Eye Of The Storm aka Midnight Man

FIVE

IT WAS COLDER than ever in the evening, a front from Siberia sweeping across Europe, too cold for snow even. In the apartment, just before seven, Brosnan put some more logs on the fire.

Anne-Marie, lying full-length on the sofa, stirred and sat up. “So we stay in to eat?”

“I think so,” he said. “A vile night.”

“Good. I’ll see what I can do in the kitchen.”

He put on the television news program. More air strikes against Baghdad, but still no sign of a land war. He switched the set off and Anne-Marie emerged from the kitchen and picked up her coat from the chair where she had left it.

“Your fridge, as usual, is almost empty. Unless you wish me to concoct a meal based on some rather stale cheese, one egg and half a carton of milk, I’ll have to go round the corner to the delicatessen.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Why should we both suffer? I’ll see you soon.”

She blew him a kiss and went out. Brosnan went and opened the French windows. He stood on the terrace, shivering, and lit a cigarette, watching for her. A moment later, she emerged from the front door and started along the pavement.

“Goodbye, my love,” he called dramatically. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

“Idiot!” she called back. “Go back in before you catch pneumonia.” She moved away, careful on the frozen pavement, and disappeared round the corner.

At that moment, the phone rang. Brosnan turned and hurried in, leaving the French windows open.

Dillon had an early meal at a small café he often frequented. He was on foot and his route back to the barge took him past Brosnan’s apartment block. He paused on the other side of the road, cold in spite of the reefer coat and the knitted cap pulled down over his ears. He stood there, swinging his arms vigorosly, looking up at the lighted windows of the apartment.

When Anne-Marie came out of the entrance, he recognized her instantly and stepped back into the shadows. The street was silent, no traffic movement at all, and when Brosnan leaned over the balustrade and called down to her, Dillon heard every word he said. It gave him a totally false impression. That she was leaving for the evening. As she disappeared round the corner, he crossed the road quickly. He checked the Walther in his waistband at the rear, had a quick glance each way to see that no one was about, then started to climb the scaffolding.

It was Mary Tanner on the phone. “Brigadier Ferguson wondered whether we could see you again in the morning before going back?”

“It won’t do you any good,” Brosnan told her.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “If you must.”

“I understand,” she said, “I really do. Has Anne-Marie recovered?”

“A tough lady, that one,” he said. “She’s covered more wars than we’ve had hot dinners. That’s why I’ve always found her attitude about such things where I’m concerned, strange.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “You men can really be incredibly stupid on occasions. She loves you, Professor, it’s as simple as that. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Brosnan put the phone down. There was a draught of cold air, the fire flared up. He turned and found Sean Dillon standing in the open French windows, the Walther in his left hand.

“God bless all here,” he said.

The delicatessen in the side street, as with so many such places these days, was run by an Indian, a Mr. Patel. He was most assiduous where Anne-Marie was concerned, carrying the basket for her as they went round the shelves. Delicious French bread sticks, milk, eggs, Brie cheese, a beautiful quiche.

“Baked by my wife with her own hands,” Mr. Patel assured her. “Two minutes in the microwave and a perfect meal.”

She laughed. “Then all we need is a very large tin of caviar and some smoked salmon to complement it.”

He packed the things carefully for her. “I’ll put them on Professor Brosnan’s account as usual.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He opened the door for her. “A pleasure, mademoiselle.”

She started back along the frosty pavement feeling suddenly unaccountably cheerful.

“Jesus, Martin, and the years have been good to you.” Dillon pulled the glove off his right hand with his teeth and found a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Brosnan, a yard from the table drawer and the Browning High Power, made a cautious move. “Naughty.” Dillon gestured with the Walther. “Sit on the arm of the sofa and put your hands behind your head.”

Brosnan did as he was told. “You’re enjoying yourself, Sean.”

“I am so. How’s that old sod Liam Devlin these days?”

“Alive and well. Still in Kilrea outside Dublin, but then you know that.”

“And that’s a fact.”

“The job at Valenton, Mrs. Thatcher,” Brosnan said. “Very sloppy, Sean. I mean, to go with a couple of bums like the Joberts. You really must be losing your touch.”

“You think so?”

“Presumably it was a big payday?”

“Very big,” Dillon said.

“I hope you got your money in advance.”

