SIX

IT WAS JUST before eleven when Makeev drew up before Michael Aroun’s apartment in Avenue Victor Hugo. His chauffeur drew in beside the curb and as he switched off the engine, the door opened and Dillon climbed into the rear seat.

“You’d better not be wearing designer shoes,” he said. “Slush everywhere.”

He smiled and Makeev reached over to close the partition. “You seem in good form, considering the situation.”

“And why shouldn’t I be? I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t told Aroun about the Audin woman.”

“No, of course not.”

“Good.” Dillon smiled. “I wouldn’t like anything to spoil things. Now let’s go and see him.”

Rashid opened the door to them. A maid took their coats. Aroun was waiting in the magnificent drawing room. “Valenton, Mr. Dillon. A considerable disappointment.”

Dillon said, “Nothing’s ever perfect in this life, you should know that. I promised you an alternative target and I intend to go for it.”

“The British Prime Minister?” Rashid asked.

“That’s right.” Dillon nodded. “I’m leaving for London later today. I thought we’d have a chat before I go.”

Rashid glanced at Aroun, who said, “Of course, Mr. Dillon. Now, how can we help you?”

“First, I’m going to need operating money again. Thirty thousand dollars. I want you to arrange that from someone in London. Cash, naturally. Colonel Makeev can finalize details.”

“No problem,” Aroun said.

“Secondly, there’s the question of how I get the hell out of England after the successful conclusion of the venture.”

“You sound full of confidence, Mr. Dillon,” Rashid told him.

“Well, you have to travel hopefully, son,” Dillon said. “The thing with any major hit, as I’ve discovered during the years, is not so much achieving it as moving on with a whole skin afterwards. I mean, if I get the British Prime Minister for you, the major problem for me is getting out of England, and that’s where you come in, Mr. Aroun.”

The maid entered with coffee on a tray. Aroun waited while she laid the cups out on a table and poured. As she withdrew he said, “Please explain.”

“One of my minor talents is flying. I share that with you, I understand. According to an old Paris Match article I was reading, you bought an estate in Normandy called Château Saint Denis about twenty miles south of Cherbourg on the coast?”

“That’s correct.”

“The article mentioned how much you loved the place, how remote and unspoiled it was. A time capsule from the eighteenth century.”

“Exactly what are we getting at here, Mr. Dillon?” Rashid demanded.

“It also said it had its own landing strip and that it wasn’t unknown for Mr. Aroun to fly down there from Paris when he feels like it, piloting his own plane.”

“Quite true,” Aroun said.

“Good. This is how it will go, then. When I’m close to, how shall we put it, the final end of things, I’ll let you know. You’ll fly down to this Saint Denis place. I’ll fly out from England and join you there after the job is done. You can arrange my onwards transportation.”

“But how?” Rashid demanded. “Where will you find a plane?”

“Plenty of flying clubs, old son, and planes to hire. I’ll simply fly off the map. Disappear, put it any way you like. As a pilot yourself you must know that one of the biggest headaches the authorities have is the vast amount of uncontrolled airspace. Once I land at Saint Denis, you can torch the bloody thing up.” He looked from Rashid to Aroun. “Are we agreed?”

It was Aroun who said, “Absolutely, and if there is anything else we can do.”

“Makeev will let you know. I’ll be going now.” Dillon turned to the door.

Outside, he stood on the pavement beside Makeev’s car, the snow falling lightly. “That’s it, then. We shan’t be seeing each other, not for a while anyway.”

Makeev passed him an envelope. “Tania’s home address and telephone number.” He glanced at his watch. “I couldn’t get her earlier this morning. I left a message to say I wanted to speak to her at noon.”

“Fine,” Dillon said. “I’ll speak to you from Saint-Malo before I get the Hydrofoil for Jersey, just to make sure everything is all right.”

“I’ll drop you off,” Makeev told him.

“No, thanks. I feel like the exercise.” Dillon held out his hand. “To our next merry meeting.”

“Good luck, Sean.”

Dillon smiled. “Oh, you always need that as well,” and he turned and walked away.

Makeev spoke to Tania on the scrambler at noon. “I have a friend calling to see you,” he said. “Possibly late this evening. The one we’ve spoken of.”

“I’ll take care of him, Colonel.”

“You’ve never handled a more important business transaction,” he said, “believe me. He’ll need alternative accommodation, by the way. Make it convenient to your own place.”

“Of course.”

“And I want you to put a trace out on this man.”

He gave her Danny Fahy’s details. When he was finished, she said, “There should be no problem. Anything else?”

“Yes, he likes Walthers. Take care, my dear, I’ll be in touch.”

When Mary Tanner went into the suite at the Ritz, Ferguson was having afternoon tea by the window.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. “Wondered what was keeping you. We’ve got to get moving.”

“To where?” she demanded.

“Back to London.”

She took a deep breath. “Not me, Brigadier, I’m staying.”

“Staying?” he said.

“For the funeral at Château Vercors at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. After all, he’s going to do what you want him to. Don’t we owe him some support?”

Ferguson put up a hand defensively. “All right, you’ve made your point. However, I need to go back to London now. You can stay if you want and follow tomorrow afternoon. I’ll arrange for the Lear jet to pick you up, both of you. Will that suffice?”

“I don’t see why not.” She smiled brightly and reached for the teapot. “Another cup, Brigadier?”

Sean Dillon caught the express to Rennes and changed trains for Saint-Malo at three o’clock. There wasn’t much tourist traffic, the wrong time of the year for that, and the atrocious weather all over Europe had killed whatever there was. There couldn’t have been more than twenty passengers on the Hydrofoil to Jersey. He disembarked in Saint Helier just before six o’clock on the Albert Quay and caught a cab to the airport.

He knew he was in trouble before he arrived, for the closer they got, the thicker the fog was. It was an old story in Jersey, but not the end of the world. He confirmed that both evening flights to London were canceled, went out of the airport building, caught another taxi and told the driver to take him to a convenient hotel.

It was thirty minutes later that he phoned Makeev in Paris. “Sorry I didn’t have a chance to phone from Saint-Malo. The train was late. I might have missed the Hydrofoil. Did you contact Novikova?”

“Oh, yes,” Makeev told him. “Everything is in order. Looking forward to meeting you. Where are you?”

“A place called Hotel L’Horizon in Jersey. There was fog at the airport. I’m hoping to get out in the morning.”

“I’m sure you will. Stay in touch.”

“I’ll do that.”

Dillon put down the phone, then he put on his jacket and went downstairs to the bar. He’d heard somewhere that the hotel’s grill was a quite exceptional restaurant. After a while he was approached by a handsome, energetic Italian who introduced himself as the headwaiter, Augusto. Dillon took a menu from him gratefully, ordered a bottle of Krug and relaxed.

It was at roughly the same time that the doorbell sounded at Brosnan’s apartment on the Quai de Montebello. When he opened the door, a large glass of Scotch in one hand, Mary Tanner stood there.