She glared at him. “Damn you, Dillon.”

“Sure and you look lovely when you’re angry.” The waiter approached at that moment with their food. “Eat up like a good girl.”

“Dillon, you are a sexist pig.”

“And you are a nice Jewish girl who should be having babies and making her husband’s life miserable instead of shooting people on behalf of Scotland Yard.”

She laughed, in spite of herself. “This is lovely. So tell me how you intend to do it.”

“The river. I’ll swim in.”

“But the current there can be ferocious with the tide running. It’s suicide, Dillon. You mustn’t.”

“Yes, you’re right. That’s why the Terrace is a weak spot in the security system.”

“But how can you hope to get away with it?”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” and he explained.

THE RIVER QUEEN was still tied up at Cable Wharfe when Dillon turned up in the Toyota at eleven o’clock that evening. The pub was just closing and he sat there watching the last customers emerge and walk away toward Wapping High Street. The barmaid stood at the door talking to Billy. She closed the door and he crossed to the boat.

Dillon got out of the Toyota. “Good man yourself, Billy, could you be giving me a hand?”

Billy looked at him, a kind of reluctant admiration on his face. “You know you’re mad, don’t you? I mean, my uncle’s told me what you’re up to. Crazy. For one thing, you won’t even get into the Terrace. The current’s real murder out there.”

“If I don’t get back you can sell the Toyota. My hand on it.”

He held it out and Billy shook it instinctively. “Mad bastard. Okay, what have we got here?” and he opened the rear door of the van.

IN THE SALOON, Dillon laid out his gear watched by Salter and the other three. There was his heavy nylon diving suit with hood, nylon socks, and gloves.

“You’re going to need that bleeding lot,” Salter told him. “That water’s bloody cold tonight.”

“I never thought it wouldn’t be.”

Dillon laid out his fins and clipped the air tank he’d brought to the inflatable. He checked his weight belt, then opened a hang bag and took out a small Halogen lamp and a waterproof purse.

“You won’t need that lamp,” Salter said. “I’ve passed the Terrace regularly in the early hours and they leave that row of Victorian lamps on. Even if you get there, Dillon, you could get done. They must have security guards prowling. One glimpse and you’ve had it.”

“Yes, well I know that.” Dillon opened the waterproof pouch and checked the contents.

“And what’s that?”

“Picklocks. I need to get into one of the storerooms, as I told you, to spend the rest of the night.”

Salter shook his head. “And you know how to use those things.” He shook his head. “No, don’t answer that. With that accent of yours, are you sure you’re not going to shoot the Prime Minister?”

“Perish the thought.” Dillon unzipped a waterproof bag and checked the contents.

“And what have you got there?” Salter asked.

“White shirt, bow tie, nice white jacket, black slacks and shoes.” Dillon smiled. “After all, I am supposed to be a waiter.”

He zipped the bag up again and Billy fell about laughing. “Dillon, I like you, I really do. You’re crazy, you don’t give a stuff, just like me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dillon stood up and looked down at his gear. “That’s it, then.” He turned. “I’m in your hands now, Harry.”

“All right, my old son, let’s go over it.”

THERE WAS A very large scale map on the table and they all gathered round it. “Here we go. House of Commons, Embankment opposite, and there’s Westminster Bridge. Now I’m telling you, this is one of the worst times of the year. A very high tide, turning around three o’clock in the morning, and to float you in I need the tide on the turn and driving down river, but it’s an abnormal speed. A good five knots. Maybe you should consider that.”

“I have,” Dillon told him.

“There’s no way you can control that current by swimming. It’s too strong. But if you’re hanging on the stern as I approach and I drop you at just the right moment, you could have a chance.”

“Fine,” Dillon said. “It’ll do me.”

“Crazy.” Salter shook his head. “Crazy.”

Dillon grinned, found a packet of cigarettes, and went out on deck, standing under the canopy and looked at the rain. Salter joined him.

“I love this old river.” He leaned against the bulkhead. “I was a river rat when I was a kid. My old man did a runner and my mum did bits of cleaning to keep body and soul together. Anything I could nick I did, fags, booze, anything.”

“And progressed from there.”

“I’ve never done drugs, never done women, that’s filth as far as I’m concerned. Mind you, I’ve always been a hard bastard. I’ve killed in my time, but only some sod who was out to kill me.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’ve been at war with the world for more than twenty years.”

“With that accent, does that mean what I think it does?”

Dillon said, “Not any longer, Harry, I do work for a rather shadowy branch of the Security Services. Let’s leave it at that.”

“All right, my old son.” Salter grinned. “But with what you’ve got ahead of you, you’re going to need food in your belly. We’ll all go up to Wapping High Street. Best fish-and-chips shop in London, there.”

JUST BEFORE THREE the River Queen passed under Westminster Bridge and turned, fighting the surging tide. The deck lights were out, only a subdued light in the wheelhouse. Dillon’s gear was laid out in the stern and Salter stood there with him.

“I’m going to take over from Billy at the wheel. When he comes down here he’ll have a two-way radio. You hang off at the stern. You’ll be okay as far as the propellers go. With the design of this boat they’re well underneath.”

“Then what?”

“At what I consider the right moment I’ll call Billy on the radio, and when he gives you the shout, you go. If I get it right, the current should bang you against the Terrace. If I don’t, God help you.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Dillon grinned. “You’re a hell of a fella.”

“Get stuffed, you bloody lunatic,” Salter told him and walked away.

Dillon turned to Hall and Baxter, who stood waiting. “All right, lads, let’s get this lot on.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, he hung on a line from the stern rail, his two equipment bags trailing from his belt, aware of Billy leaning over the rail above him. They were in the shadows, the water very turbulent, and Dillon was conscious of the fierceness of the current. And then Billy called down to him and he let go the line.

HE WENT DOWN five or six feet and the force of the current was incredible, like a great hand seizing him in a relentless grip. He was thrown to the surface, was aware of the River Queen disappearing into the dark, of the lights of the Victorian lamps on the terrace, and then he went under again. A moment later he banged against the stonework of the Terrace, surfaced, and cannoned into the scaffolding that dropped down into the water at the division of the Lords and Commons.

He hung there for a long moment and then unbuckled his inflatable and air tank and let the current take them. He did the same with his fins and mask, paused, then started to climb. He went over the parapet, trailing his two equipment bags, and crouched in the shadows.

A door opened further along the Terrace and a security guard appeared. He walked forward, stood at the parapet, and lit a cigarette, the smoke pungent on the damp air. Dillon waited for five agonizing minutes until finally the man tossed the stub of his cigarette into the river, turned, and went back inside.