Eye of the Storm

‘God forbid it,’ Michael Aroun said.

Saddam turned to him. ‘As God wills, Michael, in all things, but you see my point? The same would apply to Bush or the Thatcher woman. The proof that my arm reaches everywhere. The ultimate coup.’ He turned. ‘Would you be capable of arranging such a thing, if necessary?’

Aroun had never felt so excited in his life. ‘I think so, my President. All things are possible, especially when sufficient money is involved. It would be my gift to you.’

‘Good.’ Saddam nodded. ‘You will return to Paris immediately. Captain Rashid will accompany you. He will have details of certain codes we will be using in radio broadcasts, that sort of thing. The day may never come, Michael, but if it does …’ He shrugged. ‘We have friends in the right places.’ He turned to Rashid. ‘That KGB colonel at the Soviet Embassy in Paris?’

‘Colonel Josef Makeev, my President.’

‘Yes,’ Saddam Hussein said to Aroun. ‘Like many of his kind, not happy with the changes now taking place in Moscow. He will assist in any way he can. He’s already expressed his willingness.’ He embraced Aroun, again like a brother. ‘Now go. I have work to do.’

The lights had still not come on in the palace and Aroun had stumbled out into the darkness of the corridor, following the beam of Rashid’s torch.

Since his return to Paris he had got to know Makeev well, keeping their acquaintance, by design, purely on a social level, meeting mainly at various Embassy functions. And Saddam Hussein had been right. The Russian was very definitely on their side, only too willing to do anything that would cause problems for the United States or Great Britain.

The news from home, of course, had been bad. The build-up of such a gigantic army. Who could have expected it? And then in the early hours of 17 January the air war had begun. One bad thing after another and the ground attack still to come.

He poured himself another brandy, remembering his despairing rage at the news of his father’s death. He’d never been religious by inclination, but he’d found a mosque in a Paris side street to pray in. Not that it had done any good. The feeling of impotence was like a living thing inside him and then came the morning when Ali Rashid had rushed into the great ornate sitting room, a notepad in one hand, his face pale and excited.

‘It’s come, Mr Aroun. The signal we’ve been waiting for. I just heard it on the radio transmitter from Baghdad.’

The winds of heaven are blowing. Implement all that is on the table. May God be with you.

Aroun had gazed at it in wonder, his hand trembling as he held the notepad, and his voice was hoarse when he said, ‘The President was right. The day has come.’

‘Exactly,’ Rashid said. ‘Implement all that is on the table. We’re in business. I’ll get in touch with Makeev and arrange a meeting as soon as possible.’

Dillon stood at the French windows and peered out across the Avenue Victor Hugo to the Bois de Boulogne. He was whistling softly to himself, a strange eerie little tune.

‘Now this must be what the house agents call a favoured location.’

‘May I offer you a drink, Mr Dillon?’

‘A glass of champagne wouldn’t come amiss.’

‘Have you a preference?’ Aroun asked.

‘Ah, the man who has everything,’ Dillon said. ‘All right, Krug would be fine, but non-vintage. I prefer the grape mix.’

‘A man of taste, I see.’ Aroun nodded to Rashid who opened a side door and went out.

Dillon, unbuttoning his reefer coat, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘So, you need my services this old fox tells me.’ He nodded at Makeev who lounged against the fireplace warming himself. ‘The job of a lifetime, he said and for a million pounds. Now what would I have to do for all that?’

Rashid entered quickly with the Krug in a bucket, three glasses on a tray. He put them on the table and started to open the bottle.

Aroun said, ‘I’m not sure, but it would have to be something very special. Something to show the world that Saddam Hussein can strike anywhere.’

‘He needs something, the poor old sod,’ Dillon said cheerfully. ‘Things aren’t going too well.’ As Rashid finished filling three glasses the Irishman added, ‘And what’s your trouble, son? Aren’t you joining us?’

Rashid smiled and Aroun said, ‘In spite of Winchester and Sandhurst, Mr Dillon, Captain Rashid remains a very Muslim Muslim. He does not touch alcohol.’

‘Well, here’s to you.’ Dillon raised his glass. ‘I respect a man with principles.’

‘This would need to be big, Sean, no point in anything small. We’re not talking blowing up five British Army paratroopers in Belfast,’ Makeev said.

‘Oh, it’s Bush you want, is it?’ Dillon smiled. ‘The President of the United States flat on his back with a bullet in him?’

‘Would that be so crazy?’ Aroun demanded.