“Very funny.” Dillon was beginning to get annoyed.

“One thing does intrigue me,” Brosnan said. “What you want with me after all these years?”

“Oh, I know all about you,” Dillon said. “How they’re pumping you for information about me. Hernu, the Action Service colonel, that old bastard Ferguson and this girl sidekick of his, this Captain Tanner. Nothing I don’t know. I’ve got the right friends, you see, Martin, the kind of people who can access anything.”

“Really, and were they happy when you failed with Mrs. Thatcher?”

“Just a tryout, that, just a perhaps. I’ve promised them an alternative target. You know how this game works.”

“I certainly do, and one thing I do know is that the IRA doesn’t pay for hits. Never has.”

“Who said I was working for the IRA?” Dillon grinned. “Plenty of other people with enough reason to hit the Brits these days.”

Brosnan saw it then, or thought he did. “Baghdad?”

“Sorry, Martin, you can go to your Maker puzzling over that one for all eternity.”

Brosnan said, “Just indulge me. A big hit for Saddam. I mean, the war stinks. He needs something badly.”

“Christ, you always did run on.”

“President Bush stays back in Washington, so that leaves the Brits. You fail on the best known woman in the world, so what’s next? The Prime Minister?”

“Where you’re going it doesn’t matter, son.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Damn you, Brosnan, you always were the clever bastard!” Dillon exploded angrily.

“You’ll never get away with it,” Brosnan said.

“You think so? I’ll just have to prove you wrong, then.”

“As I said, you must be losing your touch, Sean. This bungled attempt to get Mrs. Thatcher. Reminds me of a job dear old Frank Barry pulled back in seventy-nine when he tried to hit the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Carrington, when he was passing through Saint-Étienne. I’m rather surprised you used the same ground plan, but then you always did think Barry was special, didn’t you?”

“He was the best.”

“And at the end of things, very dead,” Brosnan said.

“Yes, well, whoever got him must have given it to him in the back,” Dillon said.

“Not true,” Brosnan told him. “We were face-to-face as I recall.”

“You killed Frank Barry?” Dillon whispered.

“Well, somebody had to,” Brosnan said. “It’s what usually happens to mad dogs. I was working for Ferguson, by the way.”

“You bastard.” Dillon raised the Walther, took careful aim and the door opened and Anne-Marie walked in with the shopping bags.

Dillon swung toward her. Brosnan called, “Look out!” and went down and Dillon fired twice at the sofa.

Anne-Marie screamed, not in terror, but in fury, dropped her bags and rushed at him. Dillon tried to fend her off, staggered back through the French windows. Inside, Brosnan crawled toward the table and reached for the drawer. Anne-Marie scratched at Dillon’s face. He cursed, pushing her away from him. She fell against the balustrade and went over backwards.

Brosnan had the drawer open now, knocked the lamp on the table sideways, plunging the room into darkness, and reached for the Browning. Dillon fired three times very fast and ducked for the door. Brosnan fired twice, too late. The door banged. He got to his feet, ran to the terrace and looked over. Anne-Marie lay on the pavement below. He turned and ran through the drawing room into the hall, got the door open and went downstairs two at a time. It was snowing when he went out on the steps. Of Dillon there was no sign, but the night porter was kneeling beside Anne-Marie.

He looked up. “There was a man, Professor, with a gun. He ran across the road.”

“Never mind.” Brosnan sat down and cradled her in his arms. “An ambulance, and hurry.”

The snow was falling quite fast now. He held her close and waited.

Ferguson, Mary and Max Hernu were having a thoroughly enjoyable time in the magnificent dining room at the Ritz. They were already on their second bottle of Louis Roederer Crystal champagne and the brigadier was in excellent form.

“Who was it who said that when a man tires of champagne, he’s tired of life?” he demanded.

“He must certainly have been a Frenchman,” Hernu told him.

“Very probably, but I think the time has come when we should toast the provider of this feast.” He raised his glass. “To you, Mary, my love.”

She was about to respond when she saw, in the mirror on the wall, Inspector Savary at the entrance speaking to the headwaiter. “I think you’re being paged, Colonel,” she told Hernu.

He glanced round. “What’s happened now?” He got up, threaded his way through the tables and approached Savary. They talked for a few moments, glancing toward the table.

