“And then?”
“I’ll amaze you, Josef, and your Arab friend. How does the entire British War Cabinet sound to you?”
“Dear God, you can’t be serious?”
“Oh, but I am. I’ll be in touch very soon now.”
He replaced the phone, put on his jacket and went down to the bar, whistling.
Ferguson was sitting in a booth in the lounge bar of the pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens and the Soviet Embassy, waiting for Colonel Yuri Gatov. The Russian, when he appeared, looked agitated, a tall, white-haired man in a camel overcoat. He saw Ferguson and hurried over.
“Charles, I can’t believe it. Tania Novikova dead. Why?”
“Yuri, you and I have known each other for better than twenty-five years, often as adversaries, but I’ll take a chance on you now, a chance that you really do want to see change in our time and an end to East-West conflict.”
“But I do, you know that.”
“Unfortunately, not everyone in the KGB would agree with you and Tania Novikova was one.”
“She was a hardliner, true, but what are you saying, Charles?”
So Ferguson told him-Dillon, the attempt on Mrs. Thatcher, Gordon Brown, Brosnan, everything.
Gatov said. “This IRA wild card intends to attempt the life of the Prime Minister, that’s what you’re telling me, and Tania was involved?”
“Oh, very directly.”
“But, Charles, I knew nothing, I swear.”
“And I believe you, old chap, but she must have had a link with someone. I mean she managed to convey vital information to Dillon in Paris. That’s how he knew about Brosnan and so on.”
“Paris,” Gatov said. “That’s a thought. Did you know she was in Paris for three years before transferring to London? And you know who’s head of Paris Station for the KGB?”
“Of course, Josef Makeev,” Ferguson said.
“Anything but a Gorbachev man. Very much of the old guard.”
“It would explain a great deal,” Ferguson said. “But we’ll never prove it.”
“True.” Gatov nodded. “But I’ll give him a call anyway, just to worry him.”
Makeev had not strayed far from the phone and picked it up the moment it rang.
“Makeev here.”
“Josef? Yuri Gatov. I’m phoning from London.”
“Yuri. What a surprise,” Makeev said, immediately wary.
“I’ve got some distressing news, Josef. Tania, Tania Novikova.”
“What about her?”
“She committed suicide earlier this evening along with some boyfriend of hers, a clerk at the Ministry of Defence.”
“Good heavens.” Makeev tried to sound convincing.
“He was feeding her classified information. I’ve just had a session with Charles Ferguson of Group Four. You know Charles?”
“Of course.”
“I was quite shocked. I must tell you I had no knowledge of Tania’s activities. She worked for you for three years, Josef, so you know her as well as anyone. Have you any thoughts on the matter?”
“None, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, well, if you can think of anything, let me know.”
Makeev poured himself a Scotch and went and looked out into the frostbound Paris street. For a wild moment he’d had an impulse to phone Michael Aroun, but what would be the point, and Tania had sounded so certain. Set the world on fire, that had been her phrase.
He raised his glass. “To you, Dillon,” he said softly. “Let’s see if you can do it.”
It was almost eleven in the River Room at the Savoy, the band still playing, and Harry Flood, Brosnan and Mary were thinking of breaking up the party when Ferguson appeared at last.
“If ever I’ve needed a drink I need one now. A Scotch, and a very large one.”
Flood called a waiter and gave the order and Mary said, “What on earth’s happened?”
Ferguson gave them a quick resume of the night’s events. When he was finished, Brosnan said, “It explains a great deal, but the infuriating thing is it gets us no closer to Dillon.”
“One point I must make,” Ferguson said. “When I arrested Brown in the canteen at the Ministry he was on the phone and he had the report in his hand. I believe it likely he was speaking to the Novikova woman then.”
“I see what you’re getting at,” Mary said. “You think she, in her turn, may have transmitted the information to Dillon?”
“Possibly,” Ferguson said.
“So what are you suggesting?” Brosnan asked. “That Dillon would go to Belfast, too?”
“Perhaps,” Ferguson said. “If it was important enough.”
“We’ll just have to take our chances, then.” Brosnan turned to Mary. “Early start tomorrow. We’d better get moving.”
As they walked through the lounge to the entrance, Brosnan and Ferguson went ahead and stood talking. Mary said to Flood, “You think a lot of him, don’t you?”
“Martin?” He nodded. “The Vietcong had me in a pit for weeks. When the rains came, it used to fill up with water and I’d have to stand all night so I didn’t drown. Leeches, worms, you name it, and then one day, when it was as bad as it could be, a hand reached down and pulled me out, and it was Martin in a headband, hair to his shoulders and his face painted like an Apache Indian. He’s special people.”
Mary looked across at Brosnan. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose that just about sums him up.”
Dillon ordered a taxi to pick him up at six o’clock from the hotel. He was waiting for it on the steps, his case in one hand when it arrived, a briefcase in the other. He was wearing his trenchcoat, suit, striped tie and glasses to fit the Peter Hilton persona, carried the Jersey driving license and the flying license as proof of identity. In the case was a toilet bag and the items he had obtained from Clayton at Covent Garden, all neatly folded. He’d included a towel from the hotel, socks and underpants. It all looked terribly normal and the wig could be easily explained.
The run to Heathrow was fast at that time in the morning. He went and picked up his ticket at the booking desk, then put his case through and got his seat assignment. He wasn’t carrying a gun. No possible way he could do that, not with the kind of maximum security that operated on the Belfast planes.
He got a selection of newspapers, went up to the gallery restaurant and ordered a full English breakfast, then he started to work his way through the papers, checking on how the war in the Gulf was doing.
At Gatwick, there was a light powdering of snow at the side of the runway as the Lear jet lifted off. As they leveled off, Mary said, “How do you feel?”
“I’m not sure,” Brosnan said. “It’s been a long time since I was in Belfast. Liam Devlin, Anne-Marie. So long ago.”
“And Sean Dillon?”
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t forgetting him, I could never do that.”
He turned and stared far out into the distance as the Lear jet lifted up out of the clouds and turned north- west.
Although Dillon wasn’t aware of it, Brosnan and Mary had already landed and were on their way to the Europa Hotel when his flight touched down at Aldergrove airport outside Belfast. There was a half-hour wait for the baggage, and when he got his case, he made for the green line and followed a stream of people through. Customs officers stopped some, but he wasn’t one of them, and within five minutes he was outside and into a taxi.
“English, are you?” the driver asked.
