“And?”

“He says the farm is very out of the way near a river called the Arun. Marsh country. The village is called Doxley. The farm is a mile south of it. There’s a signpost.”

“He is efficient, your man.”

“Well, he’s young and trying to prove himself. From what he heard in the pub, Fahy runs a few sheep and dabbles in agricultural machinery.”

Dillon nodded. “That makes sense.”

“One thing that might come as a surprise. He has a girl staying with him, his grandniece, it seems. My man saw her.”

“And what did he say?”

“That she came into the pub for some bottles of beer. About twenty. Angel, they called her, Angel Fahy. He said she looked like a peasant.”

“Wonderful.” He got up and reached for his jacket. “I must get down there right away. Do you have a car?”

“Yes, but it’s only a Mini. Easier parking in London.”

“No problem. As you said, thirty miles at the most. I can borrow it, then?”

“Of course. It’s in the garage at the end of my street. I’ll show you.”

He put on his trenchcoat, opened the briefcase, took out the Walther, rammed a clip in the bolt and put it in his left-hand pocket. The silencer he put in the right. “Just in case,” he said, and they went out.

The car was in fact a Mini-Cooper, which meant performance, jet black with a gold trim. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll get moving.”

He got behind the wheel and she said, “What’s so important about Fahy?”

“He’s an engineer who can turn his hand to anything, a bomb maker of genius, and he’s been in deep cover for years. He helped me when I last operated here in eighty-one, helped me a lot. It also helps that he was my father’s second cousin. I knew him when I was a kid over here. You haven’t mentioned the cash from Aroun, by the way.”

“I’ve to pick it up this evening at six. All very dramatic. A Mercedes stops at the corner of Brancaster Street and Town Drive. That’s not far from here. I say, ‘It’s cold, even for this time of the year,’ and the driver hands me a briefcase.”

“God help us, he must have been seeing too much television,” Dillon said. “I’ll be in touch,” and he drove away.

Ferguson had stopped off at his office at the Ministry of Defence after Downing Street to bring the report on the Dillon affair file up to date and clear his desk generally. As always, he preferred to work at the flat, so he returned to Cavendish Square, had Kim prepare him a late lunch of scrambled eggs and bacon, and was browsing through his Times when the doorbell rang. A moment later Kim showed in Mary Tanner and Brosnan.

“My dear Martin.” Ferguson got up and shook hands. “So here we are again.”

“So it would seem,” Brosnan said.

“Everything go off all right at the funeral?” Ferguson asked.

“As funerals go, it went,” Brosnan said harshly and lit a cigarette. “So where are we? What’s happening?”

“I’ve seen the Prime Minister again. There’s to be no press publicity.”

“I agree with him there,” Brosnan said. “It would be pointless.”

“All relevant intelligence agencies, plus Special Branch, of course, have been notified. They’ll do what they can.”

“Which isn’t very much,” Brosnan said.

“Another point,” Mary put in. “I know he’s threatened the Prime Minister, but we don’t have a clue what he intends or when. He could be up to something this very evening for all we know.”

Brosnan shook his head. “No, I think there’ll be more to it than that. These things take time. I should know.”

“So where will you start?” Ferguson asked.

“With my old friend Harry Flood. When Dillon was here in eighty-one he probably used underworld contacts to supply his needs. Harry may be able to dig something out.”

“And if not?”

“Then I’ll borrow that Lear jet of yours again, fly to Dublin and have words with Liam Devlin.”

“Ah, yes,” Ferguson said. “Who better?”

“When Dillon went to London in nineteen eighty-one he must have been under someone’s orders. If Devlin could find out who, that could be a lead to all sorts.”

“Sounds logical to me. So you’ll see Flood tonight?”

“I think so.”

“Where are you staying?”

“With me,” Mary said.

“At Lowndes Square?” Ferguson’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”

“Come on, Brigadier, don’t be an old fuddy-duddy. I’ve got four bedrooms remember, each with its own bathroom, and Professor Brosnan can have one with a lock on the inside of his door.”

Brosnan laughed. “Come on, let’s get out of here. See you later, Brigadier.”

They used Ferguson’s car. She closed the sliding window between them and the driver and said, “Don’t you think you’d better ring your friend, let him know you’d like to see him?”

“I suppose so. I’ll need to check his number.”

She took a notebook from her handbag. “I have it here. It’s ex-directory. There you go. Cable Wharf. That’s in Wapping.”

“Very efficient.”

“And here’s a phone.”

She handed him the car phone. “You do like to be in charge,” he said and dialed the number.

It was Mordecai Fletcher who answered. Brosnan said, “Harry Flood, please.”

“Who wants him?”

“Martin Brosnan.”

“The Professor? This is Mordecai. We haven’t heard from you for what-three or four years? Christ, but he’s going to be pleased.”

A moment later a voice said, “Martin?”

“Harry?”

“I don’t believe it. You’ve come back to haunt me, you bastard.”

EIGHT

FOR DILLON IN the Mini-Cooper, the run from London went easily enough. Although there was a light covering of snow on the fields and hedgerows, the roads were perfectly clear and not particularly busy. He was in Dorking within half an hour. He passed straight through and continued toward Horsham, finally pulling into a petrol station about five miles outside.

As the attendant was topping up the tank Dillon got his road map out. “Place called Doxley, you know it?”

“Half a mile up the road on your right a signpost says Grimethorpe. That’s the airfield, but before you get there you’ll see a sign to Doxley.”

“So it’s not far from here?”

“Three miles maybe, but it might as well be the end of the world.” The attendant chuckled as he took the notes Dillon gave him. “Not much there, mister.”

“Thought I’d take a look. Friend told me there might be a weekend cottage going.”

“If there is, I haven’t heard of it.”

Dillon drove away, came to the Grimethorpe sign within a few minutes, followed the narrow road and found the Doxley sign as the garage man had indicated. The road was even narrower, high banks blocking the view until he came to the brow of a small hill and looked across a desolate landscape, powdered with snow. There was the occasional small wood, a scattering of hedged fields and then flat marshland drifting toward a river, which had to be the Arun. Beside it, perhaps a mile away, he saw houses, twelve or fifteen, with red pantiled roofs, and there was a small church, obviously Doxley. He started down the hill to the wooded valley below and as he came to it, saw a five-barred gate standing open and a decaying wooden sign with the legend Cadge End Farm.

The track led through the wood and brought him almost at once to a farm complex. There were a few chickens running here and there, a house and two large barns linked to it so that the whole enclosed a courtyard. It looked incredibly rundown, as if nothing had been done to it for years, but then, as Dillon knew, many country people preferred to live like that. He got out of the Mini and crossed to the front door, knocked and tried to open it. It was locked. He turned and went to the first barn. Its old wooden doors stood open. There was a Morris van in there and a Ford car jacked up on bricks, no wheels, agricultural implements all over the place.