Mary said, “I don’t know about you, sir, but I get a bad feeling.”

Before he could reply, Hernu came back to them, his face grave. “I’m afraid I’ve got some rather ugly news.”

“Dillon?” Ferguson asked.

“He paid a call on Brosnan a short while ago.”

“What happened?” Ferguson demanded. “Is Brosnan all right?”

“Oh, yes. There was some gun play. Dillon got away.” He sighed heavily. “But Mademoiselle Audin is at the Hôpital St-Louis. From what Savary tells me, it doesn’t look good.”

Brosnan was in the waiting room on the second floor when they arrived, pacing up and down smoking a cigarette. His eyes were wild, such a rage there as Mary Tanner had never seen.

She was the first to reach him. “I’m so sorry.”

Ferguson said, “What happened?”

Briefly, coldly, Brosnan told them. As he finished, a tall, graying man in surgeon’s robes came in. Brosnan turned to him quickly. “How is she, Henri?” He said to the others, “Professor Henri Dubois, a colleague of mine at the Sorbonne.”

“Not good, my friend,” Dubois told him. “The injuries to the left leg and spine are bad enough, but even more worrying is the skull fracture. They’re just preparing her for surgery now. I’ll operate straight away.”

He went out. Hernu put an arm around Brosnan’s shoulders. “Let’s go and get some coffee, my friend. I think it’s going to be a long night.”

“But I only drink tea,” Brosnan said, his face bone white, his eyes dark. “Never could stomach coffee. Isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?”

There was a small café for visitors on the ground floor. Not many customers at that time of night. Savary had gone off to handle the police side of the business; the others sat at a table in the corner.

Ferguson said, “I know you’ve got other things on your mind, but is there anything you can tell us? Anything he said to you?”

“Oh, yes-plenty. He’s working for somebody and definitely not the IRA. He’s being paid for this one and from the way he boasted, it’s big money.”

“Any idea who?”

“When I suggested Saddam Hussein he got angry. My guess is you wouldn’t have to look much further. An interesting point. He knew about all of you.”

“All of us?” Hernu said. “You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes, he boasted about that.” He turned to Ferguson. “Even knew about you and Captain Tanner being in town to pump me for information, that’s how he put it. He said he had the right friends.” He frowned, trying to remember the phrase exactly. “The kind of people who can access anything.”

“Did he, indeed.” Ferguson glanced at Hernu. “Rather worrying, that.”

“And you’ve got another problem. He spoke of the Thatcher affair as being just a tryout, that he had an alternative target.”

“Go on,” Ferguson said.

“I managed to get him to lose his temper by needling him about what a botch-up the Valenton thing was. I think you’ll find he intends to have a crack at the British Prime Minister.”

Mary said, “Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes.” He nodded. “I baited him about that, told him he’d never get away with it. He lost his temper. Said he’d just have to prove me wrong.”

Ferguson looked at Hernu and sighed. “So now we know. I’d better go along to the Embassy and alert all our people in London.”

“I’ll do the same here,” Hernu said. “After all, he has to leave the country some time. We’ll alert all airports and ferries. The usual thing, but discreetly, of course.”

They got up and Brosnan said, “You’re wasting your time. You won’t get him, not in any usual way. You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

“Perhaps, Martin,” Ferguson said. “But we’ll just have to do our best, won’t we?”

Mary Tanner followed them to the door. “Look, if you don’t need me, Brigadier, I’d like to stay.”

“Of course, my dear. I’ll see you later.”

She went to the counter and got two cups of tea. “The French are wonderful,” she said. “They always think we’re crazy to want milk in our tea.”

“Takes all sorts,” he said and offered her a cigarette. “Ferguson told me how you got that scar.”

“Souvenir of old Ireland.” She shrugged.

He was desperately trying to think of something to say. “What about your family? Do they live in London?”

“My father was a professor of surgery at Oxford. He died some time ago. Cancer. My mother’s still alive. Has an estate in Herefordshire.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“I had one brother. Ten years older than me. He was shot dead in Belfast in nineteen eighty. Sniper got him from the Divis Flats. He was a Marine Commando Captain.”

“I’m sorry.”

“A long time ago.”

“It can’t make you particularly well disposed toward a man like me.”

“Ferguson explained to me how you became involved with the IRA after Vietnam.”

