Free Eye of the Storm by Jack Higgins Page B

the British Foreign Secretary, on a visit to France in nineteen seventy-nine in very similar circumstances to this recent affair.”
    “Dillon was probably doing a copy-cat of that operation. He worshipped Barry.”
    “Whom you killed, on behalf of British Intelligence, I understand?”
    Anne-Marie said, “Excuse me.”
    She got up and walked down to the powder room. Hernu said, “We’ve upset her.”
    “She worries about me, Colonel, worries that some circumstances might put a gun in my hand again and send me sliding all the way back.”
    “Yes, I can see that, my friend.” Hernu got up and buttoned his coat. “We’ve taken up enough of your time. My apologies to Mademoiselle Audin.”
    Savary said, “Your lectures at the Sorbonne, Professor, the students must love you. I bet you get a full house.”
    “Always,” Brosnan said.
    He watched them go and Anne-Marie returned. “Sorry about that, my love,” he told her.
    “Not your fault.” She looked tired. “I think I’ll go home.”
    “You’re not coming back to my place?”
    “Not tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
    The headwaiter brought the bill, which Brosnan signed, then helped them into their coats and ushered them to the door. Outside, snow sprinkled the cobbles. She shivered and turned to Brosnan. “You changed, Martin, back there when you were talking to them. You started to become the other man again.”
    “Really?” he said and knew that it was true.
    “I’ll get a taxi.”
    “Let me come with you?”
    “No, I’d rather not.”
    He watched her go down the street, then turned and went the other way. Wondering about Dillon, where he was and what he was doing.
     
    Dillon’s barge was moored in a small basin on the Quai St-Bernard. There were mainly motor cruisers there, pleasure craft with canvas hoods over them for the winter. The interior was surprisingly luxurious, a stateroom lined with mahogany, two comfortable sofas, a television. His sleeping quarters were in a cabin beyond with a divan bed and a small shower-room adjacent. The kitchen was on the other side of the passageway, small, but very modern. Everything a good cook could want. He was in there now, waiting for the kettle to boil when he heard the footfalls on deck. He opened a drawer, took out a Walther, cocked it and slipped it into his waistband at the rear. Then he went out.
    Makeev came down the companionway and entered the stateroom. He shook snow from his overcoat and took it off. “What a night. Filthy weather.”
    “Worse in Moscow,” Dillon told him. “Coffee?”
    “Why not.”
    Makeev helped himself to a cognac from a bottle on the sideboard and the Irishman came back with a china mug in each hand. “Well, what’s happened?”
    “First of all, my sources tell me the Jobert brothers have turned up very dead, indeed. Was that wise?”
    “To use an immortal phrase from one of those old James Cagney movies, they had it coming. Now what else has happened?”
    “Oh, an old friend from your dim past has surfaced. One Martin Brosnan.”
    “Holy Mother of God!” Dillon seemed transfixed for a moment. “Martin? Martin Brosnan? Where in the hell did he turn up from?”
    “He’s living right here in Paris, just up the river from you on Quai de Montebello, the block on the corner opposite Notre Dame. Very ornate entrance. Within walking distance of here. You can’t miss it. Has scaffolding on the front. Some sort of building work going on.”
    “All very detailed.” Dillon took a bottle of Bushmills from the cupboard and poured one. “Why?”
    “I’ve had a look on my way here.”
    “What’s all this got to do with me?”
    So Makeev told him—Max Hernu, Savary, Tania Novikova in London, everything. “So,” he said as he finished, “at least we know what our friends are up to.”
    “This Novikova girl could be very useful to me,” Dillon said. “Will she play things our way?”
    “No question. She worked for me for some years. A very clever young woman.