Eye of the Storm
Introducing IRA enforcer and deadly assassin, Sean Dillon, in his explosive debut from number one bestselling author, Jack Higgins.Sean Dillon is a hired killer. The IRA, the PLO, ETA – he’s worked for them all.As the Gulf War rages, Iraq acquires his services for an apocalyptic strike at the heart of Western democracy: 10 Downing Street.But British Intelligence are on his trail – they have hired a killer to stalk a killer; a mortal enemy who is hell-bent on revenge.As the lightning strikes and the bullets fly, Sean Dillon will discover how it feels to truly be at the eye of the storm…
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Eye of the Storm
Copyright
Harper
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HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Great Britain by Chapmans 1992
Copyright © Jack Higgins 1992
Jack Higgins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the authorâs imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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Source ISBN: 9780007456024
Ebook Edition © June 2012 ISBN: 9780007456031 Version: 2015-01-12
Dedication
In memory of my grandfather Robert Bell, M M Gallant Soldier
Epigraph
The winds of heaven are blowing.
Implement all that is on the table.
May God be with you.
Coded message, Iraq Radio, Baghdad
January 1991
Table of Contents
Prologue
The mortar attack on Number Ten Downing Street when the War Cabinet was meeting at 10.00 a.m. on Thursday, 7 February 1991, is now a matter of history. It has never been satisfactorily explained. Perhaps it went something like this â¦
1
It was just before dark as Dillon emerged from the alley and paused on the corner. Rain drifted across the Seine in a flurry of snow, sleet mixed with it, and it was cold, even for January in Paris. He wore a reefer coat, peaked cap, jeans and boots, just another sailor off one of the barges working the river, which he very definitely was not.
He lit a cigarette in cupped hands and stayed there for a moment in the shadows, looking across the cobbled square at the lights of the small café on the other side. After a while he dropped the cigarette, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and started across.
In the darkness of the entrance two men waited, watching his progress. One of them whispered, âThat must be him.â
He made a move. The other held him back. âNo, wait till heâs inside.â
Dillon, his senses sharpened by years of entirely the wrong kind of living, was aware of them, but gave no sign. He paused at the entrance, slipped his left hand under the reefer coat to check that the Walther PPK was securely tucked into the waistband of his jeans against the small of his back, then he opened the door and went in.
It was typical of the sort of place to be found on that part of the river: half a dozen tables with chairs, a zinc-topped bar, bottles lined against a cracked mirror behind it. The entrance to the rear was masked by a bead curtain.
The barman, a very old man with a grey moustache, wore an alpaca coat, the sleeves frayed at the cuffs, and there was no collar to his shirt. He put down the magazine he was reading and got up from the stool.
âMonsieur?â
Dillon unbuttoned his reefer coat and put his cap on the bar, a small man, no more than five feet five, with fair hair and eyes that seemed to the barman to be of no particular colour at all except for the fact that they were the coldest the old man had ever looked into. He shivered, unaccountably afraid, and then Dillon smiled. The change was astonishing, suddenly nothing but warmth there and immense charm. His French, when he spoke, was perfect.
âWould there be such a thing as half a bottle of champagne in the house?â
The old man stared at him in astonishment. âChampagne? You must be joking, monsieur. I have two kinds of wine only. One is red and the other white.â
He placed a bottle of each on the bar. It was stuff of such poor quality that the bottles had screw tops instead of corks.
âAll right,â Dillon said. âThe white it is. Give me a glass.â
He put his cap back on, went and sat at a table against the wall from where he could see both the entrance and the curtained doorway. He got the bottle open, poured some of the wine into the glass and tried it.
He said to the barman, âAnd what vintage would this be, last weekâs?â
