Eye of the Storm. Jack Higgins

there, but things were different now, a little more austere in a subtle way, he was aware of that. Darkness was falling fast outside and John Major was checking some sort of report, the pen in his hand moving with considerable speed.

      ‘Sorry about this. It will only take a moment,’ he said.

      It was the courtesy that astounded Ferguson, the sheer basic good manners that one didn’t experience too often from heads of state. Major signed the report, put it on one side and sat back, a pleasant, grey-haired man in horn-rimmed glasses, the youngest Prime Minister of the twentieth century. Almost unknown to the general public on his succession to Margaret Thatcher and yet his handling of the crisis in the Gulf had already marked him out as a leader of genuine stature.

      ‘Please sit down, Brigadier. I’m on a tight schedule, so I’ll get right to the point. The business affecting Mrs Thatcher in France. Obviously very disturbing.’

      ‘Indeed so, Prime Minister. Thank God it all turned out as it did.’

      ‘Yes, but that seems to have been a matter of luck more than anything else. I’ve spoken to President Mitterrand and he’s agreed that in all our interests and especially with the present situation in the Gulf there will be a total security clampdown.’

      ‘What about the press, Prime Minister?’

      ‘Nothing will reach the press, Brigadier,’ John Major told him. ‘I understand the French failed to catch the individual concerned?’

      ‘I’m afraid that is so according to my latest information, but Colonel Hernu of Action Service is keeping in close touch.’

      ‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Thatcher and it was she who alerted me to your presence, Brigadier. As I understand it, the intelligence section known as Group Four was set up in nineteen seventy-two, responsible only to the Prime Minister, its purpose to handle specific cases of terrorism and subversion?’

      ‘That is correct.’

      ‘Which means you will have served five prime ministers if we include myself.’

      ‘Actually, Prime Minister, that’s not quite accurate,’ Ferguson said. ‘We do have a problem at the moment.’

      ‘Oh, I know all about that. The usual security people have never liked your existence, Brigadier, too much like the Prime Minister’s private army. That’s why they thought a changeover at Number Ten was a good time to get rid of you.’

      ‘I’m afraid so, Prime Minister.’

      ‘Well, it wasn’t and it isn’t. I’ve spoken to the Director General of Security Services. It’s taken care of.’

      ‘I couldn’t be more delighted.’

      ‘Good. Your first task quite obviously is to run down whoever was behind this French affair. If he’s IRA, then he’s our business, wouldn’t you agree?’

      ‘Absolutely.’

      ‘Good. I’ll let you go and get on with it then. Keep me informed of every significant development on an eyes only basis.’

      ‘Of course, Prime Minister.’

      The door behind opened as if by magic, the aide appeared to usher Ferguson out, the Prime Minister was already working over another sheaf of papers as the door closed and Ferguson was led downstairs.

      As the limousine drove away, Mary Tanner reached forward to close the screen. ‘What happened? What was it about?’

      ‘Oh, the French business.’ Ferguson sounded curiously remote. ‘You know, he’s really got something about him this one.’

      ‘Oh, come off it, sir,’ Mary said. ‘I mean, don’t you honestly think we could do with a change, after all these years of Tory government?’

      ‘Wonderful spokesperson for the workers you make,’ he said. ‘Your dear old Dad, God rest him, was a Professor of Surgery at Oxford, your mother owns half of Herefordshire. That flat of yours in Lowndes Square, a million, would you say? Why is it the children of the rich are always so depressingly left-wing while still insisting on dining at the Savoy?’

      ‘A gross exaggeration.’

      ‘Seriously, my dear, I’ve worked for Labour as well as Conservative prime ministers. The colour of the politician doesn’t matter. The Marquess of Salisbury when he was Prime Minister, Gladstone, Disraeli, had very similar problems to those we have today. Fenians, anarchists, bombs in London, only dynamite instead of Semtex and how many attempts were there on Queen Victoria’s life?’ He gazed out at the Whitehall traffic as they moved towards the Ministry of Defence. ‘Nothing changes.’

      ‘All right, end of lecture, but what happened?’ she demanded.

      ‘Oh, we’re back in business, that’s what happened,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel your transfer back to the Military Police.’

      ‘Damn you!’ she cried and flung her arms around his neck.

      Ferguson’s office on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence was on a corner at the rear overlooking Horseguards Avenue with a view of the Victoria Embankment and the river at the far end. He had hardly got settled behind his desk when Mary hurried in.

      ‘Coded fax from Hernu. I’ve put it through the machine. You’re not going to like it one little bit.’

      It contained the gist of Hernu’s meeting with Martin Brosnan, the facts on Sean Dillon – everything.

      ‘Dear God,’ Ferguson said. ‘Couldn’t be worse. He’s like a ghost, this Dillon chap. Does he exist or doesn’t he? As bad as Carlos in international terrorist terms, but totally unknown to the media or the general public and nothing to go on.’

      ‘But we do have one thing, sir.’

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘Brosnan.’

      ‘True, but will he help?’ Ferguson got up and moved to the window. ‘I tried to get Martin to do something for me the other year. He wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.’ He turned and smiled. ‘It’s the girlfriend, you see, Anne-Marie Audin. She has a horror of him becoming what he once was.’

      ‘Yes, I can understand that.’

      ‘But never mind. We’d better get a report on their latest developments to the Prime Minister. Let’s keep it brief.’

      She produced a pen and took notes as he dictated. ‘Anything else, sir?’ she asked when he had finished.

      ‘I don’t think so. Get it typed. One copy for the file, the other for the PM. Send it straight round to Number Ten by messenger. Eyes only.’

      Mary did a rough type of the report herself then went along the corridor to the typing and copying room. There was one on each floor and the clerks all had full security clearance. The copier was clattering as she went in. The man standing in front of it was in his mid-fifties, white hair, steel-rimmed army glasses, his shirt sleeves rolled up.

      ‘Hello, Gordon,’ she said. ‘A priority one here. Your very best typing. One copy for the personal file. You’ll do it straight away?’

      ‘Of course, Captain Tanner.’ He glanced at it briefly. ‘Fifteen minutes. I’ll bring it along.’

      She went out and he sat down at his typewriter, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he read the words. For the eyes of the Prime Minister only. Gordon Brown had served in the Intelligence Corps for twenty-five years, reaching the rank of warrant officer. A worthy, if unspectacular career, culminating in the award of an MBE and the offer of employment at the Ministry of Defence on his retirement from the army. And everything had been fine until the death of his wife from cancer the previous year. They were childless, which left him alone in a cold world at fifty-five years of age, and then something miraculous happened.

      There were invitation cards flying around at the Ministry all