Eye of the storm Page 0,21
Novikova, who was, of course, not a secretary-typist at the Soviet Embassy as she had informed Brown, but a captain in the KGB.
Gaston opened the door of the lock-up garage opposite Le Chat Noir and Pierre got behind the wheel of the old cream and red Peugeot. His brother got in the rear seat and they drove away.
“I’ve been thinking,” Gaston said. “I mean, what if they don’t get him? He could come looking for us, Pierre.”
“Nonsense,” Pierre told him. “He’s long gone, Gaston. What kind of fool would hang around after what’s happened? No, light me a cigarette and shut up. We’ll have a nice dinner and go on to the Zanzibar afterwards. They’ve still got those Swedish sisters stripping.”
It was just before eight, the streets at that place quiet and deserted, people inside because of the extreme cold. They came to a small square and as they started to cross it a CRS man on his motorcycle came up behind them, flashing his lights.
“There’s a cop on our tail,” Gaston said.
He pulled up alongside, anonymous in his helmet and goggles, and waved them down.
“A message from Savary, I suppose,” Pierre said and pulled over to the pavement.
“Maybe they’ve got him,” Gaston said excitedly.
The CRS man halted behind them, pushed his bike up on its stand and approached. Gaston got the rear door open and leaned out. “Have they caught the bastard?”
Dillon took a Walther with a Carswell silencer from inside the flap of his raincoat and shot him twice in the heart. He pushed up his goggles and turned. Pierre crossed himself. “It’s you.”
“Yes, Pierre. A matter of honor.”
The Walther coughed twice more, Dillon pushed it back inside his raincoat, got on the BMW and drove away. It started to snow a little, the square very quiet. It was perhaps half an hour later that a policeman on foot patrol, caped against the cold, found them.
Tania Novikova’s flat was just off the Bayswater Road not far from the Soviet Embassy. She’d had a hard day, had intended an early night. It was just before ten-thirty when her doorbell rang. She was toweling herself down after a nice, relaxing bath. She pulled on a robe, and went downstairs.
Gordon Brown’s evening shift had finished at ten. He couldn’t wait to get to her and had had the usual difficulty parking his Ford Escort. He stood at the door, ringing the bell impatiently, hugely excited. When she opened the door and saw who it was, she was immediately angry and drew him inside.
“I told you never to come here, Gordon, under any circumstances.”
“But this is special,” he pleaded. “Look what I’ve brought you.”
In the living room she took the large envelope from him, opened it and slipped out the report. For the Eyes of the Prime Minister only. Her excitement was intense as she read through it. Incredible that this fool could have delivered her such a coup. His arms were around her waist, sliding up to her breasts and she was aware of his excitement.
“It’s good stuff, isn’t it?” he demanded.
“Excellent, Gordon. You have been a good boy.”
“Really?” His grip tightened. “I can stay over then?”
“Oh, Gordon, it’s such a pity. I’m on the night shift.”
“Please, darling.” He was shaking like a leaf. “Just a few minutes then.”
She had to keep him happy, she knew that, put the report on the table and took him by the hand. “Quarter of an hour, Gordon, that’s all, and then you’ll have to go,” and she led him into the bedroom.
After she’d got rid of him, she dressed hurriedly, debating what to do. She was a hard, committed Communist. That was how she had been raised and how she would die. More than that, she served the KGB with total loyalty. It had nurtured her, educated her, given her whatever status she had in their world. For a young woman, she was surprisingly old-fashioned. Had no time for Gorbachev or the Glasnost fools who surrounded him. Unfortunately, many in the KGB did support him, and one of those was her boss at the London Embassy, Colonel Yuri Gatov.
What would his attitude be to such a report, she wondered as she let herself out into the street and started to walk? What would Gorbachev’s attitude be to the failed attempt to assassinate Mrs. Thatcher? Probably the same outrage the British Prime Minister must feel, and if Gorbachev felt that way, so would Colonel Gatov. So, what to do?
It came to her then as she