“First of all, my sources tell me the Jobert brothers have turned up very dead, indeed. Was that wise?”

“To use an immortal phrase from one of those old James Cagney movies, they had it coming. Now what else has happened?”

“Oh, an old friend from your dim past has surfaced. One Martin Brosnan.”

“Holy Mother of God!” Dillon seemed transfixed for a moment. “Martin? Martin Brosnan? Where in the hell did he turn up from?”

“He’s living right here in Paris, just up the river from you on Quai de Montebello, the block on the corner opposite Notre Dame. Very ornate entrance. Within walking distance of here. You can’t miss it. Has scaffolding on the front. Some sort of building work going on.”

“All very detailed.” Dillon took a bottle of Bushmills from the cupboard and poured one. “Why?”

“I’ve had a look on my way here.”

“What’s all this got to do with me?”

So Makeev told him-Max Hernu, Savary, Tania Novikova in London, everything. “So,” he said as he finished, “at least we know what our friends are up to.”

“This Novikova girl could be very useful to me,” Dillon said. “Will she play things our way?”

“No question. She worked for me for some years. A very clever young woman. Like me, she isn’t happy with present changes back home. Her boss is a different matter. Colonel Yuri Gatov. All for change. One of those.”

“Yes, she could be important,” Dillon said.

“Do I take it this means you want to go to London?”

“When I know, I’ll let you know.”

“And Brosnan?”

“I could pass him on the street and he wouldn’t recognize me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Josef, I could pass you and you wouldn’t recognize me. You’ve never really seen me change, have you? Have you come in your car?”

“Of course not. Taxi. I hope I can get one back.”

“I’ll get my coat and walk some of the way with you.”

He went out and Makeev buttoned his coat and poured another brandy. There was a slight sound behind him and when he turned, Dillon stood there in cap and reefer coat hunched over in some strange way. Even the shape of his face seemed different. He looked fifteen years older. The change in body language was incredible.

“My God, it’s amazing,” Makeev said.

Dillon straightened up and grinned, “Josef, my old son, if I’d stuck to the stage I’d have been a theatrical knight by now. Come on, let’s get going.”

The snow was only a light powdering on the ground, barges passed on the river, and Notre Dame, floodlit, floated in the night. They reached the Quai de Montebello without seeing a taxi.

Makeev said, “Here we are, Brosnan’s place. He owns the block. It seems his mother left him rather well off.”

“Is that a fact?”

Dillon looked across at the scaffolding and Makeev said, “Apartment Four, the one on the corner on the first floor.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Not married. Has a woman friend, Anne-Marie Audin…”

“The war photographer? I saw her once back in seventy one in Belfast. Brosnan and Liam Devlin, my boss at the time, were giving her a privileged look at the IRA.”

“Did you meet her?”

“Not personally. Do they live together?”

“Apparently not.” A taxi came out of a side-turning and moved toward them and Makeev raised an arm. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”

The taxi drove off and Dillon was about to turn away when Brosnan came round the corner. Dillon recognized him instantly.

“Now then, Martin, you old bastard,” he said softly.

Brosnan went up the steps and inside. Dillon turned, smiling, and walked away, whistling to himself softly.

At his flat in Cavendish Square Ferguson was just getting ready to go to bed when the phone rang. Hernu said, “Bad news. He’s knocked off the Jobert brothers.”

“Dear me,” Ferguson said. “He doesn’t mess about, does he?”

“I’ve been to see Brosnan to ask him to come in with us on this. I’m afraid he’s refused. Offered to give us his advice and so on, but he won’t become actively involved.”

“Nonsense,” Ferguson said. “We can’t have that. When the ship is sinking it’s all hands to the pumps, and this ship is sinking very fast indeed.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I think it might be an idea if I came over to see him. I’m not sure of the time. I’ve things to arrange. Possibly the afternoon. We’ll let you know.”

“Excellent. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while and then he phoned Mary Tanner at her flat. “I suppose like me, you’d hoped for a relatively quiet night after your early rise this morning?” he said.

“It had crossed my mind. Has something happened?”

He brought her up to date. “I think it might be an idea to go over tomorrow, have a chat with Hernu, then speak to Brosnan. He must be made to realize how serious this is.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“Naturally. I can’t even make sense of a menu over there, whereas we all know that one of the benefits of your rather expensive education is fluency in the French language. Get in touch with the transport officer at the Ministry and tell him I want the Lear jet standing by tomorrow.”

“I’ll handle it. Anything else?”

“No, I’ll see you at the office in the morning, and don’t forget your passport.”

Ferguson put down the phone, got into bed and switched off the light.

Back on the barge, Dillon boiled the kettle, then poured a little Bushmill’s whisky into a mug, added some lemon juice, sugar and the boiling water and went back into the stateroom, sipping the hot toddy. My God, Martin Brosnan after all these years. His mind went back to the old days with the American and Liam Devlin, his old commander. Devlin, the living legend of the IRA. Wild, exciting days, taking on the might of the British Army, face-to-face. Nothing would ever be the same as that.

There was a stack of London newspapers on the table. He’d brought them all at the Gare de Lyon newsstand earlier. There was the Daily Mail, the Express, the Times, and the Telegraph. It was the political sections that interested him most and all the stories were similar. The Gulf crisis, the air strikes on Baghdad, speculation on when the land war would start. And photos, of course. Prime Minister John Major outside Number Ten Downing Street. The British press was wonderful. There were discussions about security, speculation as to possible Arab terrorist attacks and articles that even included maps and street plans of the immediate area around Downing Street. And more photos of the Prime Minister and cabinet ministers arriving for the daily meetings of the War Cabinet. London, that was where the action was, no doubt about it. He put the papers away neatly, finished his toddy and went to bed.

One of the first things Ferguson did on reaching his office was to dictate a further brief report to the Prime Minister bringing him up to date and informing him of the Paris trip. Mary took the draft along to the copy room. The duty clerk just coming to the end of the night shift was a woman, a Mrs. Alice Johnson, a war widow whose husband had been killed in the Falklands. She got on with the typing of the report instantly, had just finished putting it through the copier when Gordon Brown entered. He was on a split shift. Three hours from ten until one and six until ten in the evening. He put his briefcase down and took off his jacket.

“You go whenever you like, Alice. Anything special?”

“Just this report for Captain Tanner. It’s a Number Ten job. I said I’d take it along.”

“I’ll take it for you,” Brown said. “You get going.”

She passed him both copies of the report and started to clear her desk. No chance to make an extra copy, but at least he could read it, which he did as he went along the corridor to Mary Tanner’s office. She was sitting at her desk when he went in.