“Just another bloody Yank sticking his nose in, is that what you think?” He sighed. “It seemed the right thing to do at the time, it really did, and don’t let’s pretend. I was up to my neck in it for five long and bloody years.”

“And how do you see it now?”

“Ireland?” he laughed harshly. “The way I feel I’d see it sink into the sea with pleasure.” He got up. “Come on, let’s stretch our legs,” and he led the way out.

Dillon was in the kitchen in the barge heating the kettle when the phone rang. Makeev said, “She’s in the Hôpital St-Louis. We’ve had to be discreet in our inquiries, but from what my informant can ascertain, she’s on the critical list.”

“Sod it,” Dillon said. “If only she’d kept her hands to herself.”

“This could cause a devil of a fuss. I’d better come and see you.”

“I’ll be here.”

Dillon poured hot water into a basin, then he went into the bathroom. First he took off his shirt, then he got a briefcase from the cupboard under the sink. It was exactly as Brosnan had forecast. Inside he had a range of passports, all of himself suitably disguised. There was also a first-class makeup kit.

Over the years he had traveled backwards and forwards to England many times, frequently through Jersey in the Channel Islands. Jersey was British soil. Once there, a British citizen didn’t need a passport for the flight to the English mainland. So, a French tourist holidaying in Jersey. He selected a passport in the name of Henri Jacaud, a car salesman from Rennes.

To go with it, he found a Jersey driving license in the name of Peter Hilton with an address in the Island’s main town of Saint Helier. Jersey driving licenses, unlike the usual British mainland variety, carry a photo. It was always useful to have positive identification on you, he’d learned that years ago. Nothing better than for people to be able to check the face with a photo, and the photos on the driving license and on the French passport were identical. That was the whole point.

He dissolved some black hair dye into the warm water and started to brush it into his fair hair. Amazing what a difference it made, just changing the hair color. He blow-dried it and brilliantined it back in place, then he selected, from a range in his case, a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, slightly tinted. He closed his eyes, thinking about the role, and when he opened them again, Henri Jacaud stared out of the mirror. It was quite extraordinary. He closed the case, put it back in the cupboard, pulled on his shirt and went into the stateroom carrying the passport and the driving license.

At that precise moment Makeev came down the companionway. “Good God!” he said. “For a moment I thought it was someone else.”

“But it is,” Dillon said. “Henri Jacaud, car salesman from Rennes on his way to Jersey for a winter break. Hydrofoil from Saint-Malo.” He held up the driving license. “Who is also Jersey resident Peter Hilton, accountant in Saint Helier.”

“You don’t need a passport to get to London?”

“Not if you’re a Jersey resident; it’s British territory. The driving license just puts a face to me. Always makes people feel happier. Makes them feel they know who you are, even the police.”

“What happened tonight, Sean? What really happened?”

“I decided the time had come to take care of Brosnan. Come on, Josef, he knows me too damned well. Knows me in a way no one else does and that could be dangerous.”

“I can see that. A clever one, the professor.”

“There’s more to it than that, Josef. He understands how I make my moves, how I think. He’s the same kind of animal as I am. We inhabited the same world, and people don’t change. No matter how much he thinks he has, he’s still the same underneath, the same man who was the most feared enforcer the IRA had in the old days.”

“So you decided to eliminate him?”

“It was an impulse. I was passing his place, saw the woman leaving. He called to her. The way it sounded I thought she was gone for the night, so I took a chance and went up the scaffolding.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, I had the drop on him.”

“But didn’t kill him?”

Dillon laughed, went out to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Krug and two glasses. As he uncorked it he said, “Come on, Josef, face-to-face after all those years. There were things to be said.”

“You didn’t tell him who you were working for?”

“Of course not,” Dillon lied cheerfully and poured the champagne. “What do you take me for?”

He toasted Makeev, who said, “I mean, if he knew you had an alternative target, that you intended to go for Major…” He shrugged. “That would mean that Ferguson would know. It would render your task in London impossible. Aroun, I’m sure, would want to abort the whole business.”

“Well he doesn’t know.” Dillon drank some more champagne. “So Aroun can rest easy. After all, I want that second million. I checked with Zurich, by the way. The first million has been deposited.”

Makeev shifted uncomfortably. “Of course. So, when do you intend to leave?”

