“That report you wanted, Captain Tanner. Shall I arrange a messenger?”

“No, thanks, Gordon. I’ll see to it.”

“Anything else, Captain?”

“No, I’m just clearing the desk. Brigadier Ferguson and I are going to Paris.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll have to get moving. We’re due out of Gatwick at eleven.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.”

When he went back to the copy room Alice Johnson was still there. “I say, Alice,” he said, “would you mind hanging on for a little while? Only something’s come up. I’ll make it up to you.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “You get off.”

He put on his coat, hurried downstairs to the canteen and went into one of the public telephone booths. Tania Novikova was only at the flat because of the lateness of the hour when she had left the Embassy the previous night. “I’ve told you not to ring me here. I’ll ring you,” she told him.

“I must see you. I’m free at one.”

“Impossible.”

“I’ve seen another report. The same business.”

“I see. Have you got a copy?”

“No, that wasn’t possible, but I’ve read it.”

“What did it say?”

“I’ll tell you at lunchtime.”

She realized then that control on her part, severe control, was necessary. Her voice was cold and hard when she said, “Don’t waste my time, Gordon, I’m busy. I think I’d better bring this conversation to an end. I may give you a ring sometime, but then I may not.”

He panicked instantly. “No, let me tell you. There wasn’t much. Just that the two French criminals involved had been murdered, they presumed by the man Dillon. Oh, and Brigadier Ferguson and Captain Tanner are flying over to Paris in the Lear jet at noon.”

“Why?”

“They’re hoping to persuade this man Martin Brosnan to help them.”

“Good,” she said. “You’ve done well, Gordon. I’ll see you tonight at your flat. Six o’clock and bring your work schedule for the next couple of weeks.” She rang off.

Brown went upstairs, full of elation.

Ferguson and Mary Tanner had an excellent flight and touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport just after one. By two o’clock they were being ushered into Hernu’s office at DGSE headquarters on Boulevard Mortier.

He embraced Ferguson briefly. “Charles, you old rogue, it’s far too long.”

“Now, then, none of your funny French ways,” Ferguson told him. “You’ll be kissing me on both cheeks next. Mary Tanner, my aide.”

She was wearing a rather nice Armani trouser suit of dark brown and a pair of exquisite ankle boots by Manolo Blahnik. Diamond stud earrings and a small gold Rolex divers’ watch completed the picture. For a girl who was not supposed to be particularly pretty, she looked stunning. Hernu, who knew class when he saw it, kissed her hand. “Captain Tanner, your reputation precedes you.”

“Only in the nicest way, I hope,” she replied in fluent French.

“Good,” Ferguson said. “So now we’ve got all that stuff over, let’s get down to brass tacks. What about Brosnan?”

“I have spoken to him this morning and he’s agreed to see us at his apartment at three. Time for a late lunch. We have excellent canteen facilities here. Everyone mixes in from the Director downwards.” He opened the door. “Just follow me. It may not be quite the best food in Paris, but it’s certainly the cheapest.”

In the stateroom at the barge, Dillon was pouring a glass of Krug and studying a large-scale map of London. Around him, pinned to the mahogany walls, were articles and reports from all the newspapers specifically referring to affairs at Number Ten, the Gulf War and how well John Major was doing. There were photos of the youngest Prime Minister of the century, several of them. In fact, the eyes seemed to follow him about. It was as if Major was watching him.

“And I’ve got my eye on you, too, fella,” Dillon said softly.

The things that intrigued him were the constant daily meetings of the British War Cabinet at Number Ten. All those bastards, all together in the same spot. What a target. Brighton all over again, and that affair had come close to taking out the entire British Government. But Number Ten as a target? That didn’t seem possible. Fortress Thatcher it had been dubbed by some after that redoubtable lady’s security improvements. There were footsteps on the deck overhead. He opened a drawer in the table casually revealing a Smith amp; Wesson.38 revolver, closed it again as Makeev came in.

“I could have telephoned, but I thought I’d speak to you personally,” the Russian said.

“What now?”

“I’ve brought you some photos we’ve had taken of Brosnan as he is now. Oh, and that’s the girlfriend, Anne-Marie Audin.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“I’ve heard from Tania Novikova again. It seems Brigadier Ferguson and his aide, a Captain Mary Tanner, have flown over. They were due out of Gatwick at eleven.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d say they’ll be with Hernu right now.”

“To what end?”

“The real purpose of the trip is to see Brosnan. Try and persuade him to help actively in the search for you.”

“Really?” Dillon smiled coldly. “Martin’s becoming a serious inconvenience. I might have to do something about that.”

Makeev nodded at the clippings on the walls. “Your own private gallery?”

“I’m just getting to know the man,” Dillon said. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, thanks.” Suddenly Makeev felt uncomfortable. “I’ve things to do. I’ll be in touch.”

He went up the companionway. Dillon poured himself a little more champagne, sipped a little, then stopped, walked into the kitchen and poured the whole bottle down the sink. Conspicuous waste, but he felt like it. He went back into the stateroom, lit a cigarette and looked at the clippings again, but all he could think about was Martin Brosnan. He picked up the photos Makeev had brought and pinned them up beside the clippings.

Anne-Marie was in the kitchen at the Quai de Montebello, Brosnan going over a lecture at the table, when the doorbell rang. She hurried out, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“That will be them,” she said. “I’ll get it. Now don’t forget your promise.”

She touched the back of his neck briefly and went out. There was a sound of voices in the hall and she returned with Ferguson, Hernu and Mary Tanner.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Anne-Marie said and went into the kitchen.

“My dear Martin.” Ferguson held out his hand. “It’s been too long.”

“Amazing,” Brosnan said. “We only ever meet when you want something.”

“Someone you haven’t met, my aide, Captain Mary Tanner.”

Brosnan looked her over quickly, the small, dark girl with the scar on the left cheek, and liked what he saw. “Couldn’t you find a better class of work than what this old sod has to offer?” he demanded.

Odd that she should feel slightly breathless faced with this forty-five-year-old man with the ridiculously long hair and the face that had seen rather too much of the worst of life.

“There’s a recession on. You have to take what’s going these days,” she said, her hand light in his.

“Right. We’ve had the cabaret act, so let’s get down to business,” Ferguson said. Hernu went to the window, Ferguson and Mary took the sofa opposite Brosnan.

“Max tells me he spoke to you last night after the murder of the Jobert brothers?”

Anne-Marie came in with coffee on a tray. Brosnan said, “That’s right.”

“He tells me you’ve refused to help us?”

“That’s putting it a bit strongly. What I said was that I’d do anything I could except become actively involved myself, and if you’ve come to attempt to change my mind, you’re wasting your time.”

Anne-Marie poured coffee. Ferguson said, “You agree with him, Miss Audin?”

“Martin slipped out of that life a long time ago, Brigadier,” she said carefully. “I would not care to see him step back in for whatever reason.”