“Hello,” he said. “This is unexpected.”

She took the glass of Scotch and emptied it into the potted plant that stood by the door. “That won’t do you any good at all.”

“If you say so. What do you want?”

“I thought you’d be alone. I didn’t think that was a good idea. Ferguson spoke to you before he left?”

“Yes, he said you were staying over. Suggested we followed him tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes, well, that doesn’t take care of tonight. I expect you haven’t eaten a thing all day, so I suggest we go out for a meal, and don’t start saying no.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Captain.” He saluted.

“Don’t fool around. There must be somewhere close by that you like.”

“There is indeed. Let me get a coat and I’ll be right with you.”

It was a typical little side-street bistro, simple and unpretentious, booths to give privacy and cooking smells from the kitchen that were out of this world. Brosnan ordered champagne.

“Krug?” she said when the bottle came.

“They know me here.”

“Always champagne with you?”

“I was shot in the stomach years ago. It gave me problems. The doctors said no spirits under any circumstances, no red wine. Champagne was okay. Did you notice the name of this place?”

“ La Belle Aurore.”

“Same as the café in Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart? Ingrid Bergman?” He raised his glass. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

They sat there in companionable silence for a while and then she said, “Can we talk business?”

“Why not? What do you have in mind?”

“What happens next? I mean, Dillon just fades into the woodwork, you said that yourself. How on earth do you hope to find him?”

“One weakness,” Brosnan said. “He won’t go near any IRA contacts for fear of betrayal. That leaves him with only one choice. The usual one he makes. The underworld. Anything he needs-weaponry, explosives, even physical help-he’ll go to the obvious place and you know where that is?”

“The East End of London?”

“Yes, just about as romantic as Little Italy in New York or the Bronx. The Kray brothers, the nearest thing England ever had to cinema gangsters, the Richardson gang. Do you know much about the East End?”

“I thought all that was history?”

“Not at all. A lot of the big men, the governors as they call them, have gone legitimate to a certain degree, but all the old-fashioned crimes-hold-ups, banks, security vans-are committed by roughly the same group. All family men, who just look upon it as business, but they’ll shoot you if you get in the way.”

“How nice.”

“Everyone knows who they are, including the police. It’s in that fraternity Dillon will look for help.”

“Forgive me,” she said. “But that must be rather a close-knit community.”

“You’re absolutely right, but as it happens, I’ve got what you might call the entrée.”

“And how on earth do you have that?”

He poured her another glass of champagne. “Back in Vietnam in nineteen sixty-eight, during my wild and foolish youth, I was a paratrooper, Airborne Rangers. I formed part of a Special Forces detachment to operate in Cambodia, entirely illegally, I might add. It was recruited from all branches of the services. People with specialist qualifications. We even had a few Marines and that’s how I met Harry Flood.”

“Harry Flood?” she said and frowned. “For some reason, that name’s familiar.”

“Could be. I’ll explain. Harry’s the same age as me. Born in Brooklyn. His mother died when he was born. He grew up with his father, who died when Harry was eighteen. He joined the Marines for something to do, went to, Nam, which is where I met him.” He laughed. “I’ll never forget the first time. Up to our necks in a stinking swamp in the Mekong Delta.”

“He sounds quite interesting.”

“Oh, that and more. Silver Star, Navy Cross. In sixty-nine when I was getting out, Harry still had a year of his enlistment to do. They posted him to London. Embassy Guard duty. He was a sergeant then and that’s when it happened.”

“What did?”

“He met a girl at the old Lyceum Ballroom one night, a girl called Jean Dark. Just a nice, pretty twenty-year-old in a cotton frock, only there was one difference. The Dark family were gangsters, what they call in the East End real villains. Her old man had his own little empire down by the river, was in his own way as famous as the Kray brothers. He died later that year.”

“What happened?” She was totally fascinated.

“Jean’s mother tried to take over. Ma Dark, everyone called her. There were differences. Rival gangs. That sort of thing. Harry and Jean got married, he took his papers in London, stayed on and just got sucked in. Sorted the rivals out and so on.”

“You mean he became a gangster?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, yes, but more than that, much more. He became one of the biggest governors in the East End of London.”

“My God, now I remember. He has all those casinos. He’s the man doing all that riverside development on the Thames.”

“That’s right. Jean died of cancer about five or six years ago. Her mother died ages before that. He just carried on.”

“Is he British now?”

“No, never gave up his American nationality. The authorities could never toss him out because he has no criminal record. Never served a single day in jail.”

“And he’s still a gangster?”

“That depends on your definition of the term. There’s plenty he got away with, or his people did, in the old days. What you might call old-fashioned crime.”

“Oh, you mean nothing nasty like drugs or prostitution? Just armed robbery, protection, that sort of thing?”

“Don’t be bitter. He has the casinos, business interests in electronics and property development. He owns half of Wapping. Nearly all the river frontage. He’s extremely legitimate.”

“And still a gangster?”

“Let’s say, he’s still the governor to a lot of East Enders. The Yank, that’s what they call him. You’ll like him.”

“Will I?” She looked surprised. “And when are we going to meet?”

“As soon as I can arrange it. Anything that moves in the East End and Harry or his people know about it. If anyone can help me catch Sean Dillon, he can.” The waiter appeared and placed bowls of French onion soup before them. “Good,” he said. “Now let’s eat, I’m starving.”

Harry Flood crouched in one corner of the pit, arms folded to conserve his body heat. He was naked to the waist, barefoot, clad only in a pair of camouflage pants. The pit was only a few feet square and rain poured down relentlessly through the bamboo grid high above his head. Sometimes the Vietcong would peer down at him, visitors being shown the Yankee dog who squatted in his own foulness, although he’d long since grown used to the stench.

It seemed as if he’d been there for ever and time no longer had any meaning. He had never felt such total despair. It was raining faster now, pouring over the edge of the pit in a kind of waterfall, the water rising rapidly. He was on his feet and yet suddenly it was up to his chest and he was struggling. It poured over his head relentlessly, and he no longer had a footing and struggled and kicked to keep afloat, fighting for breath, clawing at the side of the pit. Suddenly a hand grabbed his, a strong hand, and it pulled him up through the water and he started to breathe again.

He came awake with a start and sat upright. He’d had that dream for years on and off ever since Vietnam, and that was a hell of a long time ago. It usually ended with him drowning. The hand pulling him out was something new.

He reached for his watch. It was almost ten. He always had a nap early evening before visiting one of the clubs later, but this time he’d overslept. He put his watch on, hurried into the bathroom, and had a quick shower. There was gray in his black hair now, he noticed that as he shaved.