“Tomorrow or the next day. I’ll see. Meanwhile something you can organize for me. This Tania Novikova in London. I’ll need her help.”

“No problem.”

“First, my father had a second cousin, a Belfast man living in London called Danny Fahy.”

“IRA?”

“Yes, but not active. A deep cover man. Brilliant with his hands. Worked in light engineering. Could turn his hand to anything. I used him in nineteen eighty-one when I was doing a few jobs for the organization in London. In those days he lived at number ten Tithe Street in Kilburn. I want Novikova to trace him.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, I’ll need somewhere to stay. She can organize that for me, too. She doesn’t live in the Embassy I suppose?”

“No, she has a flat off the Bayswater Road.”

“I wouldn’t want to stay there, not on a regular basis. She could be under surveillance. Special Branch at Scotland Yard have a habit of doing that with employees of the Soviet Embassy, isn’t that so?”

“Oh, it’s not like the old days.” Makeev smiled. “Thanks to that fool Gorbachev, we’re all supposed to be friends these days.”

“I’d still prefer to stay somewhere else. I’ll contact her at her flat, no more than that.”

“There is one problem,” Makeev said. “As regards hardware, explosives, weapons, anything like that you might need. I’m afraid she won’t be able to help you there. A handgun perhaps, but no more. As I mentioned when I first told you about her, her boss, Colonel Yuri Gatov, the commander of KGB station in London, is a Gorbachev man, and very well disposed to our British friends.”

“That’s all right,” Dillon said. “I have my own contacts for that kind of thing, but I will need more working capital. If I am checked going through Customs on the Jersey to London flight, I couldn’t afford to be caught with large sums of money in my briefcase.”

“I’m sure Aroun can fix that for you.”

“That’s all right, then. I’d like to see him again before I go. Tomorrow morning, I think. Arrange that, will you?”

“All right.” Makeev fastened his coat. “I’ll keep you posted on the situation at the hospital.” He reached the bottom of the companionway and turned. “There is one thing. Say you managed to pull this thing off. It would lead to the most ferocious manhunt. How would you intend to get out of England?”

Dillon smiled. “That’s exactly what I’m going to give some thought to now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Makeev went up the companionway. Dillon poured another glass of Krug, lit a cigarette and sat at the table, looking at the clippings on the walls. He reached for the pile of newspapers and sorted through them and finally found what he wanted. An old copy of the magazine Paris Match from the previous year. Michael Aroun was featured on the front cover. Inside was a seven-page feature about his life-style and habits. Dillon lit a cigarette and started going through it.

It was one o’clock in the morning and Mary Tanner was sitting alone in the waiting room when Professor Henri Dubois came in. He was very tired, shoulders bowed, and he sank wearily into a chair and lit a cigarette.

“Where is Martin?” he asked her.

“It seems Anne-Marie’s only close relative is her grandfather. Martin is trying to contact him. Do you know him?”

“Who doesn’t, mademoiselle? One of the richest and most powerful industrialists in France. Very old. Eighty-eight, I believe. He was once a patient of mine. He had a stroke last year. I don’t think Martin will get very far there. He lives on the family estate, Château Vercors. It’s about twenty miles outside Paris.”

Brosnan came in, looking incredibly weary, but when he saw Dubois he said eagerly, “How is she?”

“I won’t pretend, my friend. She’d not good. Not good at all. I’ve done everything that I possibly can. Now we wait.”

“Can I see her?”

“Leave it for a while. I’ll let you know.”

“You’ll stay?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll grab a couple of hours’ sleep on my office couch. How did you get on with Pierre Audin?”

“I didn’t. Had to deal with his secretary, Fournier. The old man’s confined to a wheelchair now. Doesn’t know the time of day.”

Dubois sighed. “I suspected as much. I’ll see you later.”

When he’d gone, Mary said, “You could do with some sleep yourself.”

He managed a dark smile. “The way I feel now, I don’t think I could ever sleep again. All my fault, in a way.” There was despair on his face.

“How can you say that?

“Who I am, or to put it another way, what I was. If it hadn’t been for that, none of this would have happened.”

“You can’t talk like that,” she said. “Life doesn’t work like that.”

The phone on the table rang and she answered it, spoke for a few brief moments, then put it down. “Just Ferguson checking.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, lie down on the couch. Just close your eyes. I’ll be here. I’ll wake you the moment there’s word.”

