“I’m sorry, Sean, I was so shocked. I mean, it’s been years.”

“Oh, I’ve had you in mind always, Danny.”

Dillon lit a cigarette, and Malone’s smile was ghastly. “So you work for Ferguson and the Prime Minister now.”

“Oh, you know me, always the practical one. It got me out of a Serb prison. I was glad to hear they’d released you, Danny. Lucky for you the Peace Process came along when it did.”

Malone was terrified, realizing just how stupid he’d been to get involved in the way he had, took a deep breath, and fought to keep control.

“Was there something you wanted, Sean?”

“Oh, just a word, Danny. My friend Billy Salter left his Range Rover outside the Dark Man at Wapping tonight. Two Irish guys came along, one of whom stuck a flick knife in two tires. They cleared off, laughing and saying it would give me and Billy something to think about.”

Dillon reached under his coat, produced a Walther from his rear waistband, laid it on the table and lit another cigarette. “Any ideas, Danny, anyone in town from over the water?”

And Malone gave the performance of his life. “From over the water, Sean? You know yourself there’s been nothing in London since the Peace Process. We all got early release. Take me. Fifteen years, but I only served five and the full sentence is still on the books. Any kind of involvement and I’m back inside to serve my full time. Do you think I’m mad? Who would be that crazy?”

Dillon said, “No, I suppose they’d have to be very stupid. I mean, what about that wife of yours, Jean? You wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt her.”

“She’s hurting enough, Sean. Breast cancer.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Dillon said, and meant it. He took a card from his pocket and dropped it on the table. “My mobile number is on there. Anything comes up, let me know.”

He put the Walther back in his waistband and went out.

Malone went into the small toilet next door and was sick. He rinsed his face, then went back, found a bottle of whiskey and poured a large one. He was sweating and desperate to keep control. Boredom, a yearning for some action again, had made him respond to Kelly’s phone call in the way he had. So foolish. Dillon had believed him, that was the important thing. But what to do about Kelly? If he left it, there was the chance that whatever the job was would fail anyway. On the other hand, it struck him that if he told Kelly of Dillon’s appearance, it might be enough to make him abort the mission. He took a deep breath, picked up the phone and called Kelly at China Wharf.

“And you’re sure, absolutely sure, that Dillon bought your performance?”

“It would have got me work at the National Theatre. The business about my wife helped.”

“Yes, that was a good ploy.”

“Not a ploy, Dermot, true.”

“Dammit, man, I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. What does is that I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t want to. On the other hand, the Dark Man is only a quarter of a mile away from China Wharf on the riverfront. If you want the two Irishmen who attended to Billy Salter’s Range Rover, I think you know who they are, but it’s your problem, not mine. I’m out of the whole damn business. I’ve got a nice little villa in Spain where my wife is right now, resting in the sun, and I think I’ll leave my bar staff in charge and go and join her.”

He put the phone down, opened the office safe, found his passport, a checkbook and two thousand in mad money and phoned for a taxi to Heathrow. Then he ran upstairs and packed.

Fahy was first in through the door over at China Wharf, was tripped by Tod, went headfirst on his hands and knees, and received a severe kicking in the ribs from Kelly.

“Mind his face,” Tod said, holding Regan still, an arm up his back.

At the appropriate moment, he released Regan and shoved him down to receive the same treatment. Finally, Tod heaved them to their feet and Kelly explained exactly what they’d done.

“Stupid, the pair of you, not a brain between you, and now I’ve lost Danny Malone.” He slapped each one across the face. “You’ve got your orders, so stick to them. Do you understand me or do you want to go off the end of China Wharf into the Thames?”

They didn’t have a word to say, he was a figure of such menace, and his ferocious reputation preceded him.

Tod said, “Go on, get out of it and go to bed.” He turned to Kelly as they went out. “Are we still on?”

“Of course we are. There’s no reason for Sean to suspect anything. Even Malone doesn’t know why we’re here, so tomorrow we’ll go for a run in the country. Let’s have a drink on it.”

At Huntley Hall, the meal in the old oak-paneled room had been impressive by any standards. All of Selim’s dietary requirements had been taken care of, although Ferguson had worked his way through roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings. Dalton and Miller acted as waiters, standing quiet and watchful, between the courses. Ferguson had drunk Burgundy, Selim mineral water.

Ferguson said, “Was the meal satisfactory?”

“Excellent.”

“You can thank the Army Catering Corps.”

“I’m impressed. There’s not much sign of staff.”

“Oh, they’re there in their unobtrusive way. Let’s go into the hall.”

The hall was impressive, a floor of stone flags scattered with rugs, deep comfortable sofas, a log fire burning on a wide hearth. To one side, French windows with heavy curtains looked out over a terrace with a balustrade.

Selim sat in a wing-backed chair. “You do very well.”

“Yes, it’s a nice place.” Ferguson turned to Miller. “I’ll have a port if you don’t mind, Staff Sergeant, a large one.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Miller went to a sideboard to get it and Ferguson sat opposite Selim. “I won’t bother to offer you one.”

“There was a time when I would have accepted with pleasure. In those days I didn’t take my religion seriously. Public school, Cambridge and all that, and then, a few years ago, I changed.”

“I can see how awkward that would have been for you.”

“That I turned to Islam? Not at all. I’m British, General Ferguson, but also a Muslim. I have no difficulty with that. These islands have been home to an infinite variety of people since the Romans occupied them two thousand years ago.”

“I suppose you’re right. After all, I’m half Scots, half Irish.” Ferguson finished his port and stood. “Let’s have a breath of air on the terrace.”

“That would be nice.”

Dalton pressed a button and the French windows opened. Ferguson led the way outside. The air was fresh and damp, the shrubbery dense on the other side of the lawn, trees beyond. There were half a dozen garden statues out there, Roman figures revealed by security lights.

“We had a good start today,” Ferguson said. “Our chat about Ashimov and Belov was very interesting.”

“In a strange sort of way, Ashimov is angry with the world, and this manifests itself in his willingness to kill people. Belov simply wants to control the world. Power, ultimate power, is everything to him. He is someone to beware of much more than me, General.”

“You’re important enough. The list of organizations you’ve mentioned and the coded computer details of the young men that have been sent to Al Qa’eda training camps, that’ll all be extremely helpful.”

“May Allah forgive me.”

It was then that Ferguson came to the important part. “You could be of enormous use to us, you know – not just now, but in the future.”

“In betraying my own people?”

“What a shame,” Ferguson said. “You’ve spoiled it. I thought you were British.”

Selim groaned. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m speaking on behalf of my religion. I’m British, but a Muslim. In Tudor times, many people were Catholics at a time when this was forbidden, but still English. In fact, when some of them were trained for the priesthood in Rome…”