“I’ve been thinking,” Gaston said. “I mean, what if they don’t get him? He could come looking for us, Pierre.”

“Nonsense,” Pierre told him. “He’s long gone, Gaston. What kind of fool would hang around after what’s happened? No, light me a cigarette and shut up. We’ll have a nice dinner and go on to the Zanzibar afterwards. They’ve still got those Swedish sisters stripping.”

It was just before eight, the streets at that place quiet and deserted, people inside because of the extreme cold. They came to a small square and as they started to cross it a CRS man on his motorcycle came up behind them, flashing his lights.

“There’s a cop on our tail,” Gaston said.

He pulled up alongside, anonymous in his helmet and goggles, and waved them down.

“A message from Savary, I suppose,” Pierre said and pulled over to the pavement.

“Maybe they’ve got him,” Gaston said excitedly.

The CRS man halted behind them, pushed his bike up on its stand and approached. Gaston got the rear door open and leaned out. “Have they caught the bastard?”

Dillon took a Walther with a Carswell silencer from inside the flap of his raincoat and shot him twice in the heart. He pushed up his goggles and turned. Pierre crossed himself. “It’s you.”

“Yes, Pierre. A matter of honor.”

The Walther coughed twice more, Dillon pushed it back inside his raincoat, got on the BMW and drove away. It started to snow a little, the square very quiet. It was perhaps half an hour later that a policeman on foot patrol, caped against the cold, found them.

Tania Novikova’s flat was just off the Bayswater Road not far from the Soviet Embassy. She’d had a hard day, had intended an early night. It was just before ten-thirty when her doorbell rang. She was toweling herself down after a nice, relaxing bath. She pulled on a robe, and went downstairs.

Gordon Brown’s evening shift had finished at ten. He couldn’t wait to get to her and had had the usual difficulty parking his Ford Escort. He stood at the door, ringing the bell impatiently, hugely excited. When she opened the door and saw who it was, she was immediately angry and drew him inside.

“I told you never to come here, Gordon, under any circumstances.”

“But this is special,” he pleaded. “Look what I’ve brought you.”

In the living room she took the large envelope from him, opened it and slipped out the report. For the Eyes of the Prime Minister only. Her excitement was intense as she read through it. Incredible that this fool could have delivered her such a coup. His arms were around her waist, sliding up to her breasts and she was aware of his excitement.

“It’s good stuff, isn’t it?” he demanded.

“Excellent, Gordon. You have been a good boy.”

“Really?” His grip tightened. “I can stay over then?”

“Oh, Gordon, it’s such a pity. I’m on the night shift.”

“Please, darling.” He was shaking like a leaf. “Just a few minutes then.”

She had to keep him happy, she knew that, put the report on the table and took him by the hand. “Quarter of an hour, Gordon, that’s all, and then you’ll have to go,” and she led him into the bedroom.

After she’d got rid of him, she dressed hurriedly, debating what to do. She was a hard, committed Communist. That was how she had been raised and how she would die. More than that, she served the KGB with total loyalty. It had nurtured her, educated her, given her whatever status she had in their world. For a young woman, she was surprisingly old-fashioned. Had no time for Gorbachev or the Glasnost fools who surrounded him. Unfortunately, many in the KGB did support him, and one of those was her boss at the London Embassy, Colonel Yuri Gatov.

What would his attitude be to such a report, she wondered as she let herself out into the street and started to walk? What would Gorbachev’s attitude be to the failed attempt to assassinate Mrs. Thatcher? Probably the same outrage the British Prime Minister must feel, and if Gorbachev felt that way, so would Colonel Gatov. So, what to do?

It came to her then as she walked along the frosty pavement of the Bayswater Road, that there was someone who might very well be interested and not only because he thought as she did, but because he was himself right in the center of all the action-Paris. Her old boss, Colonel Josef Makeev. That was it. Makeev would know how best to use such information. She turned into Kensington Palace Gardens and went into the Soviet Embassy.

By chance, Makeev was working late in his office that night when his secretary looked in and said, “A call from London on the scrambler. Captain Novikova.”

Makeev picked up the red phone. “Tania,” he said, a certain affection in his voice, for they had been lovers during the three years she’d worked for him in Paris. “What can I do for you?”

“I understand there was an incident affecting Empire over there earlier today?” she said.

It was an old KGB coded phrase, current for years, always used when referring to assassination attempts of any kind at high government level where Britain was concerned.

Makeev was immediately alert. “That’s correct. The usual kind of it-didn’t-happen affair.”

“Have you an interest?”

“Very much so.”

“There’s a coded fax on the way. I’ll stand by in my office if you want to talk.”

Tania Novikova put down the phone. She had her own fax coding machine at a second desk. She went to it, tapping the required details out quickly, checking on the screen to see that she had got it right. She added Makeev’s personal number, inserted the report and waited. A few moments later, she got a message received okay signal. She got up, lit a cigarette and went and stood by the window, waiting.

The jumbled message was received in the radio and coding room at the Paris Embassy. Makeev stood waiting impatiently for it to come through. The operator handed it to him and the colonel inserted it into the decoder and tapped in his personal key. He couldn’t wait to see the contents, was reading it as he went along the corridor, as excited as Tania Novikova when he saw the line For the Eyes of the Prime Minister only. He sat behind his desk and read it through again. He thought about it for a while, then reached for the red phone.

“You’ve done well, Tania. This one was my baby.”

“I’m so pleased.”

“Does Gatov know about this?”

“No, Colonel.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

“Very much so. Cultivate your contact. Let me have anything else on the instant. There could be more for you. I have a friend coming to London. The particular friend you’ve been reading about.”

“I’ll wait to hear.”

She put down the phone, totally elated, and went along to the canteen.

In Paris, Makeev sat there for a moment, frowning, then he picked up the phone and rang Dillon. There was a slight delay before the Irishman answered.

“Who is it?”

“Josef, Sean, I’m on my way there. Utmost importance.”

Makeev put down the phone, got his overcoat and went out.