“Don’t shoot, for God’s sake,” the companion called in as Irish a voice as you could wish for, but as Billy hesitated, the Irishman’s hand swung up to fire, and it was Dillon who finished him off.

“Don’t do that again, Billy. It never pays.”

“Christ, I thought he was Irish.” Billy went down, felt in an inside pocket and produced a passport, brown, with the Gold Harp of Ireland on it and a few papers.

“Bring them with you.” Dillon turned and Rawan said, “Damn you, damn you all and damn this stinking country, Jack.” She ran down the steps to the jetty, untied the line on the Eagle and cast off. Savage clattered down the steps after her and jumped for the Eagle as it drifted out. “Rawan,” he called. “Just listen.”

“Not anymore,” she said and pressed the starter.

It rattled a couple of times and then there was a huge explosion and the boat simply came apart.

Billy was hurled backward over a cane chair. Dillon pulled him up. “Let’s get out of it and fast. The military will be here in no time. We’ll take that Land Rover Savage used to bring us from the airport. Our stuff is still on board.”

They were out in seconds and into the Land Rover, Billy at the wheel, and moved into the main street as two Scimitars came the opposite way. A sizable crowd was already assembling, but the confusion of it helped them to make a rapid exit.

Dillon called Roper, who answered at once. “Just listen,” Dillon said and gave him an account.

“My God, you have been in action. Why does this sort of thing always reach out to touch you, Dillon?”

“Just tell Robson to alert the boys to get us out of here. God knows where to. The mad side of me wants to pursue them to Hazar, but I don’t think the General would approve.”

“No, he damn well wouldn’t,” Ferguson cut in. “Outrageous, finding my plane has been hijacked. Get yourselves back here immediately.”

AT BAGHDAD AIRPORT, they were admitted through a discreet security entrance, and found Lacey and Robson waiting in a Jeep.

“Just follow,” Lacey called to Billy, which he did and found the Gulf-stream waiting.

“Off you go,” Robson said. “We prefer to think of you as never having been here.”

They went up the steps and Lacey locked the door. “Thanks a lot, you bastards. The General was not exactly thrilled when he tried to book his personal plane for the flight from Paris and found it elsewhere. What in the hell were you playing at?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Dillon said. “Trying to win the war.”

DILLON GOT HIS FLASK OUT as they climbed, but it was empty. He waited until they leveled off at forty thousand feet and peered out the window.

“Good-bye to Baghdad, city of romance, intrigue and adventure.”

“Yes, everything you can do without,” Billy said. “I can’t figure it. So the Rawan bird is fed up with Jack and spills her guts to old Rashid-and he responds by having someone arrange to have the launch blown up?”

“He was after the three of us-Savage, you and me. It was just too bad about her.”

“And what about the car bomb?”

“A daily risk. A man like him would have more enemies than he could count.”

Dillon got up and went to the rear of the cockpit, opened the first-aid drawer and helped himself to the half bottle of brandy it contained.

“Purely medicinal,” he told Parry, who had glanced over his shoulder.

“Always is with you.”

When Dillon returned to his seat, he found Billy examining the Irish passport taken from the man he had killed in the bar.

“Terence O’Malley, age forty-two, an address in Bangor, Northern Ireland.”

“A nice place.” Dillon opened the brandy and poured some into a plastic cup. “What else does it tell us?”

“Apparently, he’s a schoolmaster.”

“I’d bet he’s not been that for a long time.”

“IRA?”

“I’d say so. We know many old hands have moved into organized crime. It’s a very small step from what they were doing into the world of the mercenary, Billy. Wild Geese, that’s what they’ve always been called, in Ireland or out of it. If you’ve been a Provo for all those years, it’s difficult to turn your hand to something else when it’s all over. What have you got in there?”

“A monthly rental bill from Dublin, a letter from a man named Tom, a please-come-home letter, signed ‘your loving mother, Rose.’ Address in Bangor. Cash, five one-hundred-dollar bills, American.” He looked up. “What do we do? About his mother, I mean?”

“I’d let it go, Billy. If she knows nothing, then it leaves her hope. Now I’m going to catch a little sleep,” and he dropped his seat.

ON THE ROAD SOUTH from Baghdad to Kuwait, it was a macabre situation, a landscape of burned-out tanks and trucks and civilian vehicles dating back to the original Gulf War. The Highway of Death they had called it, a landscape that also contained the remains of many thousands of refugees. And yet all the way along the highway at suitable intervals, there were gas stations open twenty-four hours, for that was the one thing they weren’t short of, and places you could get coffee and short-order cooking, and the telephones worked.

In the first Land Rover were Hussein’s three henchmen, armed to the teeth, veterans of the streets, men who knew their business, which was proved by the fact that they were still here.

In the rear was Hussein, Sara and Jasmine, another cousin of Sara’s, who was devoted to her. Fifty miles out of Baghdad, the little convoy had pulled up in the car park of a gas station. Hussein received a call on his satellite phone from the man he knew only as the Broker. He had been allocated to him by al-Qaeda for three years now. They spoke on occasion in Arabic, but in English when appropriate, and on those occasions the Broker sounded like an Oxford professor.

Hussein answered at once. “Where are you?” said the voice. Hussein told him. “Good, you were in an impossible situation. Other contacts covered events for me. One of Rashid’s men placed the bomb in the Savage people’s boat.”

“And Rashid himself?”

“It was a local Sunni group who got him. An old score. How has Sara taken it?”

He sounded strangely paternalistic and yet there was a certain concern in his voice.

“I’m just about to tell her, but I’ve further information. The woman who told Rashid of the kidnap attempt said the men involved are called Dillon and Salter. Are they familiar to you?”

“No, but they soon will be. I’ll call you when I know more. Take care of Sara. I’ve made all the arrangements in Kuwait. A Hawk. You’ll enjoy flying that.”

WHEN HUSSEIN RETURNED to the group, they were waiting.

“You could have gone for coffee and a bite to eat,” he said.

“Not in my leg irons, cousin. Must I endure further humiliation?”

And he didn’t hesitate, extracted no false promises. “Forgive me, cousin, so much has happened.” He produced a key and unlocked the chains, dropping them over the seat, then said, “I have grave news from Baghdad.”

His words lingered, his people waited, so used to bad news they knew this must be special, and Hussein put an arm around Sara’s shoulders. “My uncle, Sara’s grandfather, has been taken from us at the villa. It was a car bomb, as he was leaving in his Mercedes.”

Jasmine gave a short wail, then started to sob. One of the men, Hassim, said, “Sunnis?”

“It would appear so.”

“May they rot in hell,” Hamid joined in. “Cursed for a thousand years.”

“Two thousand,” said Khazid.