‘It would be this time, son,’ Dillon told him. ‘George Bush has not just taken on Saddam Hussein, he’s taken on the Arabs as a people. Oh, that’s total rubbish of course, but it’s the way a lot of Arab fanatics see it. Groups like Hizbollah, the PLO or the wild cards like the Wrath of Allah people. The sort who would happily strap a bomb to their waist and detonate it while the President reached out to shake just another hand in the crowd. I know these people. I know how their minds tick. I’ve helped train Hizbollah people in Beirut. I’ve worked for the PLO.’

‘What you are saying is nobody can get near Bush at the moment?’

‘Read your papers. Anybody who looks even slightly Arab is keeping off the streets these days in New York and Washington.’

‘But you, Mr Dillon, do not look Arab to the slightest degree,’ Aroun said. ‘For one thing you have fair hair.’

‘So did Lawrence of Arabia and he used to pass himself off as an Arab.’ Dillon shook his head. ‘President Bush has the finest security in the world, believe me. A ring of steel and in present circumstances he’s going to stay home while this whole Gulf thing works through, mark my words.’

‘What about their Secretary of State, James Baker?’ Aroun said. ‘He’s been indulging in shuttle diplomacy throughout Europe.’

‘Yes, but knowing when, that’s the problem. You’ll know he’s been in London or Paris when he’s already left and they show him on television. No, you can forget the Americans on this one.’

There was silence and Aroun looked glum. Makeev was the first to speak. ‘Give me then the benefit of your professional expertise, Sean. Where does one find the weakest security, as regards national leaders?’

Dillon laughed out loud. ‘Oh, I think your man here can answer that, Winchester and Sandhurst.’

Rashid smiled. ‘He’s right. The British are probably the best in the world at covert operations. The success of their Special Air Service Regiment speaks for itself, but in other areas …’ He shook his head.

‘Their first problem is bureaucracy,’ Dillon told them. ‘The British Security Service operates in two main sections. What most people still call MI5 and MI6. MI5, or DI5 to be pedantic, specialises in counter-espionage in Great Britain. The other lot operates abroad. Then you have Special Branch at Scotland Yard who have to be brought into the act to make any actual arrests. The Yard also has an anti-terrorist squad. Then there’s army intelligence units galore. All life is there and they’re all at each other’s throats and that, gentlemen, is when mistakes begin to creep in.’

Rashid poured some more champagne into his glass. ‘And you are saying that makes for bad security with their leaders? The Queen, for example?’

‘Come on,’ Dillon said. ‘It’s not all that many years ago that the Queen woke up in Buckingham Palace and found an intruder sitting on the bed. How long ago, six years, since the IRA almost got Margaret Thatcher and the entire British Cabinet at a Brighton hotel during the Tory Party Conference?’ He put down his glass and lit another cigarette. ‘The Brits are very old-fashioned. They like a policeman to wear a uniform so they know who he is and they don’t like being told what to do and that applies to Cabinet Ministers who think nothing of strolling through the streets from their houses in Westminster to Parliament.’

‘Fortunate for the rest of us,’ Makeev said.

‘Exactly,’ Dillon said. ‘They even have to go softly-softly on terrorists, up to a degree anyway, not like French intelligence. Jesus, if the lads in Action Service got their hands on me they’d have me spread out and my bollocks wired up for electricity before I knew what was happening. Mind you, even they are prone to the occasional error.’

‘What do you mean?’ Makeev demanded.

‘Have you got a copy of the evening paper handy?’

‘Certainly, I’ve been reading it,’ Aroun said. ‘Ali, on my desk.’

Rashid returned with a copy of Paris Soir. Dillon said, ‘Page two. Read it out. You’ll find it interesting.’

He helped himself to more champagne while Rashid read the item aloud. ‘Mrs Margaret Thatcher, until recently Prime Minister of Britain, is staying overnight at Choisy as a guest of President Mitterrand. They are to have further talks in the morning. She leaves at two o’clock for an air force emergency field at Valenton where an RAF plane returns her to England. Incredible, isn’t it, that they could have allowed such a press release, but I guarantee the main London newspapers will carry that story also.’

There was a heavy silence and then Aroun said, ‘You’re not suggesting … ?’

Dillon said to Rashid, ‘You must have some road maps handy. Get them.’

Rashid went out quickly. Makeev said, ‘Good God, Sean, not even you …’

‘Why not?’ Dillon asked calmly and turned to Aroun. ‘I mean, you want something big, a major coup? Would Margaret Thatcher do or are we just playing games here?’

