“And still bored out of your socks. Do you remember Martin Brosnan, by the way?”

“I do so. You were bad friends with that one.”

“I had a run-in with him in Paris recently. He’ll probably turn up in London looking for me. He’ll be working for Brit intelligence.”

“The bastard.” Fahy frowned as he refilled his pipe. “Didn’t I hear some fanciful talk of how Brosnan got into Ten Downing Street as a waiter years ago and didn’t do anything about it?”

“I heard that story, too. A flight of fancy and no one would get in these days as a waiter or anything else. You know they’ve blocked the street off? The place is a fortress. No way in there, Danny.”

“Oh, there’s always a way, Sean. I was reading in a magazine the other day how a lot of French Resistance people in the Second World War were held at some Gestapo headquarters. Their cells were on the ground floor, the Gestapo on the first floor. The RAF had a fella in a Mosquito fly in at fifty feet and drop a bomb that bounced off the street and went in through the first-floor window, killing all the bloody Gestapo so the fellas downstairs got away.”

“What in the hell are you trying to say to me?” Dillon demanded.

“That I’m a great believer in the power of the bomb and the science of ballistics. You can make a bomb go anywhere if you know what you’re doing.”

“What is this?” Dillon demanded.

Angel said. “Go on, show him, Uncle Danny.”

“Show me what?” Dillon said.

Danny Fahy got up, putting another match to his pipe. “Come on, then,” and he turned and went to the door.

Fahy opened the door of the second barn and led the way in. It was enormous, oak beams rearing up to a steeply pitched roof. There was a loft stuffed with hay and reached by a ladder. There were various items of farm machinery including a tractor. There was also a fairly new Land-Rover, and an old BSA 500cc motorcycle in fine condition, up on its stand.

“This is a beauty,” Dillon said in genuine admiration.

“Bought it second-hand last year. Thought I’d renovate it to make a profit, but now I’m finished, I can’t bear to let it go. It’s as good as a BMW.” There was another vehicle in the shadows of the rear and Fahy switched on a light and a white Ford Transit van stood revealed.

“So?” Dillon said. “What’s so special?”

“You wait, Mr. Dillon,” Angel told him. “This is really something.”

Fahy said, “Not what it seems.”

There was an excited look on his face, a kind of pride as he opened the sliding door. Inside there was a battery of metal pipes, three in all, bolted to the floor, pointing up to the roof at an angle.

“Mortars, Sean, just like the lads have been using in Ulster.”

Dillon said, “You mean this thing works?”

“Hell, no, I’ve no explosives. It would work, that’s all I can say.”

“Explain it to me.”

“I’ve welded a steel platform to the floor, that’s to stand the recoil, and I’ve also welded the tubing together. That’s standard cast-iron stuff available anywhere. The electric timers are dead simple. Stuff you can buy at any do-it-yourself shop.”

“How would it work?”

“Once switched on it would give you a minute to get out of the van and run for it. The roof is cut out. That’s just stretched polythene covering the hole. You can see I’ve sprayed it the same color. It gives the mortars a clean exit. I’ve even worked out an extra little device linked to the timer that will self-destruct the van after it’s fired the mortars.”

“And where would they be?”

“Over here.” Fahy walked to a workbench. “Standard oxygen cylinders.” There were several stacked together, the bottom plates removed.

“And what would you need for those, Semtex?” Dillon asked, naming the Czechoslovakian explosive so popular with terrorists everywhere.

“I’d say about twelve pounds in each would do nicely, but that’s not easily come by over here.”

Dillon lit a cigarette and walked around the van, his face blank. “You’re a bad boy, Danny. The Movement told you to stay in deep cover.”

“Like I told you, how many years ago was that?” Fahy demanded. “A man would go crazy.”

“So you found yourself something to do?”

“It was easy, Sean. You know I was in the light engineering for years.”

Dillon stood looking at it. Angel said, “What do you think?”

“I think he’s done a good job.”

“As good as anything they’ve done in Ulster,” Fahy said.

“Maybe, but whenever they’ve been used, they’ve never been too strong on accuracy.”

“They worked like a dream in that attack on Newry police station six years ago. Killed nine coppers.”

“What about all the other times they couldn’t hit a barn door? Someone even blew himself up with one of these things in Portadown. A bit hit-and-miss.”

“Not the way I’d do it. I can plot the target on a large-scale map, have a look at the area on foot beforehand, line the van up and that’s it. Mind you, I’ve been thinking that some sort of fin welded on to the oxygen cylinders would help steady them in flight. A nice big curve and then down, and the whole world blows up. All the security in the world wouldn’t help. I mean, what good are gates if you go over them?”

“You’re talking Downing Street now?” Dillon said.

“And why not?”

“They meet at ten o’clock every morning in the Cabinet Room. What they call the War Cabinet. You’d not only get the Prime Minister, you’d get virtually the whole government.”

Fahy crossed himself. “Holy Mother of God, it would be the hit of a lifetime.”

“They’d make up songs about you, Danny,” Dillon told him. “They’d be singing about Danny Fahy in bars all over Ireland fifty years from now.”

Fahy slammed a clenched fist into his palm. “All hot air, Sean, no meaning to it without the Semtex, and like I said, that stuff’s impossible to get your hands on over here.”

“Don’t be too sure, Danny,” Dillon said. “There might be a source. Now let’s go and have a Bushmills and sort this out.”

Fahy had a large-scale map of London spread across the table and examined it with a magnifying glass. “Here would be the place,” he said. “Horse Guards Avenue, running up from the Victoria Embankment at the side of the Ministry of Defence.”

“Yes.” Dillon nodded.

“If we left the Ford on the corner with Whitehall, then as long as I had a predetermined sighting, to get my direction, I reckon the mortar bombs would go over those roofs in a bloody great curve and land smack on Ten Downing Street!” He put his pencil down beside the ruler. “I’d like to have a look, mind you.”

“And so you will,” Dillon said.

“Would it work, Mr. Dillon?” Angel demanded.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I think it really could. Ten o’clock in the morning, the whole bloody War Cabinet.” He started to laugh. “It’s beautiful, Danny, beautiful.” He grabbed the other man’s arm. “You’ll come in with me on this?”

“Of course I will.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “Big, big money, Danny. I’ll set you up for your old age. Total luxury. Spain, Greece, anywhere you want to go.” Fahy rolled up the map and Dillon said, “I’ll stay overnight. We’ll go up to London tomorrow and have a look.” He smiled and lit another cigarette. “It’s looking good, Danny. Really good. Now tell me about this airfield near here at Grimethorpe.”

“A real broken-down sort of a place. It’s only three miles from here. What would you want with Grimethorpe?”

“I told you I learned to fly in the Middle East. A good way of getting out of places fast. Now what’s the situation at this Grimethorpe place?”

“It goes way back into the past. A flying club in the thirties. Then the RAF used it as a feeder station during the Battle of Britain, so they built three hangars. Someone tried it as a flying club a few years ago. There’s a tarmac runway. Anyway, it failed. A fella called Bill Grant turned up three years ago. He has two planes there, that’s all I know. His firm is called Grant’s Air Taxis. I heard recently he was in trouble. His two mechanics had left. Business was bad.” He smiled. “There’s a recession on, Sean, and it even affects the rich.”