Eye of the storm Page 0,31

minutes in the microwave and a perfect meal.”

She laughed. “Then all we need is a very large tin of caviar and some smoked salmon to complement it.”

He packed the things carefully for her. “I’ll put them on Professor Brosnan’s account as usual.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He opened the door for her. “A pleasure, mademoiselle.”

She started back along the frosty pavement feeling suddenly unaccountably cheerful.

“Jesus, Martin, and the years have been good to you.” Dillon pulled the glove off his right hand with his teeth and found a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Brosnan, a yard from the table drawer and the Browning High Power, made a cautious move. “Naughty.” Dillon gestured with the Walther. “Sit on the arm of the sofa and put your hands behind your head.”

Brosnan did as he was told. “You’re enjoying yourself, Sean.”

“I am so. How’s that old sod Liam Devlin these days?”

“Alive and well. Still in Kilrea outside Dublin, but then you know that.”

“And that’s a fact.”

“The job at Valenton, Mrs. Thatcher,” Brosnan said. “Very sloppy, Sean. I mean, to go with a couple of bums like the Joberts. You really must be losing your touch.”

“You think so?”

“Presumably it was a big payday?”

“Very big,” Dillon said.

“I hope you got your money in advance.”

“Very funny.” Dillon was beginning to get annoyed.

“One thing does intrigue me,” Brosnan said. “What you want with me after all these years?”

“Oh, I know all about you,” Dillon said. “How they’re pumping you for information about me. Hernu, the Action Service colonel, that old bastard Ferguson and this girl side-kick of his, this Captain Tanner. Nothing I don’t know. I’ve got the right friends, you see, Martin, the kind of people who can access anything.”

“Really, and were they happy when you failed with Mrs. Thatcher?”

“Just a tryout, that, just a perhaps. I’ve promised them an alternative target. You know how this game works.”

“I certainly do, and one thing I do know is that the IRA doesn’t pay for hits. Never has.”

“Who said I was working for the IRA?” Dillon grinned. “Plenty of other people with enough reason to hit the Brits these days.”

Brosnan saw it then, or thought he did. “Baghdad?”

“Sorry, Martin, you can go to your Maker puzzling over that one for all eternity.”

Brosnan said, “Just indulge me. A big hit for Saddam. I mean, the war stinks. He needs something badly.”

“Christ, you always did run on.”

“President Bush stays back in Washington, so that leaves the Brits. You fail on the best known woman in the world, so what’s next? The Prime Minister?”

“Where you’re going it doesn’t matter, son.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Damn you, Brosnan, you always were the clever bastard!” Dillon exploded angrily.

“You’ll never get away with it,” Brosnan said.

“You think so? I’ll just have to prove you wrong, then.”

“As I said, you must be losing your touch, Sean. This bungled attempt to get Mrs. Thatcher. Reminds me of a job dear old Frank Barry pulled back in seventy-nine when he tried to hit the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Carrington, when he was passing through Saint-Étienne. I’m rather surprised you used the same ground plan, but then you always did think Barry was special, didn’t you?”

“He was the best.”

“And at the end of things, very dead,” Brosnan said.

“Yes, well, whoever got him must have given it to him in the back,” Dillon said.

“Not true,” Brosnan told him. “We were face-to-face as I recall.”

“You killed Frank Barry?” Dillon whispered.

“Well, somebody had to,” Brosnan said. “It’s what usually happens to mad dogs. I was working for Ferguson, by the way.”

“You bastard.” Dillon raised the Walther, took careful aim and the door opened and Anne-Marie walked in with the shopping bags.

Dillon swung toward her. Brosnan called, “Look out!” and went down and Dillon fired twice at the sofa.

Anne-Marie screamed, not in terror, but in fury, dropped her bags and rushed at him. Dillon tried to fend her off, staggered back through the French windows. Inside, Brosnan crawled toward the table and reached for the drawer. Anne-Marie scratched at Dillon’s face. He cursed, pushing her away from him. She fell against the balustrade and went over backwards.

Brosnan had the drawer open now, knocked the lamp on the table sideways, plunging the room into darkness, and reached for the Browning. Dillon fired three times very fast and ducked for the door. Brosnan fired twice, too late. The door banged. He got to his feet, ran to the terrace and looked over. Anne-Marie lay on the pavement below. He turned and ran through the drawing room