Before Aroun could reply, Rashid came back with two or three road maps. He opened one out on the table and they looked at it, all except Makeev who stayed by the fire.

‘There we are, Choisy,’ Rashid said. ‘Thirty miles from Paris and here is the air force field at Valenton only seven miles away.’

‘Have you got a map of larger scale?’

‘Yes.’ Rashid unfolded one of the others.

‘Good,’ Dillon said. ‘It’s perfectly clear that only one country road links Choisy to Valenton and here, about three miles before the airfield, there’s a railway crossing. Perfect.’

‘For what?’ Aroun demanded.

‘An ambush. Look, I know how these things operate. There’ll be one car, two at the most, and an escort. Maybe half a dozen CRS police on motorbikes.’

‘My God!’ Aroun whispered.

‘Yes, well. He’s got very little to do with it. It could work. Fast, very simple. What the Brits call a piece of cake.’

Aroun turned in appeal to Makeev who shrugged. ‘He means it, Michael. You said this was what you wanted so make up your mind.’

Aroun took a deep breath and turned back to Dillon. ‘All right.’

‘Good,’ Dillon said calmly. He reached for a pad and pencil on the table and wrote on it quickly. ‘Those are the details of my numbered bank account in Zurich. You’ll transfer one million pounds to it first thing in the morning.’

‘In advance?’ Rashid said. ‘Isn’t that expecting rather a lot?’

‘No, my old son, it’s you people who are expecting rather a lot and the rules have changed. On successful completion, I’ll expect a further million.’

‘Now look here,’ Rashid started, but Aroun held up a hand.

‘Fine, Mr Dillon, and cheap at the price. Now what can we do for you?’

‘I need operating money. I presume a man like you keeps large supplies of the filthy stuff around the house?’

‘Very large,’ Aroun smiled. ‘How much?’

‘Can you manage dollars? Say twenty thousand?’

‘Of course.’ Aroun nodded to Rashid who went to the far end of the room, swung a large oil painting to one side disclosing a wall safe which he started to open.

Makeev said, ‘And what can I do?’

‘The old warehouse in rue de Helier, the one we’ve used before. You’ve still got a key?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. I’ve got most things I need stored there, but for this job I’d like a light machine gun. A tripod job. A Heckler & Koch or an M60. Anything like that will do.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Eight o’clock. I’d like it there by ten. All right?’

‘Of course,’ Makeev said again.

Rashid came back with a small briefcase. ‘Twenty thousand. Hundred-dollar bills, I’m afraid.’

‘Is there any way they could be traced?’ Dillon asked.

‘Impossible,’ Aroun told him.

‘Good. And I’ll take the maps.’

He walked to the door, opened it and started down the curving staircase to the hall. Aroun, Rashid and Makeev followed him.

‘But is this all, Mr Dillon?’ Aroun said. ‘Is there nothing more we can do for you? Won’t you need help?’

‘When I do, it comes from the criminal classes,’ Dillon said. ‘Honest crooks who do things for cash are usually more reliable than politically motivated zealots. Not always, but most of the time. Don’t worry, you’ll hear from me, one way or another. I’ll be on my way then.’

Rashid got the door open. Rain and sleet drifted in and Dillon pulled on his cap. ‘A dirty old night for it.’

‘One thing, Mr Dillon,’ Rashid said. ‘What happens if things go wrong? I mean, you’ll have your million in advance and we’ll –’

‘Have nothing? Don’t give it a thought, me old son. I’ll provide an alternative target. There’s always the new British Prime Minister, this John Major. I presume his head on a plate would serve your boss back in Baghdad just as well.’

He smiled once, then stepped out into the rain and pulled the door shut behind him.

2

Dillon paused outside Le Chat Noir on the end of the small pier for the second time that night. It was almost deserted, a young man and woman at a corner table holding hands, a bottle of wine between them. The accordion was playing softly and the musician talked to the man behind the bar at the same time. They were the Jobert brothers, gangsters of the second rank in the Paris underworld. Their activities had been severely curtailed since Pierre, the one behind the bar, had lost his left leg in a car crash after an armed robbery three years previously.

As the door opened and Dillon entered, the other brother, Gaston, stopped playing. ‘Ah, Monsieur Rocard, back already.’

‘Gaston.’ Dillon shook hands and turned to the barman. ‘Pierre.’

