Political Philosophy at the Sorbonne.”
“You’re right,” Hernu said. “I’d forgotten about him.”
“Very respectable these days. Writes books and lives rather well on all that money his mother left him when she died in Boston five years ago. If you’ve a mystery on your hands, he might be the man to solve it.”
“Thanks for the suggestion,” Hernu said. “But first we’ll see what happens at Valenton. I’ll be in touch.”
Ferguson put down the phone, pressed a button on the wall and got out of bed. A moment later the door opened and his manservant, an ex-Gurkha, came in putting a dressing gown over his pyjamas.
“Emergency, Kim. I’ll ring Captain Tanner and tell her to get round here, then I’ll have a bath. Breakfast when she arrives.”
The Gurkha withdrew. Ferguson picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Mary? Ferguson here. Something big. I want you at Cavendish Square within the hour. Oh, better wear your uniform. We’ve got that thing at the Ministry of Defence at eleven. You always impress them in full war paint.”
He put the phone down and went into the bathroom feeling wide-awake and extremely cheerful.
It was six-thirty when the taxi picked up Mary Tanner on the steps of her Lowndes Square flat. The driver was impressed, but then most people were. She wore the uniform of a captain in the Women’s Royal Army Corps, the wings of an Army Air Corps pilot on her left breast. Below them were the ribbon of the George Medal, a gallantry award of considerable distinction, and campaign ribbons for Ireland and for service with the United Nations peacekeeping force in Cyprus.
She was a small girl, black hair cropped short, twenty-nine years of age and a lot of service under the belt. A doctor’s daughter who’d taken an English degree at London University, tried teaching and hated it. After that came the army. A great deal of her service had been with the Military Police. Cyprus for a while, but three tours of duty in Ulster. It had been the affair in Derry that had earned her the George Medal and left her with the scar on her left cheek, which had brought her to Ferguson’s attention. She’d been his aide for two years now.
She paid off the taxi, hurried up the stairs to the flat on the first floor and let herself in with her own key. Ferguson was sitting on the sofa beside the fireplace in the elegant drawing room, a napkin under his chin, while Kim served his poached eggs.
“Just in time,” he said. “What would you like?”
“Tea, please. Earl Grey, Kim, and toast and honey.”
“Got to watch our figure.”
“Rather early in the day for sexist cracks, even for you, Brigadier. Now what have we got?”
He told her while he ate and Kim brought her tea and toast and she sat opposite, listening.
When he finished she said, “This Brosnan, I’ve never heard of him.”
“Before your time, my love. He must be about forty-five now. You’ll find a file on him in my study. He was born in Boston. One of those filthy rich American families. Very high society. His mother was a Dubliner. He did all the right things, went to Princeton, took his degree, then went and spoiled it all by volunteering for Vietnam and as an enlisted man. I believe that was nineteen sixty-six. Airborne Rangers. He was discharged a sergeant and heavily decorated.”
“So what makes him so special?”
“He could have avoided Vietnam by staying at university, but he didn’t. He also enlisted in the ranks. Quite something for someone with his social standing.”
“You’re just an old snob. What happened to him after that?”
“He went to Trinity College, Dublin, to work on a doctorate. He’s a Protestant, by the way, but his mother was a devout Catholic. In August sixty-nine, he was visiting an uncle on his mother’s side, a priest in Belfast. Remember what happened? How it all started?”
“Orange mobs burning Catholics out?” she said.
“And the police not doing too much about it. The