“We’ll see you later,” Dillon said, and he and Billy left.

At the hotel, they checked the Piano Bar and had a stroke of real luck. Levin was at a corner table having some sort of pasta and a glass of champagne, listening to a trio playing jazz at the end of the room.

“Move it,” Dillon said, and they hit the lift fast and went upstairs.

The corridor was long, the carpet luxurious. Dillon had the key ready in his hand, pushed it in the electronic lock when they reached 610. The green light came on, the door opened automatically.

“Fast,” Dillon said. “Bedroom, check if the safe in the wardrobe’s in use. I’ll do the sitting room.”

He went one way, Billy the other. The sitting room was the height of luxury, but having stayed in such rooms at the hotel before, Dillon knew what to expect. It was like staying in a fine English country house. There was a large TV screen on the wall, a cabinet with video, a copier, a computer link, he knew that. But there was more. A spectacular piece of luck – Levin’s briefcase.

“Billy,” he called, got the briefcase open, rummaged around and found the envelope containing the Putin warrant. A Russian speaker, it made perfect sense to Dillon.

“Jesus, Billy, Vladimir Putin and his team sorted it for him.”

“The bloody Russian President,” Billy said. “If you nick it, he’ll know.”

“No need. There’s a copier in the cabinet.” He ran the warrant through, folded the copy and put it in his pocket, put the other in the envelope and returned it to the briefcase. “Out of it, fast.”

Which they did, running down the stairs at the far end instead of using the lift. In the car, Billy did the driving and Dillon phoned Ferguson.

“We’ll meet back at Holland Park,” Dillon said.

“What the hell for?”

“The most astonishing thing you’ll have seen in years. Trust me.”

In the computer room at the Holland Park safe house, they ranged around Roper and his screens.

“So, Levin is posted to London as a commercial attaché,” Roper said.

“With one hell of a warrant to back him up and signed by Putin himself,” Dillon said. “Couldn’t you do something about that, Charles? Speak to head of Station?”

“They’d claim diplomatic immunity, and in theory, what, after all, does the letter say? It refers to the bearer, not a specific individual. No, I don’t think it would wash. You can’t even prove what it refers to.”

“I must say I agree,” Roper said. “And I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with Moon and his chum. Sticking to their mugging story keeps them out of court because I’ve got to keep to my story. Keeps me out of court, too, if you take my point.”

“Right,” Ferguson said. “At least Levin doesn’t know we’re onto him. I’ll leave him in your hands, Sean, while you, young Salter, make for Farley Field in the morning and head for Dublin. Any questions?”

“Not really,” Dillon said. “I just want answers.”

7

The Citation X landed at Dublin Airport mid-morning and taxied to the diplomatic arrivals section. Billy, Lacey and Parry had been through a lot together in the past on Ferguson’s behalf. As they walked to the arrivals section, Lacey spoke.

“I’m usually dropping you on some beach at night in deep trouble. I sense something different.”

Billy produced his warrant card. “The General needs a replacement for Hannah. I’m it for the moment.”

“Good God.”

“Yes, well, what you see is what you get. I shouldn’t be too long.”

“What can I say? Good luck.”

Billy moved on, produced his passport at reception. There was nobody around except a man in a raincoat, maybe forty, smoking a cigarette, a scar on one cheek which to someone of Billy’s expertise had been made by a broken bottle. The girl at the desk handed him back his passport.

“Ah, Mr. Salter, your fame precedes you. How’s Sean Dillon these days?” asked the man.

“Up and running,” Billy told him. “Who might you be?”

“Jack Flynn, Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch. I go back a long way with Dillon. You might say I’m an admirer. I’ve heard the whispers about you and him in past years, so when one of Ferguson’s planes comes in with the one passenger, and it’s you, I wonder.”

“You mean, what’s a well-known London gangster doing here?”

“In one of Ferguson’s planes is the point.”

Billy took out his warrant card. Flynn said, “Holy Mother of God, that I should see the day.”

“We lost part of Ferguson’s team, Superintendent Bernstein.”

“I’ve heard. She was an outstanding officer. Helped us out in the Garda, many times.”

“What you haven’t heard is that her death was no accident. She was helped on her way, if you follow me.”

Flynn’s face was like stone. “You’re saying someone topped that lovely woman? Who would do a thing like that?”

Billy thought about it, wondered what Dillon would have done and knew it would never be the obvious thing, and in this case it would be to talk to Flynn. But there was something about Flynn, and if Billy knew about anything in this life, he knew about coppers.

“I’m teetotal, but I could do with a cup of tea.”

“Well, this is Ireland, and if you can’t get a decent cup of tea here, where else would you? In the main concourse there’s a decent café. You’ve got a hire car, I see. You can follow me.”

Which Billy did, noticing that Flynn had a uniformed driver, large and burly. They parked close to the main entrance, leaving the driver in charge.

“Good man yourself, Donald,” Flynn told the constable. “Don’t let them give you a ticket.”

They got the tea, sat in a booth at the café and Flynn lit a cigarette. “So what have we got here?”

And Billy told him: Mary Killane, the link with the IRA, Liam Bell – everything except the circumstances surrounding Belov.

Flynn said, “Twenty years in the job, nothing surprises me, but it’s a hell of a story.” He shook his head. “But Liam Bell.”

“You wouldn’t be IRA yourself?” Billy asked. “I know what you bleeding Irish are like.”

Flynn grinned. “No, that was my elder brother as you’re asking. You’re all right with me. There was a day, but it’s long gone and we should move on. I’m surprised about Bell. I thought he was long retired.”

“Well, maybe not.”

“I assume this is all hush-hush. We shouldn’t even be talking.”

“Which means you shouldn’t be helping,” Billy said. “I’ve got his home address and a mention of one or two places he might be.”

“Pubs, you mean. That’s easy. The Irish Hussar down on the quays by the river. That’s where all the old hands go, and a few hangers-on, trying to look big.”

“So what would you suggest?”

“Well, as I’ve nothing better to do and it is my patch, I’ll leave first with Donald, just to show you the way. You follow on and we’ll take it from there. One thing, are you carrying?”

“Now, would I do a thing like that?”

“Absolutely. Just make sure it stays in your pants.”

Billy smiled. “This sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

The police car led him to O’Connor Street, number 15, a neat bungalow, with garden and garage, nothing special at all. Flynn and Donald kept on going. Billy pulled up in his car and tried the front door of the bungalow. The bell was only an echo in an empty house, he had that feel. He went round the back to check, returned to find a late-middle-aged lady peering over the fence.

“Can I help you?” Strangely enough, her accent was English.

Billy said, “I was hoping for Mr. Bell.”

“You’re English,” she said.

“So they tell me.”

“So am I. My husband was Irish, but he’s been dead for twelve years. I should have gone back, really.”

Billy said, “Like I said, I was looking for Mr. Bell. An insurance claim.”