EIGHT

DON ANTONIO WAS right, for in London the most important matter on the Prime Minister’s agenda was his meeting due with the President of the United States at the end of the week. It was Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s sole concern. He was agitated and showed it as his Daimler languished in heavy traffic.

“Sometimes I think this whole damned city has ground to a halt.”

“Sure and sometimes it has,” Sean Dillon said sitting on the jump seat opposite.

He was a small man, no more than five feet five with hair so fair that it was almost white, handsome enough with a slight perpetual smile on his mouth as if mocking the world he saw about him. He wore an easy-fitting blue flannel suit, the jacket single-breasted, and a dark blue silk polo.

“I’d like to remind you that my appointment is with the Prime Minister, Dillon. I can hardly be late for that.”

“He’s a decent enough stick,” Dillon said. “He’ll see you right.”

The woman sitting next to Ferguson wore a fawn Armani trouser suit and black horn-rimmed glasses that contrasted with her red hair. She was in her late twenties and attractive enough to be worth a page or two in Vogue. She was, in fact, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch at Scotland Yard, on loan to Ferguson as his assistant.

“You’re hopeless, Dillon,” she said. “No respect for anyone, you Irish.”

“It’s all that rain, girl dear,” he said.

“Don’t waste your time on him,” Ferguson told her. “A hopeless case.”

The Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and drew up at the door of Number Ten. “I shan’t be more than twenty minutes,” Ferguson told them.

“Will that old bowser Simon Carter be there?” Dillon asked.

“That is no way to refer to the Deputy Director of Security Services,” Ferguson said.

“Yes, well don’t forget to tell him I think his security plans for the American President’s visit stink.”

“Hardly appropriate, Dillon. Try and possess yourself in patience until I return.”

He crossed the pavement, the policeman on duty saluted, the door opened, and he went in.

“The grand gentleman that he is. Sure and the empire is in safe hands.” Dillon took a cigarette from his old silver case and lit it.

“We don’t have an empire any longer, Dillon,” she said.

“Is that a fact, and does the Government know that?”

She shook her head. “Hopeless, Dillon, that’s what you are, and you’ll kill yourself if you keep on smoking those things.”

“True, but then I always knew I’d come to a bad end.”

WHEN FERGUSON WAS shown into the Prime Minister’s study, Simon Carter was already seated. A small man in his early fifties with snow-white hair, he had once been a professor of history. Never an agent in the field himself, he was one of the faceless men who controlled Britain’s security system. He disliked Ferguson, had for years, and resented the Brigadier’s privileged position and the fact that he was answerable to the Prime Minister only.

“Sorry I’m late, Prime Minister.”

He made no excuses and the Prime Minister smiled. “That’s all right.” He picked up a file. “The security plans the Deputy Director and his people have planned for the President’s visit. You’ve read this?”

“Naturally.”

“I’m particularly anxious that his visit to the House of Commons goes well on Friday morning. Refreshments on the Terrace at ten-thirty.”

“No problems there, Prime Minister,” Carter said. “The one place during his whole trip which will provide no security problem at all is the House of Commons.” He turned to the Brigadier, the usual arrogant look on his face. “Don’t you agree, Ferguson.”

Ferguson would have let it go, but Carter’s look made him angry.

“Well, do you, Brigadier?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Seems all right on the surface of things, but to be frank, Prime Minister, Dillon doesn’t think much of it at all. He believes general security at the House of Commons to be very poor, indeed.”

“Dillon?” Carter’s eyes bulged. “That damned scoundrel. I really must protest, Prime Minister, that Brigadier Ferguson continues to employ a man once an IRA gunman, a man with a record in the general field of European terrorism that can only be described as infamous.”

“I protest in my turn,” Ferguson said. “Dillon has been of considerable service to the Crown as you well know, Prime Minister, not least to the Royal Family itself.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that.” The Prime Minister frowned. “But this is too important for personal bickering, gentlemen. My decision.” He sat back and said to Carter, “I’d like you to meet with the Brigadier and Dillon at the House of Commons. I’d like you to hear what he has to say.”

Carter controlled his anger with difficulty. “If you say so, Prime Minister.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do. And now you must excuse me. I have a Cabinet meeting.”

EVERYONE STANDS IN line to get into the House of Commons, not only tourists but constituents waiting to see Members of Parliament. Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah Bernstein waited their turn, Ferguson with some impatience.

“The grand place, this,” Dillon said. “They tell me they have twenty-six restaurants and bars and the food and drink subsidized by the taxpayer. A fine job being an MP.”

“Yes, well at least they don’t have to queue to get in the damn place,” Ferguson told him.

A very large police sergeant watching the line intently saw Hannah, stiffened to attention, and came forward. “Chief Inspector Bernstein. Nice to see you, ma’am. Here, let me pass you through. You won’t remember me.”

“Oh, but I recall you very well. Sergeant Hall, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I was first on the scene when you shot that bastard who held up the supermarket. You were on your way to the American Embassy.”

“Your wicked past catches up,” Dillon murmured.

“This is a colleague, Mr. Dillon, and my boss, Brigadier Ferguson,” she said.

Sergeant Hall became very military. “Let me pass you all through, Brigadier.”

“That’s very kind, Sergeant.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

He led them through the barrier and saluted and they walked on toward the Central Lobby. “How fortunate you were here, Chief Inspector,” Ferguson told her. “We could have stood in that wretched queue forever.”

“Humiliating, isn’t it?” Dillon said.

THEY MOVED ON through various corridors, and finally went out onto the Terrace overlooking the Thames, Westminster Bridge to the left and the Embankment on the far side of the river. A row of tall Victorian lamps ran along the parapet. There was quite a crowd, visitors as well as MPs, enjoying a drink from the Terrace Bar.

Dillon hailed a passing waiter. “Half a bottle of Krug non-vintage and three glasses.” He smiled. “On me, Brigadier.”

“How generous,” Ferguson said. “Though remembering how you made six hundred thousand pounds out of that Michael Aroun affair in ninety-one, Dillon, I’d say you can afford it.”

“True, Brigadier, true.” Dillon leaned over the parapet and looked down at the waters of the Thames flowing by. He said to Hannah, “You notice the rather synthetic carpet we’re standing on is green?”

“Yes.”

“Notice where it changes to red? That’s the House of Lords end, you see, just there where the scaffolding goes down into the water.”

“I see.”

“Great on tradition, you Brits.”

“I’m Jewish, Dillon, as you well know.”

“Oh, I do. Granddad a rabbi, your father a professor of surgery, and you an M.A. from Cambridge University. Now what could be more British?”

At that moment Carter appeared and approached them impatiently. “Right, Ferguson, please don’t waste my time. What have you got to say?”

“Dillon?” Ferguson said.