“I’m not welcome anywhere, Betty.” Dillon took a glass of champagne from the row on the bar, swallowed it down, took three more and went back to the booth. “There you go.” He gave Ferguson and Blake a glass each and toasted them.

Blake said, “Even you don’t know this, General, but not more than twenty-four hours ago, the Baron sought and received a meeting in the Oval Office with the President. I was there. He told him that he was now in control of Rashid Investments, and, most importantly, Rashid Oil. A third of all Middle East oil production. He wanted concessions – and the President pointed out that he wasn’t comfortable with that.”

“Why?” Dillon said.

“Because Berger has been dealing with Iraq on arms deals. We can’t stop the oil production – the world market needs it – but the President made it clear that he was not welcome.”

“How sad,” Ferguson said. “He’s seeing the Prime Minister tomorrow morning.”

“And what will happen there?” Dillon asked.

“The same answer, I expect.”

“Has the PM spoken to you?”

“Briefly, on the phone. He’s asked me to attend the meeting.” He shrugged. “It’s a foregone conclusion.”

It was at that moment that the Baron and Marco Rossi entered the bar. The Baron glanced around, saw them and came across. His voice was deep, quite pleasant, with only a hint of a German accent.

“Ah, Mr. Johnson. Nice to see you again.”

Blake didn’t stand. “Baron.”

“General Ferguson.” Von Berger nodded. “We haven’t met.”

“We will tomorrow at Downing Street.”

“Really?” Von Berger smiled. “I look forward to it. Your reputation precedes you.”

“It usually does.”

The Baron turned to Dillon. “And you must be the great Sean Dillon – a remarkable man.”

“Jesus, Baron,” Dillon said. “And what would you be after?”

“Your head, of course. Kate Rashid was my dear friend. She even saved my life once. So – I’ll settle for your head.”

Dillon replied in German. “You can always try.”

There was a frozen moment, and Ferguson said, “I really wouldn’t bother with Downing Street tomorrow if I were you, Baron.”

“I always travel hopefully, General. Good day to you, gentlemen.” Rossi eyed Dillon, his face hard, watchful.

“Go on, son, our day will come.” Rossi smiled as if in satisfaction, turned and followed the Baron out.

Ferguson said, “So what do you think?”

“Kate Rashid was a dear friend, even saved his life, and all he wants is my head?” Dillon shrugged. “We’ve got trouble here, Charles, big trouble.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.” He turned to Blake. “What about you?”

“The President has asked the Prime Minister to allow me to attend your meeting, too. After that, I’ll return to Washington.”

“Excellent. We might as well get back to London.” Ferguson turned to Dillon. “You’ve got your final debriefing this evening.”

“Debriefing, my arse,” Dillon said, and smiled at Blake. “He’s got me into psychoanalysis now after my last little run-in with friend Rashid. Obviously has me down as some kind of psychotic.”

There was an edge to him, which Blake sensed. “Routine, Sean, routine. You went through a lot, had to kill more than once.”

“Really?” Dillon said. “I thought I killed everybody. Still – back to London and the Mother Superior.”

He started for the door. Blake said, “Mother Superior?”

“One of Dillon’s bad jokes. The person he’s seeing is a friend of mine, a lady called Haden-Taylor. She’s not only a psychiatrist, but a professor and an ordained priest of the Church of England. She operates out of Harley Street – or St. Paul’s Church, around the corner, if you can’t afford to pay.”

“I see. She’s like that, is she?”

“Very much so.”

“Ah well,” Blake said as he followed him out. “It takes all sorts, I suppose.”

In the rear of the Rolls-Royce, the Baron said to Rossi, “It’s nice to put a face to Ferguson and Dillon. Computer printouts lack charm.”

“A hard one, the Irishman,” Rossi said. “What I’ve already seen on the Rashid computer is bad. There’s no doubt he killed all three Rashid brothers.”

“Yes, well, my impression is they asked for it.” The Baron shook his head. “That attempt on Cazalet’s life on Nantucket was ill-advised. You only do a thing like that if you’re certain you can succeed. Failure only brings disaster.”

“The Irish mercenaries were well recommended,” Rossi said.

“And well taken care of by Dillon and company.” Max von Berger shook his head. “But we still don’t know for absolute certainty if they were responsible for Kate’s death. I want you to keep on scouring those security files at Rashid Investments for any kind of clue. There must be something there.”

“Don’t worry, I will. I have come across something, actually. The names of two guys who worked directly for Rashid Security under Rupert Dauncey’s orders. They were ex-SAS, named Newton and Cook. They were definitely involved in watching Dillon.”

“Do you know where they are now?”

“Working for a third-rate security firm. I’m meeting them later this afternoon.”

The Baron frowned. “Be careful, Marco. Maybe you should take some muscle.”

“Not for these two.” Rossi smiled coldly. “I’m muscle enough.”

The old man paused. “You mean a great deal to me.”

“I know that.”

“And this Dillon is bad news. Did you notice his eyes? Like water over a stone. No expression.”

“Not surprising, given his background. All those years with the IRA, all the killings, and the Brits never managed to lay a hand on him.” Marco smiled. “Until Ferguson shopped him to the Serbs, then, in a manner of speaking, bought him back, blackmailed him into working for him.”

The old man said, “This rumor that he tried to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet in ’ninety-one. You think it’s true?”

“Oh, yes, and it made him rich. He was paid a fortune by the Iraqis. Money means nothing to him.”

“A warrior, a soldier, just like you, Marco.”

“And you, Baron.”

“A long time ago.” The old man smiled. “Now give me a cigarette, and don’t tell me I shouldn’t.”

The Grenadier was a first-class pub much frequented by Guards officers, an opulent Victorian sort of place with an impressive mahogany bar and booths where one could eat well on traditional English food. At that time in the afternoon, it was quiet when Marco walked in. He stood there looking around, his trench coat damp, a briefcase in one hand, then recognized Newton and Cook from their computer photos and approached.

“I’m Rossi.”

They were what he’d expected, big men in their mid-forties, once solid, now fleshing out, in bad suits.

They looked at him, carefully showing nothing. “What can we do for you? Want a drink?” Cook asked.

Rossi took off his coat and waved to the bar. “A large vodka martini and two large Scotches.” He sat down and didn’t smile when he said, “Trust me. You’re going to need them.”

Newton said, “What is this?”

“Shut up. You used to work for Rupert Dauncey at Rashid and now you work for a shit company – I can’t even remember the name – so I ask the questions.”

Cook looked sullen, but said nothing.

“Dauncey gave you orders to follow a guy named Sean Dillon. I’d like to know what those orders were.”

“Is Dillon in this?” Newton asked.

“Would that matter?”

Cook said, “He kills people, that bastard.”

“And it bothers you?”

“It would bother anyone with sense.”

Marco nodded. “All right, how’s this for sense?” He pushed the briefcase over. “There’s five grand in there. You were dogging Dillon just after he returned to London from Hazar. If you want what’s in there – start talking.”

Newton said, “We heard the whispers. They were going to blow up a railway bridge in Hazar, the Rashids. Dillon fucked them up, along with a pal of his.”