“I’m sure Aroun can fix that for you.”

“That’s all right, then. I’d like to see him again before I go. Tomorrow morning, I think. Arrange that, will you?”

“All right.” Makeev fastened his coat. “I’ll keep you posted on the situation at the hospital.” He reached the bottom of the companionway and turned. “There is one thing. Say you managed to pull this thing off. It would lead to the most ferocious manhunt. How would you intend to get out of England?”

Dillon smiled. “That’s exactly what I’m going to give some thought to now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Makeev went up the companionway. Dillon poured another glass of Krug, lit a cigarette and sat at the table, looking at the clippings on the walls. He reached for the pile of newspapers and sorted through them and finally found what he wanted. An old copy of the magazine Paris Match from the previous year. Michael Aroun was featured on the front cover. Inside was a seven-page feature about his life-style and habits. Dillon lit a cigarette and started going through it.

It was one o’clock in the morning and Mary Tanner was sitting alone in the waiting room when Professor Henri Dubois came in. He was very tired, shoulders bowed, and he sank wearily into a chair and lit a cigarette.

“Where is Martin?” he asked her.

“It seems Anne-Marie’s only close relative is her grandfather. Martin is trying to contact him. Do you know him?”

“Who doesn’t, mademoiselle? One of the richest and most powerful industrialists in France. Very old. Eighty-eight, I believe. He was once a patient of mine. He had a stroke last year. I don’t think Martin will get very far there. He lives on the family estate, Château Vercors. It’s about twenty miles outside Paris.”

Brosnan came in, looking incredibly weary, but when he saw Dubois he said eagerly, “How is she?”

“I won’t pretend, my friend. She’d not good. Not good at all. I’ve done everything that I possibly can. Now we wait.”

“Can I see her?”

“Leave it for a while. I’ll let you know.”

“You’ll stay?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll grab a couple of hours’ sleep on my office couch. How did you get on with Pierre Audin?”

“I didn’t. Had to deal with his secretary, Fournier. The old man’s confined to a wheelchair now. Doesn’t know the time of day.”

Dubois sighed. “I suspected as much. I’ll see you later.”

When he’d gone, Mary said, “You could do with some sleep yourself.”

He managed a dark smile. “The way I feel now, I don’t think I could ever sleep again. All my fault, in a way.” There was despair on his face.

“How can you say that?

“Who I am, or to put it another way, what I was. If it hadn’t been for that, none of this would have happened.”

“You can’t talk like that,” she said. “Life doesn’t work like that.”

The phone on the table rang and she answered it, spoke for a few brief moments, then put it down. “Just Ferguson checking.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, lie down on the couch. Just close your eyes. I’ll be here. I’ll wake you the moment there’s word.”

Reluctantly, he lay back and did as he was told and surprisingly did fall into a dark, dreamless sleep. Mary Tanner sat there, brooding, listening to his quiet breathing.

It was just after three when Dubois came in. As if sensing his presence, Brosnan came awake with a start and sat up. “What is it?”

“She’s regained consciousness.”

“Can I see her?” Brosnan got up.

“Yes, of course.” As Brosnan made for the door, Dubois put a hand on his arm. “Martin, it’s not good. I think you should prepare for the worst.”

“No.” Brosnan almost choked. “It’s not possible.”

He ran along the corridor, opened the door of her room and went in. There was a young nurse sitting beside her. Anne-Marie was very pale, her head so swathed in bandages that she looked like a young nun.

“I’ll wait outside, monsieur,” the nurse said and left.

Brosnan sat down. He reached for her hand and Anne-Marie opened her eyes. She stared vacantly at him and then recognition dawned and she smiled.

“Martin, is that you?”

“Who else?” He kissed her hand.

Behind them, the door clicked open slightly as Dubois peered in.

“Your hair. Too long. Ridiculously too long.” She put up a hand to touch it. “In Vietnam, in the swamp, when the Vietcong were going to shoot me. You came out of the reeds like some medieval warrior. Your hair was too long then and you wore a headband.”

She closed her eyes and Brosnan said, “Rest now, don’t try to talk.”

“But I must.” She opened them again. “Let him go, Martin. Give me your promise. It’s not worth it. I don’t want you going back to what you were.” She grabbed at his hand with surprising strength. “Promise me.”

“My word on it,” he said.

She lay back, staring up at the ceiling. “My lovely wild Irish boy. Always loved you, Martin, no one else.”

Her eyes closed gently, the monitoring machine beside the bed changed its tone. Henry Dubois was in the room in a second. “Outside, Martin-wait.”

He pushed Brosnan out and closed the door. Mary was standing in the corridor. “Martin?” she said.

He stared at her vacantly and then the door opened and Dubois appeared. “I’m so sorry, my friend. I’m afraid she’s gone.”

On the barge, Dillon came awake instantly when the phone rang. Makeev said, “She’s dead, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a shame,” Dillon said. “It was never intended.”

“What now?” Makeev asked.

“I think I’ll leave this afternoon. A good idea in the circumstances. What about Aroun?”

“He’ll see us at eleven o’clock.”

“Good. Does he know what’s happened?”

“No.”

“Let’s keep it that way. I’ll meet you outside the place just before eleven.”

He replaced the phone, propped himself up against the pillows. Anne-Marie Audin. A pity about that. He’d never gone in for killing women. An informer once in Derry, but she deserved it. An accident this time, but it smacked of bad luck and that made him feel uneasy. He stubbed out his cigarette and tried to go to sleep again.

It was just after ten when Mary Tanner admitted Ferguson and Hernu to Brosnan’s apartment. “How is he?” Ferguson asked.

“He’s kept himself busy. Anne-Marie’s grandfather is not well, so Martin’s been making all the necessary funeral arrangements with his secretary.”

“So soon?” Ferguson said.

“Tomorrow, in the family plot at Vercors.”

She led the way in. Brosnan was standing at the window staring out. He turned to meet them, hands in pockets, his face pale and drawn. “Well?” he demanded.

“Nothing to report,” Hernu told him. “We’ve notified all ports and airports, discreetly, of course.” He hesitated. “We feel it would be better not to go public on this, Professor. Mademoiselle Audin’s unfortunate death, I mean.”

Brosnan seemed curiously indifferent. “You won’t get him. London’s the place to look and sooner rather than later. Probably on his way now, and for London you’ll need me.”

“You mean you’ll help us? You’ll come in on this thing?” Ferguson said.

“Yes.”

Brosnan lit a cigarette, opened the French windows and stood on the terrace, Mary joined him. “But you can’t, Martin, you told me that you promised Anne-Marie.”

“I lied,” he said calmly. “Just to make her going easier. There’s nothing out there. Only darkness.”

His face was rock hard, the eyes bleak. It was the face of a stranger. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

“I’ll have him,” Brosnan said. “If it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I’ll see him dead.”