The Sergeant rifled through. “Bottle of hooch and some newspapers, sir.”

“Right, go and wait over there.” The officer pushed Dillon along the pavement behind the patrol and got a loudhailer from one of the Land-Rovers. “You inside,” he called. “Throw your weapons out through the door, then follow them with your hands up. Two minutes or we’ll come in to get you.”

All members of the patrol were in a readiness posture, intent only on the entrance. Dillon eased back into the courtyard, turned and hurried past Devlin’s taxi, finding what he was seeking in seconds, a manhole cover. He got it up and went down a steel ladder, pulling the cover behind him. It had been a way in which he had evaded the British Army on many occasions in the old days and he knew the system in the Falls Road area perfectly.

The tunnel was small and very dark. He crawled along it, aware of the sound of rushing water, and came out on the sloping side of a larger tunnel, the main sewer. There were outlets to the canal that ran down to Belfast Lough, he knew that. He pulled off the skirt and the wig and threw them in the water using the headscarf to wipe his lips and face vigorously, then he hurried along the side until he came to another steel ladder. He started up toward the rays of light beaming in through the holes in the cast iron, waited a moment, then eased it up. He was on a cobbled pathway beside the Canal, the backs of decaying, boarded-up houses on the other side. He put the manhole back in place and made for the Falls Road as fast as possible.

In the warehouse, the young officer stood beside McGuire’s body and examined Mary Tanner’s ID card. “It’s perfectly genuine,” she said. “You can check.”

“And these two?”

“They’re with me. Look, Lieutenant, you’ll get a full explanation from my boss. That’s Brigadier Charles Ferguson at the Ministry of Defence.”

“All right, Captain,” he said defensively. “I’m only doing my job. It’s not like the old days here, you know. We have the RUC on our backs. Every death has to be investigated fully, otherwise there’s the devil to pay.”

The sergeant came in. “The Colonel’s on the wire, boss.”

“Fine,” the young lieutenant said and went out.

Brosnan said to Devlin, “Do you think it was Dillon?”

“A hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t. A bag woman?” Devlin shook his head. “Who’d have thought it?”

“Only Dillon would be capable.”

“Are you trying to say he came over from London specially?” Mary demanded.

“He knew what we were about thanks to Gordon Brown, and how long is the scheduled flight from London to Belfast?” Brosnan asked. “An hour and a quarter?”

“Which means he’s got to go back,” she said.

“Perhaps,” Liam Devlin nodded. “But nothing’s absolute in this life, girl, you’ll learn that, and you’re dealing with a man who’s kept out of police hands for twenty years or more, all over Europe.”

“Well it’s time we got the bastard.” She looked down at McGuire. “Not too nice, is it?”

“The violence, the killing. Drink with the devil and this is what it comes down to,” Devlin told her.

Dillon went in through the back door of the hotel at exactly two-fifteen and hurried up to his room. He stripped off the jeans and jumper, put them in the case and shoved them up into a cupboard above the wardrobe. He washed his face quickly, then dressed in white shirt and tie, dark suit and blue Burberry. He was out of the room and descending the back stairs, briefcase in hand, within five minutes of having entered. He went up the alley, turned into the Falls Road and started to walk briskly. Within five minutes he managed to hail a taxi and told the driver to take him to the airport.

The officer in charge of Army Intelligence for the Belfast city area was a Colonel McLeod and he was not the least bit pleased with the situation with which he was confronted.

“It really isn’t good enough, Captain Tanner,” he said. “We can’t have you people coming in here like cowboys and acting on your own initiative.” He turned to look at Devlin and Brosnan. “And with people of very dubious background into the bargain. There is a delicate situation here these days and we do have the Royal Ulster Constabulary to placate. They see this as their turf.”

“Yes, well, that’s as may be,” Mary told him. “But your sergeant outside was kind enough to check on flights to London for me. There’s one at four-thirty and another at six-thirty. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to check out the passengers rather thoroughly?”

“We’re not entirely stupid, Captain, I’ve already put that in hand, but I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we are not an army of occupation. There is no such thing as martial law here. It’s impossible for me to close down the airport, I don’t have the authority. All I can do is notify the police and airport security in the usual way and as you’ve been at pains to explain, where this man Dillon is concerned, we don’t have much to tell them.” His phone went. He picked it up and said, “Brigadier Ferguson? Sorry to bother you, sir. Colonel McLeod, Belfast HQ. We appear to have a problem.”

But Dillon, at the airport, had no intention of returning on the London flight. Perhaps he could get away with it, but madness to try when there were other alternatives. It was just after three as he searched the departure board. He’d just missed the Manchester flight, but there was a flight to Glasgow due out at three-fifteen and it was delayed.