Reluctantly, he lay back and did as he was told and surprisingly did fall into a dark, dreamless sleep. Mary Tanner sat there, brooding, listening to his quiet breathing.

It was just after three when Dubois came in. As if sensing his presence, Brosnan came awake with a start and sat up. “What is it?”

“She’s regained consciousness.”

“Can I see her?” Brosnan got up.

“Yes, of course.” As Brosnan made for the door, Dubois put a hand on his arm. “Martin, it’s not good. I think you should prepare for the worst.”

“No.” Brosnan almost choked. “It’s not possible.”

He ran along the corridor, opened the door of her room and went in. There was a young nurse sitting beside her. Anne-Marie was very pale, her head so swathed in bandages that she looked like a young nun.

“I’ll wait outside, monsieur,” the nurse said and left.

Brosnan sat down. He reached for her hand and Anne-Marie opened her eyes. She stared vacantly at him and then recognition dawned and she smiled.

“Martin, is that you?”

“Who else?” He kissed her hand.

Behind them, the door clicked open slightly as Dubois peered in.

“Your hair. Too long. Ridiculously too long.” She put up a hand to touch it. “In Vietnam, in the swamp, when the Vietcong were going to shoot me. You came out of the reeds like some medieval warrior. Your hair was too long then and you wore a headband.”

She closed her eyes and Brosnan said, “Rest now, don’t try to talk.”

“But I must.” She opened them again. “Let him go, Martin. Give me your promise. It’s not worth it. I don’t want you going back to what you were.” She grabbed at his hand with surprising strength. “Promise me.”

“My word on it,” he said.

She lay back, staring up at the ceiling. “My lovely wild Irish boy. Always loved you, Martin, no one else.”

Her eyes closed gently, the monitoring machine beside the bed changed its tone. Henry Dubois was in the room in a second. “Outside, Martin-wait.”

He pushed Brosnan out and closed the door. Mary was standing in the corridor. “Martin?” she said.

He stared at her vacantly and then the door opened and Dubois appeared. “I’m so sorry, my friend. I’m afraid she’s gone.”

On the barge, Dillon came awake instantly when the phone rang. Makeev said, “She’s dead, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a shame,” Dillon said. “It was never intended.”

“What now?” Makeev asked.

“I think I’ll leave this afternoon. A good idea in the circumstances. What about Aroun?”

“He’ll see us at eleven o’clock.”

“Good. Does he know what’s happened?”

“No.”

“Let’s keep it that way. I’ll meet you outside the place just before eleven.”

He replaced the phone, propped himself up against the pillows. Anne-Marie Audin. A pity about that. He’d never gone in for killing women. An informer once in Derry, but she deserved it. An accident this time, but it smacked of bad luck and that made him feel uneasy. He stubbed out his cigarette and tried to go to sleep again.

It was just after ten when Mary Tanner admitted Ferguson and Hernu to Brosnan’s apartment. “How is he?” Ferguson asked.

“He’s kept himself busy. Anne-Marie’s grandfather is not well, so Martin’s been making all the necessary funeral arrangements with his secretary.”

“So soon?” Ferguson said.

“Tomorrow, in the family plot at Vercors.”

She led the way in. Brosnan was standing at the window staring out. He turned to meet them, hands in pockets, his face pale and drawn. “Well?” he demanded.

“Nothing to report,” Hernu told him. “We’ve notified all ports and airports, discreetly, of course.” He hesitated. “We feel it would be better not to go public on this, Professor. Mademoiselle Audin’s unfortunate death, I mean.”

Brosnan seemed curiously indifferent. “You won’t get him. London’s the place to look and sooner rather than later. Probably on his way now, and for London you’ll need me.”

“You mean you’ll help us? You’ll come in on this thing?” Ferguson said.

“Yes.”

Brosnan lit a cigarette, opened the French windows and stood on the terrace, Mary joined him. “But you can’t, Martin, you told me that you promised Anne-Marie.”

“I lied,” he said calmly. “Just to make her going easier. There’s nothing out there. Only darkness.”

His face was rock hard, the eyes bleak. It was the face of a stranger. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

“I’ll have him,” Brosnan said. “If it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I’ll see him dead.”