LITMIR.BIZ

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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 Viet Nam, in the swamp, when the Viet Cong 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. Henri 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 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.’

      6

      It was just before eleven when Makeev drew up before Michael Aroun’s apartment in the Avenue Victor Hugo. His chauffeur drew in beside the kerb 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 finalise 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.

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