Eye of the Storm

‘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?’