“But I don’t understand,” Aroun said. “There hasn’t been a word on television.”

“And there won’t be.” Makeev turned from the French windows overlooking the Avenue Victor Hugo. “The affair never happened, that is the way the French will handle it. The idea that Mrs. Thatcher could have in any way been at risk on French soil would be considered a national affront.”

Aroun was pale with anger. “He failed, this man of yours. A great deal of talk, Makeev, but nothing at the end of it. A good thing I didn’t transfer that million to his Zurich account this morning.”

“But you agreed,” Makeev said. “In any case, he may ring at any time to check the money has been deposited.”

“My dear Makeev, I have five hundred million dollars on deposit at that bank. Faced with the possibility of me transferring my business, the managing director was more than willing to agree to a small deception when Rashid spoke to him this morning. When Dillon phones to check on the situation, the deposit will be confirmed.”

“This is a highly dangerous man you are dealing with,” Makeev said. “If he found out…”

“Who’s going to tell him? Certainly not you, and he’ll get paid in the end, but only if he produces a result.”

Rashid poured him a cup of coffee and said to Makeev, “He promised an alternative target, mentioned the British Prime Minister. What does he intend?”

“He’ll be in touch when he’s decided,” Makeev said.

“Talk.” Aroun walked to the window and stood sipping his coffee. “All talk.”

“No, Michael,” Josef Makeev told him. “You could not be more mistaken.”

Martin Brosnan’s apartment was by the river on the Quai de Montebello opposite the Île de la Cité and had one of the finest views of Notre Dame in Paris. It was within decent walking distance of the Sorbonne, which suited him perfectly.

It was just after four as he walked toward it, a tall man with broad shoulders in an old-fashioned trenchcoat, dark hair that still had no gray in it, in spite of his forty-five years, and was far too long, giving him the look of some sixteenth-century bravo. Martin Aodh Brosnan. The Aodh was Gaelic for Hugh and his Irishness showed in the high cheekbones and gray eyes.

It was getting colder again and he shivered as he turned the corner into Quai de Montebello and hurried along to the apartment block. He owned it all, as it happened, which gave him the apartment on the corner of the first floor, the most favored location. Scaffolding ran up the corner of the building to the fourth floor where some sort of building work was taking place.

As he was about to go up the steps to the ornate entrance, a voice called, “Martin?”

He glanced up and saw Anne-Marie Audin leaning over the balustrade of the terrace. “Where in the hell did you spring from?” he asked in astonishment.

“Cuba. I just got in.”

He went up the stairs two at a time and she had the door open as he got there. He lifted her up in his arms in an enormous hug and carried her back into the hall. “How marvelous to see you. Why Cuba?”

She kissed him and helped him off with the trenchcoat. “Oh, I had a rather juicy assignment for Time magazine. Come in the kitchen. I’ll make your tea.”

A standing joke for years, the tea. Surprising in an American, but he couldn’t stand coffee. He lit a cigarette and sat at the table and watched her move around the kitchen, her short hair as dark as his own, this supremely elegant woman who was the same age as himself and looked twelve years younger.

“You look marvelous,” he told her as she brought the tea. He sampled it and nodded in approval. “That’s grand. Just the way you learned to make it back in South Armagh in nineteen seventy-one with me and Liam Devlin showing you the hard way how the IRA worked.”

“How is the old rogue?”

“Still living in Kilrea outside Dublin. Gives the odd lecture at Trinity College. Claims to be seventy, but that’s a wicked lie.”

“He’ll never grow old, that one.”

“Yes, you really do look marvelous,” Brosnan said. “Why didn’t we get married?”

It was a ritual question he had asked for years, a joke now. There was a time when they had been lovers, but for some years now, just friends. Not that it was by any means the usual relationship. He would have died for her, almost had in a Vietnam swamp the first time they had met.

“Now that we’ve got that over, tell me about the new book,” she said.

“A philosophy of terrorism,” he told her. “Very boring. Not many people will buy a copy.”

“A pity,” she said, “coming from such an expert in the field.”

“Doesn’t really matter,” he said. “Knowing the reasons still won’t make people act any differently.”

“Cynic. Come on, let’s have a real drink.” She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Krug.

“Non-vintage?”

“What else?”

They went into the magnificent long drawing room. There was an ornate gold mirror over the marble fireplace, plants everywhere, a grand piano, comfortable, untidy sofas and a great many books. She had left the French windows to the balcony standing ajar. Brosnan went to close them as she opened the Krug at the sideboard and got two glasses. At the same moment, the bell sounded outside.

When Brosnan opened the door he found Max Hernu and Jules Savary standing there, the Jobert brothers behind them.

“Professor Brosnan?” Hernu said. “I am Colonel Max Hernu.”

“I know very well who you are,” Brosnan said. “Action Service, isn’t it? What’s all this? My wicked past catching up with me?”

“Not quite, but we do need your assistance. This is Inspector Savary and these two are Gaston and Pierre Jobert.”

“You’d better come in, then,” Brosnan said, interested in spite of himself.

The Jobert brothers stayed in the hall, on Hernu’s orders, when he and Savary followed Brosnan into the drawing room. Anne-Marie turned, frowning slightly, and Brosnan made the introductions.

“A great pleasure.” Hernu kissed her hand. “I’m a longtime admirer.”

“Martin?” she looked worried now. “You’re not getting involved in anything?”

“Of course not,” he assured her. “Now what can I do for you, Colonel?”

“A matter of national security, Professor. I hesitate to mention the fact, but Mademoiselle Audin is a photojournalist of some distinction.”

She smiled. “Total discretion, you have my word, Colonel.”

“We’re here because Brigadier Charles Ferguson in London suggested it.”

“That old devil? And why should he suggest you see me?”

“Because you are an expert in matters relating to the IRA, Professor. Let me explain.”

Which he did, covering the whole affair as rapidly as possible. “You see, Professor,” he said as he concluded, “the Jobert brothers have combed our IRA picture books without finding him, and Ferguson has had no success with the brief description we were able to give.”

“You’ve got a real problem.”

“My friend, this man is not just anybody. He must be special to attempt such a thing, but we know nothing more than that we think he’s Irish and he speaks fluent French.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Speak to the Joberts.”

Brosnan glanced at Anne-Marie, then shrugged. “All right, wheel them in.”

He sat on the edge of the table drinking champagne while they stood before him, awkward in such circumstances. “How old is he?”

“Difficult, monsieur,” Pierre said. “He changes from one minute to the next. It’s like he’s more than one person. I’d say late thirties.”

“And description?”

“Small with fair hair.”

“He looks like nothing,” Gaston put in. “We thought he was a no-no and then he half-killed some big ape in our café one night.”

“All right. He’s small, fair-haired, late thirties and he can handle himself. What makes you think he’s Irish?”