‘See, I still remember that little tune of yours, the Irish one.’ Gaston played a few notes on the accordion.

‘Good,’ Dillon said. ‘A true artist.’

Behind them the young couple got up and left. Pierre produced half a bottle of champagne from the bar fridge. ‘Champagne as usual I presume, my friend? Nothing special, but we are poor men here.’

‘You’ll have me crying all over the bar,’ Dillon said.

‘And what may we do for you?’ Pierre enquired.

‘Oh, I just want to put a little business your way.’ Dillon nodded at the door. ‘It might be an idea if you closed.’

Gaston put his accordion on the bar, went and bolted the door and pulled down the blind. He returned and sat on his stool. ‘Well, my friend?’

‘This could be a big pay day for you boys.’ Dillon opened the briefcase, took out one of the road maps and disclosed the stacks of hundred-dollar bills. ‘Twenty thousand American. Ten now and ten on successful completion.’

‘My God!’ Gaston said in awe, but Pierre looked grim.

‘And what would be expected for all this money?’

Dillon had always found it paid to stick as close to the truth as possible and he spread the road map out across the bar.

‘I’ve been hired by the Union Corse,’ he said, naming the most feared criminal organisation in France, ‘to take care of a little problem. A matter of what you might term business rivalry.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Pierre said. ‘And you are to eliminate the problem?’

‘Exactly. The men concerned will be passing along this road here towards Valenton shortly after two o’clock tomorrow. I intend to take them out here at the railway crossing.’

‘And how will this be accomplished?’ Gaston asked.

‘A very simple ambush. You two are still in the transport business, aren’t you? Stolen cars, trucks?’

‘You should know. You’ve bought from us on enough occasions,’ Pierre told him.

‘A couple of vans, that’s not too much to expect, is it?’

‘And then what?’

‘We’ll take a drive down to this place tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Eleven o’clock from here. It’ll only take an hour.’

Pierre shook his head. ‘Look, this could be heavy. I’m getting too old for gunplay.’

‘Wonderful,’ Dillon said. ‘How many did you kill when you were with the OAS?’

‘I was younger then.’

‘Well, it comes to us all, I suppose. No gunplay. You two will be in and out so quickly you won’t know what’s happening. A piece of cake.’ He took several stacks of hundred-dollar bills from the briefcase and put them on the bar counter. ‘Ten thousand. Do we deal?’

And greed, as usual, won the day as Pierre ran his hands over the money. ‘Yes, my friend, I think we do.’

‘Good. I’ll be back at eleven then.’ Dillon closed his briefcase, Gaston went and unlocked the door for him and the Irishman left.

Gaston closed the door and turned. ‘What do you think?’

Pierre poured two cognacs. ‘I think our friend Rocard is a very big liar.’

‘But also a very dangerous man,’ Gaston said. ‘So what do we do?’

‘Wait and see.’ Pierre raised his glass. ‘Salut.’

Dillon walked all the way to the warehouse in rue de Helier, twisting from one street to another, melting into the darkness occasionally to check that he wasn’t being followed. He had learned a long time ago that the problem with all revolutionary political groups was that they were riddled with factions and informers, a great truth where the IRA was concerned. Because of that, as he had indicated to Aroun, he preferred to use professional criminals whenever possible when help was needed. Honest crooks who did things for cash, that was the phrase he’d used. Unfortunately it didn’t always hold true and there had been something in big Pierre’s manner.

There was a small Judas gate set in the larger double doors of the warehouse. He unlocked it and stepped inside. There were two cars, a Renault saloon and a Ford Escort, and a police BMW motorcycle covered with a sheet. He checked that it was all right, then moved up the wooden stairs to the flat in the loft above. It was not his only home. He also had a barge on the river, but it was useful on occasions.

On the table in the small living room there was a canvas holdall with a note on top that simply said, As ordered. He smiled and unzipped it. Inside was a Kalashnikov PK machine gun, the latest model. Its tripod was folded, the barrel off for easy handling and there was a large box of belt cartridges, a similar box beside it. He opened a drawer in the sideboard, took out a folded sheet and put it in the holdall. He zipped it up again, checked the Walther in his waistband and went down the stairs, the holdall in one hand.

He locked the Judas and went along the street, excitement taking control as it always did. It was the best feeling in the world when the game was in play. He turned into the main street and a few minutes later, hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to Le Chat Noir.

