Jack Higgins: Eye Of The Storm aka Midnight Man

“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 do 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 mixed with the rain, although it wasn’t sticking. 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-millimeter cartridges mixed with tracer and armor 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 on an angle toward 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 tire, 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 tire 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 honor, 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.

For Dillon, even the suspicion was enough. He’d had a feeling about Pierre all night, a bad feeling. He turned left, worked his way back to the river and walked along the pavement and past a row of trucks, their windshields covered with snow. He came to a small hotel, the cheapest sort of place, the kind used by prostitutes or truckers stopping overnight and went in.

The desk clerk was very old and wore an overcoat and scarf against the cold. His eyes were wet. He put down his book and rubbed them. “Monsieur?”