Jack Higgins: Eye Of The Storm aka Midnight Man

“I couldn’t care less. Anyway, why should you worry? You suddenly turned into a bleeding patriot or something?”

“It isn’t that, I’m just curious.”

He clipped another cigar. “Mind you, I have had a thought. Very convenient if I got the little bugger to knock off Harry Flood for me,” and he started to laugh.

It was just after six and Ferguson was just about to leave his office at the Ministry of Defence when his phone rang. It was Devlin. “Now then, you old sod, I’ve news for you.”

“Get on with it then,” Ferguson said.

“Dillon’s control in eighty-one in Belfast was a man called Tommy McGuire. Remember him?”

“I do indeed. Wasn’t he shot a few years ago? Some sort of IRA feud?”

“That was the story, but he’s still around up there using another identity.”

“And what would that be?”

“I’ve still to find that out. People to see in Belfast. I’m driving up there tonight. I take it, by the way, that involving myself in this way makes me an official agent of Group Four? I mean I wouldn’t like to end up in prison, not at my age.”

“You’ll be covered fully, you have my word on it. Now what do you want us to do?”

“I was thinking that if Brosnan and your Captain Tanner wanted to be in on the action, they could fly over in the morning in that Lear jet of yours, to Belfast, that is, and wait for me at the Europa Hotel, in the bar. Tell Brosnan to identify himself to the head porter. I’ll be in touch probably around noon.”

“I’ll see to it,” Ferguson said.

“Just one more thing. Don’t you think you and I are getting just a little geriatric for this sort of game?”

“You speak for yourself,” Ferguson said and put the phone down.

He sat thinking about it, then phoned through for a secretary. He also called Mary Tanner at the Lowndes Square flat. As he was talking to her, Alice Johnson came in with her notepad and pencil. Ferguson waved her down and carried on speaking to Mary.

“So, early start in the morning. Gatwick again, I think. You’ll be there in an hour in the Lear. Are you dining out tonight?”

“Henry Flood suggested the River Room at the Savoy, he likes the dance band.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Would you like to join us, sir?”

“Actually, I would,” Ferguson said.

“We’ll see you then. Eight o’clock.”

Ferguson put down the phone and turned to Alice Johnson. “A brief note, Eyes of the Prime Minister only, the special file.” He quickly dictated a report that brought everything up to date, including his conversation with Devlin. “One copy for the P.M. and alert a messenger. Usual copy for me and the file. Hurry it up and bring them along for my signature. I want to get away.”

She went down to the office quickly. Gordon Brown was standing at the copier as she sat behind the typewriter. “I thought he’d gone?” he said.

“So did I, but he’s just given me an extra. Another Eyes of the Prime Minister only.”

“Really.”

She started to type furiously, was finished in two minutes. She stood up. “He’ll have to hang on. I need to go to the toilet.”

“I’ll do the copying for you.”

“Thanks, Gordon.”

She went out and along the corridor, was opening the toilet door when she realized she’d left her handbag on the desk. She turned and hurried back to the office. The door was partially open and she could see Gordon standing at the copier reading a copy of the report. To her astonishment, he folded it, slipped it in his inside pocket and hurriedly did another.

Alice was totally thrown, had no idea what to do. She went back along the corridor to the toilet, went in and tried to pull herself together. After a while she went back.

The report and a file copy were on her desk. “All done,” Gordon Brown said. “And I’ve requested a messenger.”

She managed a light smile. “I’ll get them signed.”

“Right, I’m just going down to the canteen. I’ll see you later.”

Alice went along the corridor, knocked on Ferguson’s door and went in. He was at his desk writing and looked up. “Oh, good. I’ll sign those and you can get the P.M.’s copy off to Downing Street straight away.” She was trembling now and he frowned. “My dear Mrs. Johnson, what is it?”

So she told him.

He sat there, grim-faced, and as she finished, reached for the telephone. “Special Branch, Detective Inspector Lane for Brigadier Ferguson, Group Four. Top Priority, no delay. My office now.”

He put the phone down. “Now this is what you do. Go back to the office and behave as if nothing had happened.”

“But he isn’t there, Brigadier, he went to the canteen.”

“Really?” Ferguson said. “Now why would he do that?”

When Tania heard Gordon Brown’s voice she was immediately angry. “I’ve told you about this, Gordon.”

“Yes, but it’s urgent.”

“Where are you?”

“In the canteen at the Ministry. I’ve got another report.”

“Is it important?”

“Very.”

“Read it to me.”

“No, I’ll bring it round after I come off shift at ten.”

“I’ll see you at your place, Gordon, I promise, but I want to know what you’ve got now and if you refuse, then don’t bother to call again.”

“No, that’s all right, I’ll read it.”

Which he did and when he was finished she said, “Good boy, Gordon, I’ll see you later.”

He put the phone down and turned, folding the copy of the report. The door to the phone box was jerked open and Ferguson plucked the report from his fingers.

DILLON WAS IN his room at the hotel when Tania called him. “I’ve got rather hot news,” she said. “The hunt for a lead on you is moving to Belfast.”

“Tell me,” he said.

Which she did. When she was finished, she said, “Does any of this make any sense?”

“Yes,” he said. “The McGuire fella was a big name with the Provos in those days.”

“And he’s dead, is he, or is he still around?”

“Devlin’s right about that. His death was reported, supposedly because of in-fighting in the Movement, but it was just a ruse to help him drop out of sight.”

“If they found him, could it give you problems?”

“Maybe, but not if I found him first.”

“And how could you do that?”

“I know his half-brother, a fella called Macey. He would know where he is.”

“But that would mean a trip to Belfast yourself.”

“That would be no big deal. An hour and a quarter by British Airways. I don’t know what time the last plane tonight gets in. I’d have to check.”

“Just a minute, I’ve got a B.A. Worldwide Timetable here,” she said and opened her desk drawer. She found it and looked at the Belfast schedule. “The last plane is eight-thirty. You’ll never make it. It’s quarter to seven now. It’s murder getting out to Heathrow in the evening traffic and this weather will make it worse. Probably at least an hour or maybe an hour and a half.”

“I know,” Dillon said. “What about the morning?”

“Same time, eight-thirty.”

“I’ll just have to get up early.”

“Is it wise?”

“Is anything in this life? I’ll handle it, don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”

He put the phone down, thought about it for a while, then called British Airways and booked a seat on the morning flight with an open return. He lit a cigarette and walked to the window. Was it wise, she’d said, and he tried to remember what Tommy McGuire had known about him in eighty-one. Nothing about Danny Fahy, that was certain, because Fahy wasn’t supposed to be involved that time. That had been personal. But Jack Harvey was another matter. After all, it had been McGuire who’d put him onto Harvey as an arms supplier in the first place.