Eye of the storm Page 0,30

at one o’clock and start again at six in the evening?”

“Yes.”

“You have an answering machine, the kind where you can phone home and get your messages?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We can keep in touch that way.”

She started for the door and he caught her arm. “But when will I see you?”

“Difficult at the moment, Gordon, we must be careful. If you’ve nothing better to do, always come home between shifts. I’ll do what I can.”

He kissed her hungrily. “Darling.”

She pushed him away. “I must go now, Gordon.”

She opened the door, went downstairs and let herself out of the street entrance. It was still very cold and she pulled up her collar.

“My God, the things I do for Mother Russia,” she said. She went down to the corner and hailed a cab.

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