Eye of the Storm Read Online Free PDF Page A

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