“When he was assembling the Kalashnikov he made a crack about seeing one take out a Land-Rover full of English paratroopers.”

“Is that all?”

Pierre frowned. Brosnan took the bottle of Krug from the bucket and Gaston said, “No, there’s something else. He’s always whistling a funny sort of tune. A bit eerie. I managed to follow it on my accordion. He said it was Irish.”

Brosnan’s face had gone quite still. He stood there, holding the bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.

“And he likes that stuff, monsieur,” Pierre said.

“Champagne?” Brosnan asked.

“Well, yes, any champagne is better than nothing, but Krug is his favorite.”

“Like this, non-vintage?”

“Yes, monsieur. He told us he preferred the grape mix,” Pierre said.

“The bastard always did.”

Anne-Marie put a hand on Brosnan’s arm. “You know him, Martin?”

“Almost certainly. Could you pick that tune out on the piano?” he asked Gaston.

“I’ll try, monsieur.”

He lifted the lid, tried the keyboard gently, then played the beginning of the tune with one finger.

“That’s enough.” Brosnan turned to Hernu and Savary. “An old Irish folk song, ‘The Lark in the Clear Air,’ and you’ve got trouble, gentlemen, because the man you’re looking for is Sean Dillon.”

“Dillon?” Hernu said. “Of course. The man of a thousand faces, someone once called him.”

“A slight exaggeration,” Brosnan said, “but it will do.”

They sent the Jobert brothers home and Brosnan and Anne-Marie sat on a sofa opposite Hernu and Savary. The inspector made notes as the American talked.

“His mother died in childbirth. I think that was nineteen fifty-two. His father was an electrician. Went to work in London, so Dillon went to school there. He had an incredible talent for acting, a genius really. He can change before your eyes, hunch his shoulders, put on fifteen years. It’s astonishing.”

“So you knew him well?” Hernu asked.

“In Belfast in the bad old days, but before that he won a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Only stayed a year. They couldn’t teach him anything. He did one or two things at the National Theatre. Nothing much. He was very young, remember. Then in nineteen seventy-one his father, who’d returned home to Belfast, was killed by a British Army patrol. Caught in crossfire. An accident.”

“And Dillon took it hard?”

“You could say that. He offered himself to the Provisional IRA. They liked him. He had brains, an aptitude for languages. They sent him to Libya to one of those terrorist training camps for a couple of months. A fast course in weaponry. That’s all it took. He never looked back. God knows how many he’s killed.”

“So, he still operates for the IRA?”

Brosnan shook his head. “Not for years. Oh, he still counts himself as a soldier, but he thinks the leadership are a bunch of old women, and they couldn’t handle him. He’d have killed the Pope if he’d thought it was needed. He was too happy to do things that were counterproductive. The word is that he was involved in the Mountbatten affair.”

“And since those days?” Hernu asked.

“Beirut, Palestine. He’s done a lot for the PLO. Most terrorist groups have used his services.” Brosnan shook his head. “You’re going to have trouble here.”

“Why exactly?”

“The fact that he used a couple of crooks like the Joberts. He always does that. All right, it didn’t work this time, but he knows the weakness of all revolutionary movements. That they’re ridden with either hotheads or informers. You called him the faceless man, and that’s right because I doubt if you’ll find a photo of him in any file, and frankly, it wouldn’t matter if you did.”

“Why does he do it?” Anne-Marie asked. “Not for any political ends?”

“Because he likes it,” Brosnan said, “because he’s hooked. He’s an actor, remember. This is for real and he’s good at it.”

“I get the impression that you don’t care for him very much,” Hernu said. “In personal terms, I mean.”

“Well, he tried to kill me and a good friend of mine a long time ago,” Brosnan told him. “Does that answer your question?”

“It’s certainly reason enough.” Hernu got up and Savary joined him. “We must be going. I want to get all this to Brigadier Ferguson as soon as possible.”

“Fine,” Brosnan said.

“We may count on your help in this thing, I hope, Professor?”

Brosnan glanced at Anne-Marie, whose face was set. “Look,” he said, “I don’t mind talking to you again if that will help, but I don’t want to be personally involved. You know what I was, Colonel. Whatever happens I won’t go back to anything like that. I made someone a promise a long time ago.”

“I understand perfectly, Professor.” Hernu turned to Anne-Marie. “Mademoiselle, a distinct pleasure.”

“I’ll see you out,” she said and led the way.

When she returned Brosnan had the French windows open and was standing looking across the river smoking a cigarette. He put an arm around her. “All right?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Perfect,” and laid her head against his chest.

At that precise moment Ferguson was sitting by the fire in the Cavendish Place flat when the phone rang. Mary Tanner answered it in the study. After a while she came out. “That was Downing Street. The Prime Minister wants to see you.”

“When?”

“Now, sir.”

Ferguson got up and removed his reading glasses. “Call the car. You come with me and wait.”

She picked up the phone, spoke briefly, then put it down. “What do you think it’s about, Brigadier?”

“I’m not sure. My imminent retirement or your return to more mundane duties. Or this business in France. He’ll have been told all about it by now. Anyway, let’s go and see,” and he led the way out.

They were checked through the Security gates at the end of Downing Street. Mary Tanner stayed in the car while Ferguson was admitted through the most famous door in the world. It was rather quiet compared to the last time he’d been there, a Christmas party given by Mrs. Thatcher for the staff in the Pillared Room. Cleaners, typists, office workers. Typical of her, that. The other side of the Iron Lady.

He regretted her departure, that was a fact, and sighed as he followed a young aide up the main staircase lined with replicas of portraits of all those great men of history. Peel, Wellington, Disraeli and many more. They reached the corridor; the young man knocked on the door and opened it.

“Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister.”

The last time Ferguson had been in that study it had been a woman’s room, the feminine touches unmistakably there, but things were different now, a little more austere in a subtle way, he was aware of that. Darkness was falling fast outside and John Major was checking some sort of report, the pen in his hand moving with considerable speed.

“Sorry about this. It will only take a moment,” he said.

It was the courtesy that astounded Ferguson, the sheer basic good manners that one didn’t experience too often from heads of government. Major signed the report, put it on one side and sat back, a pleasant, gray-haired man in horn-rimmed glasses, the youngest Prime Minister of the twentieth century. Almost unknown to the general public on his succession to Margaret Thatcher and yet his handling of the crisis in the Gulf had already marked him out as a leader of genuine stature.

“Please sit down, Brigadier, I’m on a tight schedule, so I’ll get right to the point. The business affecting Mrs. Thatcher in France. Obviously very disturbing.”

“Indeed so, Prime Minister. Thank God it all turned out as it did.”

“Yes, but that seems to have been a matter of luck more than anything else. I’ve spoken to President Mitterrand and he’s agreed that in all our interests and especially with the present situation in the Gulf there will be a total security clampdown.”