Free Eye of the Storm by Jack Higgins

would know how best to use such information. She turned into Kensington Palace Gardens and went into the Soviet Embassy.
     
    By chance, Makeev was working late in his office that night when his secretary looked in and said, “A call from London on the scrambler. Captain Novikova.”
    Makeev picked up the red phone. “Tania,” he said, a certain affection in his voice, for they had been lovers during the three years she’d worked for him in Paris. “What can I do for you?”
    “I understand there was an incident affecting Empire over there earlier today?” she said.
    It was an old KGB coded phrase, current for years, always used when referring to assassination attempts of any kind at high government level where Britain was concerned.
    Makeev was immediately alert. “That’s correct. The usual kind of it-didn’t-happen affair.”
    “Have you an interest?”
    “Very much so.”
    “There’s a coded fax on the way. I’ll stand by in my office if you want to talk.”
    Tania Novikova put down the phone. She had her own fax coding machine at a second desk. She went to it, tapping the required details out quickly, checking on the screen to see that she had got it right. She added Makeev’s personal number, inserted the report and waited. A few moments later, she got a message received okay signal. She got up, lit a cigarette and went and stood by the window, waiting.
     
    The jumbled message was received in the radio and coding room at the Paris Embassy. Makeev stood waiting impatiently for it to come through. The operator handed it to him and the colonel inserted it into the decoder and tapped in his personal key. He couldn’t wait to see the contents, was reading it as he went along the corridor, as excited as Tania Novikova when he saw the line For the Eyes of the Prime Minister only. He sat behind his desk and read it through again. He thought about it for a while, then reached for the red phone.
     
    “You’ve done well, Tania. This one was my baby.”
    “I’m so pleased.”
    “Does Gatov know about this?”
    “No, Colonel.”
    “Good, let’s keep it that way.”
    “Is there anything else I can do?”
    “Very much so. Cultivate your contact. Let me have anything else on the instant. There could be more for you. I have a friend coming to London. The particular friend you’ve been reading about.”
    “I’ll wait to hear.”
    She put down the phone, totally elated, and went along to the canteen.
     
    In Paris, Makeev sat there for a moment, frowning, then he picked up the phone and rang Dillon. There was a slight delay before the Irishman answered.
    “Who is it?”
    “Josef, Sean, I’m on my way there. Utmost importance.”
    Makeev put down the phone, got his overcoat and went out.

FOUR
    B ROSNAN HAD TAKEN Anne-Marie to the cinema that evening and afterwards to a small restaurant in Montmartre called La Place Anglaise. It a was an old favorite because, and in spite of the name, one of the specialities of the house was Irish stew. It wasn’t particularly busy, and they had just finished the main course when Max Hernu appeared, Savary standing behind him.
    “Snow in London, snow in Brussels and snow in Paris,” Hernu brushed it from his sleeve and opened his coat.
    “Do I deduce from your appearance here that you’ve had me followed?” Brosnan asked.
    “Not at all, Professor. We called at your apartment, where the porter told us you had gone to the cinema. He was also kind enough to mention three or four restaurants he thought you might be at. This is the second.”
    “Then you’d better sit down and have a cognac and some coffee,” Anne-Marie told him. “You both look frozen.”
    They took off their coats and Brosnan nodded to the headwaiter, who hurried over and took the order.
    “I’m sorry, mademoiselle, to spoil your evening, but this is most important,” Hernu said. “An unfortunate development.”
    Brosnan lit a cigarette. “Tell us the worst.”
    It was Savary who answered.