aren’t I?”
“Damn you, Brosnan, you always were the clever bastard!” Dillon exploded angrily.
“You’ll never get away with it,” Brosnan said.
“You think so? I’ll just have to prove you wrong, then.”
“As I said, you must be losing your touch, Sean. This bungled attempt to get Mrs. Thatcher. Reminds me of a job dear old Frank Barry pulled back in seventy-nine when he tried to hit the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Carrington, when he was passing through Saint-Étienne. I’m rather surprised you used the same ground plan, but then you always did think Barry was special, didn’t you?”
“He was the best.”
“And at the end of things, very dead,” Brosnan said.
“Yes, well, whoever got him must have given it to him in the back,” Dillon said.
“Not true,” Brosnan told him. “We were face-to-face as I recall.”
“You killed Frank Barry?” Dillon whispered.
“Well, somebody had to,” Brosnan said. “It’s what usually happens to mad dogs. I was working for Ferguson, by the way.”
“You bastard.” Dillon raised the Walther, took careful aim and the door opened and Anne-Marie walked in with the shopping bags.
Dillon swung toward her. Brosnan called, “Look out!” and went down and Dillon fired twice at the sofa.
Anne-Marie screamed, not in terror, but in fury, dropped her bags and rushed at him. Dillon tried to fend her off, staggered back through the French windows. Inside, Brosnan crawled toward the table and reached for the drawer. Anne-Marie scratched at Dillon’s face. He cursed, pushing her away from him. She fell against the balustrade and went over backwards.
Brosnan had the drawer open now, knocked the lamp on the table sideways, plunging the room into darkness, and reached for the Browning. Dillon fired three times very fast and ducked for the door. Brosnan fired twice, too late. The door banged. He got to his feet, ran to the terrace and looked over. Anne-Marie lay on the pavement below. He turned and ran through the drawing room into the hall, got the door open and went downstairs two at a time. It was snowing when he went out on the steps. Of Dillon there was no sign, but the night porter was kneeling beside Anne-Marie.
He looked up. “There was a man, Professor, with a gun. He ran across the road.”
“Never mind.” Brosnan sat down and cradled her in his arms. “An ambulance, and hurry.”
The snow was falling quite fast now. He held her close and waited.
Ferguson, Mary and Max Hernu were having a thoroughly enjoyable time in the magnificent dining room at the Ritz. They were already on their second bottle of Louis Roederer Crystal champagne and the brigadier was in excellent form.
“Who was it who said that when a man tires of champagne, he’s tired of life?” he demanded.
“He must certainly have been a Frenchman,” Hernu told him.
“Very probably, but I think the time has come when we should toast the provider of this feast.” He raised his glass. “To you, Mary, my love.”
She was about to respond when she saw, in the mirror on the wall, Inspector Savary at the entrance speaking to the headwaiter. “I think you’re being paged, Colonel,” she told Hernu.
He glanced round. “What’s happened now?” He got up, threaded his way through the tables and approached Savary. They talked for a few moments, glancing toward the table.
Mary said, “I don’t know about you, sir, but I get a bad feeling.”
Before he could reply, Hernu came back to them, his face grave. “I’m afraid I’ve got some rather ugly news.”
“Dillon?” Ferguson asked.
“He paid a call on Brosnan a short while ago.”
“What happened?” Ferguson demanded. “Is Brosnan all right?”
“Oh, yes. There was some gun play. Dillon got away.” He sighed heavily. “But Mademoiselle Audin is at the Hôpital St-Louis. From what Savary tells me, it doesn’t look good.”
Brosnan was in the waiting room on the second floor when they arrived, pacing
“Damn you, Brosnan, you always were the clever bastard!” Dillon exploded angrily.
“You’ll never get away with it,” Brosnan said.
“You think so? I’ll just have to prove you wrong, then.”
“As I said, you must be losing your touch, Sean. This bungled attempt to get Mrs. Thatcher. Reminds me of a job dear old Frank Barry pulled back in seventy-nine when he tried to hit the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Carrington, when he was passing through Saint-Étienne. I’m rather surprised you used the same ground plan, but then you always did think Barry was special, didn’t you?”
“He was the best.”
“And at the end of things, very dead,” Brosnan said.
“Yes, well, whoever got him must have given it to him in the back,” Dillon said.
“Not true,” Brosnan told him. “We were face-to-face as I recall.”
“You killed Frank Barry?” Dillon whispered.
“Well, somebody had to,” Brosnan said. “It’s what usually happens to mad dogs. I was working for Ferguson, by the way.”
“You bastard.” Dillon raised the Walther, took careful aim and the door opened and Anne-Marie walked in with the shopping bags.
Dillon swung toward her. Brosnan called, “Look out!” and went down and Dillon fired twice at the sofa.
Anne-Marie screamed, not in terror, but in fury, dropped her bags and rushed at him. Dillon tried to fend her off, staggered back through the French windows. Inside, Brosnan crawled toward the table and reached for the drawer. Anne-Marie scratched at Dillon’s face. He cursed, pushing her away from him. She fell against the balustrade and went over backwards.
Brosnan had the drawer open now, knocked the lamp on the table sideways, plunging the room into darkness, and reached for the Browning. Dillon fired three times very fast and ducked for the door. Brosnan fired twice, too late. The door banged. He got to his feet, ran to the terrace and looked over. Anne-Marie lay on the pavement below. He turned and ran through the drawing room into the hall, got the door open and went downstairs two at a time. It was snowing when he went out on the steps. Of Dillon there was no sign, but the night porter was kneeling beside Anne-Marie.
He looked up. “There was a man, Professor, with a gun. He ran across the road.”
“Never mind.” Brosnan sat down and cradled her in his arms. “An ambulance, and hurry.”
The snow was falling quite fast now. He held her close and waited.
Ferguson, Mary and Max Hernu were having a thoroughly enjoyable time in the magnificent dining room at the Ritz. They were already on their second bottle of Louis Roederer Crystal champagne and the brigadier was in excellent form.
“Who was it who said that when a man tires of champagne, he’s tired of life?” he demanded.
“He must certainly have been a Frenchman,” Hernu told him.
“Very probably, but I think the time has come when we should toast the provider of this feast.” He raised his glass. “To you, Mary, my love.”
She was about to respond when she saw, in the mirror on the wall, Inspector Savary at the entrance speaking to the headwaiter. “I think you’re being paged, Colonel,” she told Hernu.
He glanced round. “What’s happened now?” He got up, threaded his way through the tables and approached Savary. They talked for a few moments, glancing toward the table.
Mary said, “I don’t know about you, sir, but I get a bad feeling.”
Before he could reply, Hernu came back to them, his face grave. “I’m afraid I’ve got some rather ugly news.”
“Dillon?” Ferguson asked.
“He paid a call on Brosnan a short while ago.”
“What happened?” Ferguson demanded. “Is Brosnan all right?”
“Oh, yes. There was some gun play. Dillon got away.” He sighed heavily. “But Mademoiselle Audin is at the Hôpital St-Louis. From what Savary tells me, it doesn’t look good.”
Brosnan was in the waiting room on the second floor when they arrived, pacing
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