They drove out of Paris in Renault vans, exactly the same except for the fact that one was black and the other white. Gaston led the way, Dillon beside him in the passenger seat, and Pierre followed. It was very cold, snow still mixed with the rain, although it wasn’t lying. They talked very little, Dillon lying back in the seat eyes closed so that the Frenchman thought he was asleep.

Not far from Choisy, the van skidded and Gaston said, ‘Christ almighty,’ and wrestled with the wheel.

Dillon said, ‘Easy, the wrong time to go in a ditch. Where are we?’

‘Just past the turning to Choisy. Not long now.’ Dillon sat up. The snow was covering the hedgerows but not the road. Gaston said, ‘It’s a pig of a night. Just look at it.’

‘Think of all those lovely dollar bills,’ Dillon told him. ‘That should get you through.’

It stopped snowing, the sky cleared showing a half-moon, and below them at the bottom of the hill was the red light of the railway crossing. There was an old disused building of some sort at one side, its windows boarded up, a stretch of cobbles in front of it lightly powdered with snow.

‘Pull in here,’ Dillon said.

Gaston did as he was told and braked to a halt switching off the motor. Pierre came up in the white Renault, got down from behind the wheel awkwardly because of the false leg and joined them.

Dillon stood looking at the crossing a few yards away and nodded. ‘Perfect. Give me the keys.’

Gaston did as he was told. The Irishman unlocked the rear door, disclosing the holdall. He unzipped it as they watched, took out the Kalashnikov, put the barrel in place expertly, then positioned it so that it pointed to the rear. He filled the ammunition box, threading the cartridge belt in place.

‘That looks a real bastard,’ Pierre said.

‘Seven point two millimetre cartridges mixed with tracer and armour piercing,’ Dillon said. ‘It’s a killer all right. Kalashnikov. I’ve seen one of these take a Land Rover full of British paratroopers to pieces.’

‘Really,’ Pierre said and as Gaston was about to speak, he put a warning hand on his arm. ‘What’s in the other box?’

‘More ammunition.’

Dillon took out the sheet from the holdall, covered the machine gun, then locked the door. He got behind the driving wheel, started the engine and moved the van a few yards, positioned it so that the tail pointed at an angle towards the crossing. He got out and locked the door and clouds scudded across the moon and the rain started again, more snow in it now.

‘So, you leave this here?’ Pierre said. ‘What if someone checks it?’

‘What if they do?’ Dillon knelt down at the offside rear tyre, took a knife from his pocket, sprang the blade and poked at the rim of the wheel. There was a hiss of air and the tyre went down rapidly.

Gaston nodded. ‘Clever. Anyone gets curious, they’ll just think a breakdown.’

‘But what about us?’ Pierre demanded. ‘What do you expect?’

‘Simple. Gaston turns up with the white Renault just after two this afternoon. You block the road at the crossing, not the railway track, just the road, get out, lock the door and leave it. Then get the hell out of there.’ He turned to Pierre. ‘You follow in a car, pick him up and straight back to Paris.’

‘But what about you?’ the big man demanded.

‘I’ll be already here, waiting in the van. I’ll make my own way. Back to Paris now. You can drop me at Le Chat Noir and that’s an end of it. You won’t see me again.’

‘And the rest of the money?’ Pierre demanded as he got behind the Renault’s wheel and Gaston and Dillon joined him.

‘You’ll get it, don’t worry,’ Dillon said. ‘I always keep my word just as I expect others to keep theirs. A matter of honour, my friend. Now let’s get moving.’

He closed his eyes again, leaned back. Pierre glanced at his brother, switched on the engine and drove away.

It was just on half-past one when they reached Le Chat Noir. There was a lock-up garage opposite the pub. Gaston opened the doors and Pierre drove in.

‘I’ll be off then,’ Dillon said.

‘You’re not coming in?’ the big man asked. ‘Then Gaston can run you home.’

Dillon smiled. ‘No one’s ever taken me home in my life.’

He walked away, turning into a side street and Pierre said to his brother, ‘After him and don’t lose him.’

‘But why?’ Gaston demanded.

‘Because I want to know where he’s staying, that’s why. It stinks, this thing, Gaston, like bad fish stinks, so get moving.’

Dillon moved rapidly from street to street, following his usual pattern, but Gaston, a thief since childhood and an expert in such matters, managed to stay on his trail, never too close. Dillon had intended returning to the warehouse in rue de Helier, but pausing on the corner of an alley to light a cigarette, he glanced back and could have sworn he saw a movement. He was right, for it was Gaston ducking into a doorway out of sight.