“Dermot and Tod? That would be as in Kelly and Murphy,” Roper said. “Which means that you two idiots are Regan and Fahy.”

“And how would you be knowing that?” Regan demanded.

“Because you’re thick and stupid. You think we don’t know all about you? You work for Ashimov, and that means you work for Josef Belov. Where’s Belov now? Drumore Place? Does he know you’re here?”

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Fahy said. “Too clever for your own good. We’ll have to do something about that,” and he took the Browning from his pocket.

13

At that precise moment in time, Kelly and Tod were moving through Witch Wood and paused at the iron grille in the thicket. They both wore hooded anoraks against the rain. Dermot had phoned Smith from the trailer, had told him to do the return flight to Dunkley at once. Smith had been unable to conceal his reluctance, but had soon seen the error of his ways.

Kelly and Tod lit cigarettes. “Well, this is it,” Tod said. “This is where the luck comes in.”

“Oh, you always need that.”

“What about Fahy and Regan, or Ashimov, for that matter?” Tod asked.

“Later,” Kelly said, “when we’ve got the good news. Now let’s get it done.”

He pulled up the iron grille, went down the ladder and Tod dropped the weapon bag down and went after him.

A short while later, at the end of the tunnel, they paused and opened the weapons bag. Tod produced an AK and a silencer and passed them to Kelly, took out another for himself. Kelly went up the ladder, opened the grille and exited, and Tod followed him. They moved through the dense foliage of the copse and crouched behind the Roman statues. It was quiet, only the occasional bird calling, and the rain hissed down steadily.

“Come on,” Kelly said. “Make my day.”

“That was a movie,” Tod murmured. “This could take more patience, so be patient.”

In the sitting room, Ferguson and Selim were having tea at the end of an exhausting session. Dalton and Miller stood watchful as usual, as the two men talked.

“Open the French windows, Staff Sergeant,” Ferguson said to Dalton. “Let’s have a breath of air.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Dalton pressed the button and the windows opened. “I like it,” Selim said. “The smell of the rain in the countryside, the sound of it falling through the trees.”

“I know what you mean,” Ferguson said, and hesitated. “You know, Doctor, you obviously have a genuine love of your native land. Do you regret having been born in London?”

“No, I love the damn place.” He laughed as he got to his feet. “I’m remembering something Mr. Dillon said to me. That I should remember there are mosques all over London.”

He moved to the open windows, and Ferguson joined him. “Then what were you thinking of?”

“There is a passage in the Koran, General, that says one sword is worth ten thousand words. Perhaps that is what I was thinking of.”

And at that moment, Kelly shot him between the eyes, fragmenting the back of his skull. As the body hurtled back, bouncing against Ferguson, the General leaned over slightly to catch it and Tod Murphy’s bullet went askew, slicing Ferguson across the left shoulder. He sank to the floor, clutching Selim, and Dalton and Miller darted past, each drawing a Beretta and firing blindly into the woods, but Kelly and Tod were already working their way back through the copse and dropping down through the grille.

“I got him,” Kelly said. “Clear in my sight, right between the eyes.”

They stowed the rifles in the bag and hurried along the tunnel. “Not Ferguson,” Tod said. “I hit him, that’s a fact, but he moved at the last minute. I think I clipped his shoulder.”

“Never mind, it’s a grand day’s work, that’s the truth of it,” Kelly said. “Come on, let’s get out of here and make for Dunkley and that Navajo. We’ve made our bonus for our Russian friends on this one. Belov will pay us in gold bars.”

They were back at the village in fifteen minutes, put their belongings together and stowed them in the Transit. Tod went to the kiosk by the fuel pumps and found Betty.

He got his wallet out. “I’ve just had a phone call. We’re needed in London, like yesterday.”

“That’s a shame,” she said.

“What do I owe you?”

She told him, and he paid her. “It’s a smashing place, and we’ll be back.”

He jumped in the Transit, got behind the wheel and drove away. Kelly was on a high, produced a bottle of whiskey and swallowed. “Jesus, but we did it.” He got his mobile out. “I’ll ring Fahy, tell him that he and Regan should move it.”

He tapped out the number, and when it connected, said, “It’s Dermot, Brendan.”

“And it’s Dillon here, you bastard, what do you think about that?”

At Roper’s place, after Fahy had drawn the Browning from his pocket, things had not gone as he and Regan had expected. Roper hadn’t seemed to care, had stayed incredibly calm.

“What do I get, summary execution, IRA-style? You gentlemen have tried to shoot me and blow me up many times, and I’m still here. I need a smoke.”

He took the carton of Marlboros from the side pocket of his wheelchair, pulled a pack out and extracted a cigarette. “Anyone got a light?” he asked, as he replaced the pack in the side pocket, only this time when his hand came out, it clutched a Walther, which he jammed against Fahy’s knee and pulled the trigger. Fahy cried out and fell back, dropping his Browning.

At the same moment, Dillon’s voice echoed over the voice box. “Roper, it’s me.”

Regan, confused, stood over Fahy, who was being noisy.

Roper called, “They’re here, Sean, one down, one to get.” He pressed the electronic door button and raised his Walther to Regan, who ducked out into the corridor and ran for the rear of the house.

Dillon burst in, gun in hand, and found Fahy groaning, Roper leaning over him. “There was Regan, Sean, and he cleared off through the kitchen.”

“Call Rosedene,” Dillon said. “Get the paramedics in. I’ll be back.”

He got to the front door and saw Regan hurrying down the pavement. Regan glanced over his shoulder and started to run. Dillon went after him, past the corner shop. Regan kept running headlong, scattering a few people on the pavement, then lurched into the main road as a red London double-decker bus came along and bounced him into the air.

Traffic came to a halt, and people milled around as the driver got out of the bus. A police car turned out of the traffic stream and eased beside the bus. Dillon paused and listened, saw one of the policemen drop to one knee and examine Regan. He shook his head.

“He’s dead.”

The driver was shocked. “It wasn’t my fault.”

More than one person called out, “That’s right. He ran into the road, head down.”

Dillon turned discreetly and walked away.

When he rejoined Roper, he found him holding the Walther on Fahy, who was clutching his trousered knee with both hands, groaning. Dillon went into the kitchen, found a couple of towels, went back, knelt and tied them tightly around Fahy’s knee.

“You always were a stupid bastard, Brendan, so stop moaning and listen. We use a private clinic called Rosedene. They’re on their way, so you won’t bleed to death. However, this isn’t a public hospital. It’s high security, so you belong to Ferguson now. Understand?”

“Yes,” Fahy moaned.

“Play ball and you could stay out of prison. You understand that, too?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me the whole story, and make it quick or I might put one in the other knee.”

And talk Fahy did. It was just as he finished that the mobile in his pocket sounded.

“It’s Dermot, Brendan.”

“And it’s Dillon here, you bastard, what do you think about that? Regan’s dead and Fahy’s in a poor way. He’s spilled his guts, too. I know everything.”