Eye of the storm Page 0,2

that. He speaks English and Irish, not that that bothers you, fluent French and German, reasonable Arabic, Italian and Russian.”

“And no one has ever caught him in twenty years. How could anyone be that lucky?”

“Because he has the most extraordinary gift for acting, my friend. A genius, you might say. As a young boy, his father took him from Belfast to London to live, where he was awarded a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. He even worked for the National Theatre when he was nineteen or twenty. I have never known anyone who can change personality and appearance so much just by body language. Makeup seldom enters into it, although I admit that it helps when he wants. He’s a legend that the security services of most countries keep quiet about because they can’t put a face to him, so they don’t know what they’re looking for.”

“What about the British? After all, they must be the experts where the IRA are concerned.”

“No, not even the British. As I said, he’s never been arrested, not once, and unlike many of his IRA friends, he never courted media publicity. I doubt if there’s a photo of him anywhere except for the odd boyhood snap.”

“What about when he was an actor?”

“Perhaps, but that was twenty years ago, Michael.”

“And you think he might undertake this business if I offer him enough money?”

“No, money alone has never been enough for this man. It always has to be the job itself where Dillon is concerned. How can I put it? How interesting it is. This is a man to whom acting was everything. What we are offering him is a new part. The Theatre of the Street perhaps, but still acting.” He smiled as the Mercedes joined the traffic moving around the Arc de Triomphe. “Let’s wait and see. Wait until we hear from Rashid.”

At that moment, Captain Ali Rashid was by the Seine at the end of a small pier jutting out into the river. The rain was falling very heavily, still plenty of sleet in it. The floodlights were on at Notre Dame and the effect was of something seen partially through a net curtain. He watched Dillon turn along the narrow pier to the building on stilts at the far end, waited until he went in and followed him.

The place was quite old and built of wood, barges and boats of various kinds moored all around. The sign over the door said Le Chat Noir. He peered through the window cautiously. There was a bar and several tables just like the other place. The only difference was that people were eating. There was even a man sitting on a stool against the wall playing an accordion. All very Parisian. Dillon was standing at the bar speaking to a young woman.

Rashid moved back, walked to the end of the pier, paused by the rail in the shelter of a small terrace and dialed the number of Aroun’s house in the Avenue Victor Hugo on his portable phone.

There was a slight click as the Walther was cocked and Dillon rammed the muzzle rather painfully into Rashid’s right ear. “Now then, son, a few answers,” he demanded. “Who are you?”

“My name is Rashid,” the young man said. “Ali Rashid.”

“What are you then? PLO?”

“No, Mr. Dillon. I’m a captain in the Iraqi Army, assigned to protect Mr. Aroun.”

“And Makeev and the KGB?”

“Let’s just say he’s on our side.”

“The way things are going in the Gulf, you need somebody on your side, my old son.” There was the faint sound of a voice from the portable phone. “Go on, answer him.”

Makeev said, “Rashid, where is he?”

“Right here, outside a café on the river near Notre Dame,” Rashid told him. “With the muzzle of his Walther well into my ear.”

“Put him on,” Makeev ordered.

Rashid handed the phone to Dillon, who said, “Now then, you old sod.”

“A million, Sean. Pounds if you prefer that currency.”

“And what would I have to be doing for all that money?”

“The job of a lifetime. Let Rashid bring you round here and we’ll discuss it.”

“I don’t think so,” Dillon said. “I think what I’d really like is for you to get your arse into gear and come and pick us up yourself.”

“Of course,” Makeev said. “Where are you?”

“The left bank opposite Notre Dame. A little pub on a pier called Le Chat Noir. We’ll be waiting.”

He slipped the Walther into his pocket and handed the phone to Rashid who said, “He’s coming,