Eye of the storm Page 0,29

Imagine what he can do with makeup, hair-coloring changes. He’s only five feet five, remember. I’ve seen him dress as a woman and fool soldiers on foot patrol in Belfast.”

Mary Tanner was leaning forward intently. “Go on,” she said softly.

“You want to know another reason why you’ve never caught him? He works out a series of aliases. Changes hair color, uses whatever tricks of makeup are necessary, then takes his photo. That’s what goes on his false passport or identity papers. He keeps a collection, then when he needs to move, makes himself into the man on the photo.”

“Ingenious,” Hernu said.

“Exactly, so no hope of any help from television or newspaper publicity of the have-you-seen-this-man type. Wherever he goes, he slips under the surface. If he was working in London and needed anything at all—help, weapons, whatever—he’d simply pretend to be an ordinary criminal and use the underworld.”

“You mean he wouldn’t go near any kind of IRA contact at all?” Mary said.

“I doubt it. Maybe someone who’d been in very deep cover for years, someone he could really trust, and people like that are thin on the ground.”

“There is a point in all this which no one has touched on,” Hernu said. “Who is he working for?”

“Well it certainly isn’t the IRA,” Mary said. “We did an instant computer check and we have links with both the RUC computer and British Army Intelligence at Lisburn. Not a smell from anyone about the attempt on Mrs. Thatcher.”

“Oh, I believe that,” Brosnan said. “Although you can never be sure.”

“There are the Iraqis, of course,” Ferguson said. “Saddam would dearly love to blow everyone up at the moment.”

“True, but don’t forget Hizbollah, PLO, Wrath of Allah and a few others in between. He’s worked for them all,” Brosnan reminded him.

“Yes,” Ferguson said. “And checking our sources through that lot would take time and I don’t think we’ve got it.”

“You think he’ll try again?” Mary asked.

“Nothing concrete, my dear, but I’ve been in this business a lifetime. I always go by my instincts, and this time my instincts tell me there’s more to it.”

“Well, I can’t help you there. I’ve done all I can.” Brosnan stood up.

“All you’re prepared to, you mean?” Ferguson said.

They moved into the hall and Brosnan opened the door. “I suppose you’ll be going back to London?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought we might stay over and sample the delights of Paris. I haven’t stayed at the Ritz since the refurbishment.”

Mary Tanner said, “That will give the expenses a bashing.” She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Professor Brosnan, it was nice to be able to put a face to the name.”

“And you,” he said. “Colonel,” he nodded to Hernu and closed the door.

When he went into the drawing room Anne-Marie came in from the bedroom. Her face was drawn and pale. “Did you come to any decision?” she asked.

“I gave you my word. I’ve helped them all I can. Now they’ve gone, and that’s an end to it.”

She opened the table drawer. Inside there was an assortment of pens, envelopes, writing paper, stamps. There was also a Browning High Power 9-millimeter pistol, one of the most deadly handguns in the world, preferred by the SAS above all others.

She didn’t say a word, simply closed the drawer and looked at him calmly. “I’ll make some tea,” she said and went into the kitchen.

In the limousine Hernu said, “You’ve lost him. He won’t do any more.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. We’ll discuss it over dinner at the Ritz later. You’ll join us, I hope? Eight o’clock all right?”

“Delighted,” Hernu said. “Group Four must be rather more generous with its expenses than my own poor department.”

“Oh, it’s all on dear Mary here,” Ferguson said. “Flashed this wonderful piece of plastic at me the other day which American Express had sent her. The Platinum Card. Can you believe that, Colonel?”

“Damn you!” Mary said.

Hernu lay back and laughed helplessly.

Tania Novikova came out of the bathroom of Gordon Brown’s Camden flat combing her hair. He pulled on a dressing gown.

“You’ve got to go?” he said.

“I must. Come into the living room.” She pulled on her coat and turned to face him. “No more coming to the Bayswater flat, no more telephones. The work schedule you showed me. All split shifts for the next month. Why?”

“They’re not popular, especially for people with families. That isn’t a problem for me, so I agreed to do it for the moment. And it pays more.”

“So, you usually finish