“Why not?” Dillon said.

Grant went into the kitchen at the far end of the Nissen hut. They heard him filling a kettle. Dillon put a finger to his lips, made a face at Angel and crossed to the charts on the desk. He went through them quickly, found the one for the general English Channel area and the French coast. Angel stood beside him watching as he traced his finger along the Normandy coast. He found Cherbourg and moved south. There it was, Saint-Denis, with the landing strip clearly marked, and he pushed the charts back together. Grant in the kitchen had been watching through the half-open door. As the kettle boiled, he quickly made coffee in three mugs and took them in.

“Is this weather giving you much trouble?” Dillon said. “The snow?”

“It will if it really starts to stick,” Grant said. “It could make it difficult for that grass runway at Land’s End.”

“We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed.” Dillon put down his mug. “We’d better be getting back.”

Grant went to the door to see them off. They got in the Mini and drove away. He waved, closed the door and went to the desk and examined the charts. It was the third or fourth down, he was sure of that. General English Channel area and the French coast.

He frowned and said softly, “And what’s your game, mister, I wonder?”

As they drove back through the dark country lanes Angel said, “Not Land’s End at all, Mr. Dillon, it’s that Saint-Denis place in Normandy, that’s where you want to fly to.”

“Our secret,” he said and put his left hand on hers, still steering. “Can I ask you to promise me one thing?”

“Anything, Mr. Dillon.”

“Let’s keep it to ourselves, just for now. I don’t want Danny to know. You do drive, do you?”

“Drive? Of course I do. I take the sheep to market in the Morris van myself.”

“Tell me, how would you like a trip up to London tomorrow morning with me, you and Danny?”

“I’d like it fine.”

“Good, that’s all right, then.”

As they carried on through the night her eyes were shining.

NINE

IT WAS A cold, crisp morning, winter on every hand, but the roads were clear as Dillon drove up to London, Angel and Danny Fahy following in the Morris van. Angel was driving, and more than competently. He could see her in his rearview mirror and she stayed right on his tail all the way into London until they came to the Bayswater Road. There was a plan already half-formed in his mind and he got out of the Mini-Cooper, parked it at the curb and opened the doors of Tania’s garage.

As Angel and Danny drew up behind him he said, “Put the Morris inside.” Angel did as she was told. When she and Danny Fahy came out, Dillon closed the doors and said, “You’ll remember the street and the garage, if you lose me, that is?”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Dillon, of course I will,” Angel said.

“Good. It’s important. Now get in the Mini. We’re going for a little run round.”

Harry Flood was sitting at the desk in his apartment at Cable Wharf checking the casino accounts from the night before when Charlie Salter brought in coffee on a tray. The phone rang and the small man picked it up. He handed it to Flood.

“The Professor.”

“Martin, how goes it?” Flood said. “I enjoyed last night. The Tanner lady is something special.”

“Is there any news? Have you managed to come up with anything?” Brosnan asked.

“Not yet, Martin, just a minute.” Flood put a hand over the receiver and said to Salter, “Where’s Mordecai?”

“Doing the rounds, Harry, just like you asked him, putting the word out discreetly.”

Flood returned to Brosnan. “Sorry, old buddy, we’re doing everything we can, but it’s going to take time.”

“Which we don’t really have,” Brosnan said. “All right, Harry, I know you’re doing your best. I’ll stay in touch.”

He was standing at Mary Tanner’s desk in the living room of her Lowndes Square flat. He put the phone down, walked to the window and lit a cigarette.

“Anything?” she asked and crossed the room to join him.

“I’m afraid not. As Harry has just said it takes time. I was a fool to think anything else.”

“Just try and be patient, Martin.” She put a hand on his arm.

“But I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got this feeling and it’s hard to explain. It’s like being in a storm and waiting for that bloody great thunderclap you know is going to come. I know Dillon, Mary. He’s moving fast on this. I’m certain of it.”

“So what would you like to do?”

“Will Ferguson be at Cavendish Square this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go to see him.”

Dillon parked the Mini-Cooper near Covent Garden. An enquiry in a bookshop nearby led them to a shop not too far away specializing in maps and charts of every description. Dillon worked his way through the large-scale Ordnance Survey maps of Central London until he found the one covering the general area of Whitehall.

“Would you look at the detail in that thing?” Fahy whispered. “You could measure the size of the garden at Number Ten to half an inch.”

Dillon purchased the map, which the assistant rolled up tightly and inserted into a protective cardboard tube. He paid for it and they walked back to the car.

“Now what?” Danny asked.

“We’ll take a run round. Have a look at the situation.”

“That suits me.”

Angel sat in the rear, her uncle beside Dillon as they drove down toward the river and turned into Horse Guards Avenue. Dillon paused slightly on the corner before turning into Whitehall and moving toward Downing Street.

“Plenty of coppers around,” Danny said.

“That’s to make sure people don’t park.” A car had drawn in to the curb on their left and as they pulled out to pass, they saw that the driver was consulting a map.

“Tourist, I expect,” Angel said.

“And look what’s happening,” Dillon told her.

She turned and saw two policemen converging on the car. A quiet word, it started up and moved away.

Angel said, “They don’t waste time.”

“Downing Street,” Dillon announced a moment later.

“Would you look at those gates?” Danny said in wonder. “I like the Gothic touch. Sure and they’ve done a good job there.”

Dillon moved with the traffic round Parliament Square and went back up Whitehall toward Trafalgar Square. “We’re going back to Bayswater,” he said. “Notice the route I’ve chosen.”

He moved out of the traffic of Trafalgar Square through Admiralty Arch along the Mall, round the Queen Victoria Monument, past Buckingham Palace and along Constitution Hill, eventually reaching Marble Arch by way of Park Lane and turning into the Bayswater Road.

“And that’s simple enough,” Danny Fahy said.

“Good,” Dillon said. “Then let’s go and get a nice cup of tea at my truly awful hotel.”

Ferguson said, “You’re getting too restless, Martin.”

“It’s the waiting,” Brosnan told him. “Flood’s doing his best, I know that, but I don’t think time is on our side.”

Ferguson turned from the window and sipped a little of the cup of tea he was holding. “So what would you like to do?”

Brosnan hesitated, glanced at Mary and said, “I’d like to go and see Liam Devlin in Kilrea. He might have some ideas.”

“Something he was never short of.” Ferguson turned to Mary. “What do you think?”

“I think it makes sense, sir. After all, a trip to Dublin’s no big deal. An hour and a quarter from Heathrow on either Aer Lingus or B.A.”

“And Liam’s place at Kilrea is only half an hour from the city,” Brosnan said.

“All right,” Ferguson said. “You’ve made your point, both of you, but make it Gatwick and the Lear jet, just in case anything comes up and you need to get back here in a hurry.”