The driver took them to the end of the Charles de Gaulle terminal where the private planes parked. The Lear was waiting on the tarmac. There was no formality. Everything had been arranged. The driver took their cases across to where the second pilot waited.

Hernu said, “Captain, if I may presume.” He kissed Mary lightly on both cheeks. “And you, my friend.” He held out his hand. “Always remember that when you set out on a journey with revenge at the end of it, it is necessary to first dig two graves.”

“Philosophy now?” Brosnan said. “And at your time of life? Goodbye, Colonel.”

They strapped themselves into their seats, the second pilot pulled up the stairs, locked the door and went and joined his companion in the cockpit.

“Hernu is right, you know,” Mary said.

“I know he is,” Brosnan answered. “But there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“I understand, believe me, I do,” she said as the plane rolled forward.

When Ferguson was shown into the study at Number Ten, the Prime Minister was standing at the window drinking a cup of tea. He turned and smiled. “The cup that refreshes, Brigadier.”

“They always say it was tea that got us through the war, Prime Minister.”

“Well as long as it gets me through my present schedule. We’ve a meeting of the War Cabinet at ten every morning, as you know, and all the other pressing matters to do with the Gulf.”

“And the day-to-day running of the country,” Ferguson said.

“Yes, well we do our best. No one ever said politics was easy, Brigadier.” He put down the cup. “I’ve read your latest report. You think it likely the man Dillon is here somewhere in London?”

“From what he said to Brosnan, I think we must assume that, Prime Minister.”

“You’ve alerted all branches of the security services?”

“Of course, but we can’t put a face to him, you see. Oh, there’s the description. Small, fair haired and so on, but as Brosnan says, he’ll look entirely different by now.”

“It’s been suggested to me that perhaps some press coverage might be useful.”

Ferguson said, “Well, it’s a thought, but I doubt it would achieve anything. What could they say? In furtherance of an enquiry the police would like to contact a man named Sean Dillon who isn’t called that anymore? As regards a description, we don’t know what he looks like and if we did, he wouldn’t look like that anyway.”

“My goodness, you carried that off beautifully, Brigadier.” The Prime Minister roared with laughter.

“Of course there could be more lurid headlines. IRA jackal stalks the Prime Minister.”

“No, I’m not having any of that nonsense,” the Prime Minister said firmly. “By the way, as regards the suggestion that Saddam Hussein might be behind this affair, I must tell you your other colleagues in the Intelligence Services disagree. They are firmly of the opinion this is an IRA matter, and I must tell you that is how they are pursuing it.”

“Well, if Special Branch think they’ll find him by visiting Irish pubs in Kilburn, that’s their privilege.”

There was a knock at the door, an aide came in. “We’re due at the Savoy in fifteen minutes, Prime Minister.”

John Major smiled with great charm. “Another of those interminable luncheons, Brigadier. Prawn cocktail to start…”

“And chicken salad to follow,” Ferguson said.

“Find him, Brigadier,” the Prime Minister told him. “Find him for me,” and the aide showed Ferguson out.

Tania, with good news for Dillon, knew there was no point in calling at the hotel before two, so she went to her flat. As she was looking for her key in her handbag Gordon Brown crossed the road.

“I was hoping I might catch you,” he said.

“For God’s sake, Gordon, you must be crazy.”

“And what happens when something important comes up and you need to know? Can’t wait for you to get in touch. It might be too late, so I’d better come in, hadn’t I?”

“You can’t. I’m due back at the Embassy in thirty minutes. I’ll have a drink with you, that’s all.”

She turned and walked down to the pub on the corner before he could argue. They sat in a corner of the snug pub which was empty, aware of the noise from the main bar. Brown had a beer and Tania a vodka and lime.

“What have you got for me?” she asked.

“Shouldn’t the question be the other way about?” She got up at once and he put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. Don’t go.”

“Then behave yourself.” She sat down again. “Now get on with it.”

“Ferguson had a meeting with the Prime Minister just before twelve. He was back in the office at twelve-thirty before I finished the first half of my shift. He dictated a report to Alice Johnson, she’s one of the confidential typists who works with me. The report was for the file.”

“Did you get a copy?”

“No, but I did the same as last time. Took it along to his office for her and read it on the way. Captain Tanner stayed in Paris with Brosnan for the funeral of a French woman.”

“Anne-Marie Audin?” she prompted him.

“They’re flying in today. Brosnan has promised full cooperation. Oh, all the other branches of the Intelligence Services have been notified about Dillon. No newspaper coverage on the P.M.’s instructions. The impression I got was he’s told Ferguson to get on with it.”

“Good,” she said. “Very good, but you must stay on the case, Gordon. I have to go.”

She started to get up and he caught her wrist. “I saw you last night, about eleven it was, coming back to your flat with a man.”

“You were watching my flat?”

“I often do on my way home.”

Her anger was very real, but she restrained it. “Then if you were there you’ll know that the gentleman in question, a colleague from the Embassy, didn’t come in. He simply escorted me home. Now let me go, Gordon.”

She pulled free and walked out and Brown, thoroughly depressed, went to the bar and ordered another beer.

When she knocked on the door of Dillon’s room just after two, he opened it at once. She brushed past him and went inside.

“You look pleased with yourself,” he said.

“I should be.”

Dillon lit a cigarette. “Go on, tell me.”

“First, I’ve had words with my mole at Group Four. Ferguson’s just been to see the Prime Minister. They believe you’re here and all branches of Intelligence have been notified. Brosnan and the Tanner woman are coming in from Paris. Brosnan’s offered full cooperation.”

“And Ferguson?”

“The Prime Minister said no press publicity. Just told him to go all out to get you.”

“It’s nice to be wanted.”

“Second.” She opened her handbag and took out a passport-style booklet. “One pilot’s license as issued by the Civil Aviation Authority to one Peter Hilton.”

“That’s bloody marvelous,” Dillon said and took it from her.

“Yes, the man who does this kind of thing pulled out all the stops. I told him all your requirements. He said he’d give you a commercial license. Apparently you’re also an instructor.”

Dillon checked his photo and rifled through the pages. “Excellent. Couldn’t be better.”

“And that’s not the end,” she said. “You wanted to know the whereabouts of one Daniel Maurice Fahy?”

“You’ve found him?”

“That’s right, but he doesn’t live in London. I’ve brought you a road map.” She unfolded it. “He has a farm here at a place called Cadge End in Sussex. It’s twenty-five to thirty miles from London. You take the road through Dorking toward Horsham, then head into the wilds.”

“How do you know all this?”

“The operative I put on the job managed to trace him late yesterday afternoon. By the time he’d looked the place over, then dropped into the pub in the local village to make a few enquiries, it was very late. He didn’t get back to London until after midnight. I got his report this morning.”