“God, Mr. Salter, but he never learns, this nephew of yours.”

“Don’t be a silly boy, Billy,” Salter said. “If he hadn’t nicked the stones down river we’d be booking in at Tower Bridge Division Police Station with the prospect of going down the steps for ten years. All I want to know is the reason for all this.” He smiled at Dillon. “You’ve got a name, my old son?”

“Dillon – Sean Dillon.”

Salter went behind the bar and Dillon released Billy, who stood there massaging his arm, then went and sat down with Baxter and Hall, his face sullen.

Salter said, “You’re no copper, I can smell one of those a mile off.”

“God save us,” Dillon said, “I’ve had enough trouble with those bowsers to last me a lifetime. Let’s put it this way, Mr. Salter. I work for one of those Government organizations that isn’t supposed to exist.”

Salter stood there looking at him for a long moment, then said, “What’s your pleasure?”

“Bushmills whiskey if you don’t have Krug champagne.”

Salter laughed out loud. “I like it, I really do. Bushmills I can manage right now. Krug I’ll supply next time.” He took a bottle down from the shelf and poured a generous measure. “So what’s it about?”

“Cheers.” Dillon toasted him. “Well, the thing is I wanted to meet the greatest expert on the Thames River, and when I accessed the police computer it turned out to be you. The trouble was that no sooner did I find you than I discovered I was going to lose you. Someone I work with, very big at Special Branch, found out the River Police were going to stiff you.”

“Very inconvenient,” Salter said.

“Well, it would have been, so I decided to do something about it.” Dillon smiled. “The rest you know.”

Salter poured himself another drink. “You want something from me, that’s it, isn’t it? Some sort of kickback?”

“Your expertise, Mr. Salter, your knowledge of the river.”

“What for?”

“You may have read in the papers that the President of the United States and the Prime Minister are to meet on the Terrace at the House of Commons on Friday morning.”

“So what?”

“I think the security stinks and I have to prove it, so sometime after midnight on Friday morning I want you to help me float in to the Terrace. I’ll hide out in one of the storerooms behind the Terrace Bar and give them a nice surprise at the appropriate moment.”

Salter stared at him in amazement. “You must be raving bloody mad. Are you a lunatic or something?”

“It’s been suggested before.”

Salter turned to the other three. “Did you hear that? We’ve got a bleeding loony here.” He turned back to Dillon. “But I like you. Not only will I do it, you can call me Harry.”

“Terrific,” Dillon said. “Could I have another Bushmills?”

“I can do better, much better.” Salter opened the fridge at the back of the bar, took out a bottle, and turned. “Krug champagne, my old son. How does that suit you?”

NINE

THE FOLLOWING DAY was Thursday, and when Dillon went into Hannah Bernstein’s office on the third floor at the Ministry of Defence it was just before noon.

“My God, Dillon, what time do you call this? He’s been asking for you.”

“The hard night I had, girl dear. In fact, I only came in to ask you to have a delicious light luncheon with me.”

“You’re quite mad.” She pressed her intercom. “He’s here, Brigadier.”

“Send him in.” There was a pause. “And you, Chief Inspector.”

She led the way, opening the door for Dillon, who advanced to the desk, where Ferguson was working at a pile of papers. He didn’t look up.

“God save the good work,” Dillon said and waited. Ferguson ignored him and the Irishman laughed. “God save you kindly is the correct answer to that, Brigadier.”

Ferguson sat back. “I am well aware that as a boy you went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, Dillon. I am well aware that you actually acted with the National Theatre.”

“Lyngstrand in The Lady from the Sea. Ibsen that was,” Dillon reminded him.

“Until you decided to take up the theater of the street for the IRA. As my mother, God rest her, was Irish, I do my best to understand you, but your constant role of the stage Irishman proves wearisome.”

“God save us, Your Honor, but I’ll try to mend my ways.”

“For God’s sake, be serious. You’re leaving me with egg on my face because of this ridiculous bet with Carter. You know how much the Intelligence Service hates our very existence. They’d like nothing better than to make me look a fool in front of the Prime Minister.”

“Don’t I know that?” Dillon said. “That’s why I thought I’d make Carter look the fool.”

Ferguson frowned. “Are you seriously telling me you think you can?”

“Of course.”

The Brigadier frowned. “Where have you been? It’s almost noon.”

“I had a hard night preparing the way, so to speak.”

“Tell me.”

“You wouldn’t want to know,” Dillon said. “But one thing I’ll promise you. The next time you’ll see me will be at ten-thirty tomorrow morning on the Terrace together with the President of the United States and the Prime Minister.”

Ferguson sat back staring at him. “My God, Sean, you actually think you can do it?”

“I know I can, Brigadier, and watch yourself. You just called me Sean.”

“Are you going to tell me how?”

“Aspects of it are so illegal that it’s better you shouldn’t know. I’ll discuss it with this good-looking woman here if I can take her to lunch.”

Ferguson laughed in spite of himself. “Oh, go on, you rogue. Get out of here, but if it costs me five hundred pounds it comes out of your salary.”

They returned to Hannah’s office. She said, “You really think you can pull it off?”

“Nothing is impossible to the great Dillon. A magician, that’s what British Intelligence called me in the great days in Ulster. They never laid hands on me once, Hannah, your lot. The master of disguise. Did I tell you about the time I dressed as a woman?”

“I don’t want to know this, Dillon, because if I do, I have to consider how many you killed.”

“Fighting a war, Hannah, that’s what I was doing, but that was then and this is now. Get your coat and we’ll away. I am right about Jewish people? No shellfish, but you can eat smoked salmon?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Good. Krug champagne, scrambled eggs, and smoked salmon, the best in town.”

“But where?”

He held her coat for her. “Jesus, girl, but will you stop asking all these questions?”

HE TOOK HER to the Piano Bar at the Dorchester, the best in London with its magnificent mirrored ceiling, was greeted by the manager as an old friend, and led to a booth. Dillon ordered his usual, Krug champagne non-vintage and scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, and a salad for both of them.

“God, but you live well, Dillon,” she said. “That’s an Armani suit you’re wearing and you can afford these prices.”

“I’m still trying to spend some of that six hundred thousand pounds I got out of Michael Aroun for failing to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet at Number Ten during the Gulf War.”

“You’ve no shame, have you? None at all?”

“Why pretend? It’s what I was and it’s what I am. The same man, Hannah my love, and times you’ve been glad of it.”

The champagne came, was opened, and poured. He toasted her. “To the best-looking policeman in London.”

“That kind of flattery gets you nowhere. Now tell me what’s going on.”

WHEN HE WAS finished, she gazed at him in horror. “You used me, you used privileged police intelligence to get a notorious gangster and his men off the hook?”

“He’s not such a bad old stick.” Dillon sipped some champagne. “And I needed him.”

“How could you do such a thing?”

“Come off it, Hannah. Ferguson does things to suit himself all the time. What about that Lithuanian bastard, Platoff, the other month? If ever a man deserved to be shot it was him, but he was more useful to us than the other people, so Ferguson did a deal and, as I remember, you brokered it.”