anything. One thing: They’ll know that Gordon gave me the contents of tonight’s report. He was in the telephone booth in the Ministry canteen when Ferguson arrested him.”
“I see.”
“Promise me one thing,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Blow them away, all of them.” The doorbell rang. She said, “I’ve got to go. Luck, Dillon.”
As she put down the phone, Gordon Brown came in with the coffee. “Was that the door?”
“Yes. Be an angel, Gordon, and see who it is.”
He opened the door and started downstairs. Tania took a deep breath. Dying wasn’t difficult. The cause she believed in had always been the most important thing in her life. She stubbed out her cigarette, opened a drawer in the desk, took out a Makarov pistol and shot herself through the right temple.
Gordon Brown, halfway down the stairs, turned and bounded up, bursting into the room. At the sight of her lying there beside the desk, the pistol still in her right hand, he let out a terrible cry and fell on his knees.
“Tania, my darling,” he moaned.
And then he knew what he must do as he heard something heavy crash against the door below. He pried the Makarov from her hand and as he raised it, his own hand was trembling. He took a deep breath to steady himself and pulled the trigger in the same moment that the front door burst open and Lane and Mackie started upstairs, Ferguson behind them.
There was a small crowd at the end of the street exhibiting the usual public curiosity. Dillon joined in, his collar up, hands in pockets. It started to snow slightly as they opened the rear doors of the ambulance. He watched as the two blanket-covered stretchers were loaded. The ambulance drove away. Ferguson stood on the pavement for a few moments talking to Lane and Mackie. Dillon recognized the Brigadier straight away, had been shown his photo many years previously. Lane and Mackie were obviously policemen.
After a while, Ferguson got in his car and was driven away, Mackie went into the flat and Lane also drove away. The stratagem was obvious: For Mackie to wait just in case someone turned up. One thing was certain. Tania Novikova was dead and so was the boyfriend, and Dillon knew that thanks to her sacrifice, he was safe.
He went back to the hotel and phoned Makeev at his flat in Paris. “I’ve got bad news, Josef.”
“Tania?”
“How did you know?”
“She phoned. What’s happened?”
“She was blown or rather her mole was. She killed herself, Josef, rather than get taken. A dedicated lady.”
“And the mole? The boyfriend?”
“Did the same. I’ve just seen the bodies carted out to an ambulance. Ferguson was there.”
“How will this affect you?”
“In no way. I’m off to Belfast in the morning to cut off the only chance of a lead they have.”
