Eye of the storm Page 0,12

first time they met him he thought he was a nothing, and then he apparently half-killed some guy twice his size in the bar in about five seconds flat.”

“Go on.” Hernu lit a cigarette.

“Pierre says his French is too perfect.”

“What does he mean by that?”

“He doesn’t know. It’s just that he always felt that there was something wrong.”

“That he wasn’t French?”

“Exactly. Two facts of interest there. He’s always whistling a funny little tune. Gaston picked it up because he plays accordion. He says Rocard told him once that it was Irish.”

“Now that is interesting.”

“A further point. When he was assembling the machine gun in the back of the Renault at Valenton he told the boys it was a Kalashnikov. Not just bullets. Tracer, armor piercing, the lot. He said he’d seen one take out a Land-Rover full of British paratroopers. Pierre didn’t like to ask him where.”

“So, you smell IRA here, Inspector? And what have you done about it?”

“Got your people to get the picture books out, Colonel. The Joberts are looking through them right now.”

“Excellent.” Hernu got up and this time refilled his coffee cup himself. “What do you make of the hotel business. Do you think he’s been alerted?”

“Perhaps, but not necessarily,” Savary said. “I mean, what have we got here, sir? A real pro out to make the hit of a lifetime. Maybe he was just being extra careful, just to make sure he wasn’t followed to his real destination. I mean, I wouldn’t trust the Joberts an inch, so why should he?”

He shrugged and Max Hernu said shrewdly, “There’s more. Spit it out.”

“I got a bad feeling about this guy, Colonel. I think he’s special. I think he may have used the hotel thing because he suspected that Gaston might follow him, but then he’d want to know why. Was it the Joberts just being curious, or was there more to it?”

“So you think he could have been up the street watching our people arrive?”

“Very possibly. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t know Gaston was tailing him. Maybe the hotel thing was a usual precaution. An old resistance trick from the war.”

Hernu nodded. “Right, let’s see if they’ve finished. Have them in.”

Savary went out and returned with the Jobert brothers. They stood there looking worried, and Hernu said, “Well?”

“No luck, Colonel, he wasn’t in any of the books.”

“All right,” Hernu said. “Wait downstairs. You’ll be taken home. We’ll collect you again later.”

“But what for, Colonel?” Pierre asked.

“So that your brother can go to Valenton in the Renault and you can follow in the car just like Rocard told you. Now get out.” They hurriedly left, and Hernu said to Savary,

“We’ll see Mrs. Thatcher is spirited to safety by another route, but a pity to disappoint our friend Rocard.”

“If he turns up, Colonel.”

“You never know, he just might. You’ve done well, Inspector. I think I’ll have to requisition you for Section Five. Would you mind?”

Would he mind? Savary almost choked with emotion, “An honor, sir . . .”

“Good. Go and get a shower then and some breakfast. I’ll see you later.”

“And you, Colonel?”

“Me, Inspector?” Hernu laughed and looked at his watch. “Five-fifteen. I’m going to ring British Intelligence in London. Disturb the sleep of a very old friend of mine. If anyone can help us with our mystery man it should be he.”

The Directorate General of the British Security Service occupies a large white and red brick building not far from the Hilton Hotel in Park Lane, although many of its departments are housed in various locations throughout London. The special number that Max Hernu rang was of a Section known as Group Four, located on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence. It had been set up in 1972 to handle matters concerning terrorism and subversion in the British Isles. It was responsible only to the Prime Minister. It had been administered by only one man since its inception, Brigadier Charles Ferguson. He was asleep in his flat in Cavendish Square when the telephone beside his bed awakened him.

“Ferguson,” he said, immediately wide awake, knowing it had to be important.

“Paris, Brigadier,” an anonymous voice said. “Priority one. Colonel Hernu.”

“Put him through and scramble.”

Ferguson sat up, a large, untidy man of sixty-five with rumpled gray hair and a double chin.

“Charles?” Hernu said in English.

“My dear Max. What brings you on the line at such a disgusting hour? You’re lucky I’m still on the phone. The powers that be are trying to make me redundant along