“So what happened at the house?”

“I already told you. I let Rupert get the drop on me. Why? Because I think I was a little mad, too, that morning. A death wish. I was on the edge, and she’d gone way over the edge. She had the Black Eagle on her private landing strip, so Rupert tied my hands, we got on board and took off. She made it clear he was going to throw me out at three thousand feet. I had a knife in my boot and cut myself free.”

“And?”

“Rupert dropped the Airstairs door. I had a small Colt in an ankle holster. Full of surprises, me. I shot him in the head and pushed him out.”

“And she?”

“Went right over. Said we’d go to hell together. The Black Eagle has an ignition key. She switched off and threw the key out. I took over the control and made an engineless water landing. Unfortunately, she had a gun in her purse and tried to shoot me. I managed to jump out with the dinghy and she went down with the plane.” He shrugged. “But you know all this.”

“Do you feel any different now?”

“Absolutely not.”

“What would you say was the worst moment?”

He frowned. “Two, I suppose. Being swept in on the Sussex Bore at such speed in the dinghy, and then finding Rupert Dauncey’s body alongside, all the way into the estuary marsh. We grounded at the old abandoned pier at Marsham.”

“Which was when you called Ferguson?”

“I had my mobile with me. I filled him in.”

“And what did he do?”

“Came down with the disposal team from London. I sat under the pier for three hours in the rain and waited.”

“The disposal team?”

“From the crematorium we use in North London. Rupert Dauncey became eight pounds of gray ash very quickly.”

“Did that bother you?”

“Not really. He was responsible for many things, but the death of the young daughter of a friend particularly damned him.”

“And Kate Rashid?”

“I’d seen the GPS as we went down in the sea, so I knew where she was. Ferguson gave the job to the Royal Marine Special Boat Squadron. We went in an old fishing boat.”

“You chose to go?”

“That’s right. Found her in the cabin at ninety feet.”

“You saw her?”

“I pulled her out. Went up with her on the line. You have to do that slowly from ninety feet.”

“It must have been quite an experience.”

“You could say that.” He lit another cigarette. “Going through it all again, has it helped? I don’t feel particularly cathartic. What’s that make me? Psychotic?”

She said calmly, “There’s a quotation: ‘There are men of a rough persuasion who are willing to take care of the kinds of situations that ordinary people can’t. They’re called soldiers.’”

“I know that one, and you couldn’t have paid me a greater compliment. If that’s all, I’ll be on my way. Thanks, love.”

“Take care, Dillon.”

He turned away, paused and turned back. “Look, sometimes I get this dream. I’m going down to the plane and I reach it and hang on and look inside and she isn’t there. Does that make any kind of sense?”

“Perfectly.” She shook her head. “My poor Dillon, such a good man in spite of everything, and yet you are what you are.”

“You’re a great comfort.”

“Watch your back, my friend. Isn’t that what they say in Belfast?”

He went and she turned, went up to the altar and knelt in prayer. Behind her, Marco Rossi tiptoed out.

The Baron was using the Rashid house in South Audley Street not far from Park Lane. He sat by the fire in the Georgian living room and listened intently. When Marco was finished, the old man took a deep breath.

“Get me a brandy, Marco. We always suspected this, but it’s still a shock.”

Marco went and got the drink, gave it to him and offered a cigarette from a silver case. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing yet. We’ll see what the Prime Minister has to say tomorrow.”

“And then?”

“Marco, you didn’t meet Kate Rashid. It was just before you came into my life, and our business dealings, of their very nature, had to be private, but one thing is a fact. I am only sitting here now because of her. I can only pay her back in one way. What she failed to achieve, I will achieve for her.”

Marco looked taken aback. “What? You don’t mean – Cazalet?”

“Oh, I have something in mind for the President, all right, but we’ll take it slowly. Ferguson and Dillon come first. Yes, first we’ll deal with them. I’m sure you’ll be up for that, Marco, won’t you?”

At Downing Street the following morning, the Baron and Marco Rossi were admitted and shown to the Cabinet Room, where they found Ferguson and Blake Johnson waiting, standing on either side of the Prime Minister, who sat in his usual center chair.

“Baron,” he said. “Please be seated. This won’t take long.”

The Baron sat and Rossi stood behind him. “I appreciate your frankness. What is the problem, Prime Minister?”

“Berger International was already giving us problems. Your dealings with Iraq, for example, are not acceptable.”

“It’s a free market.”

“Not when it comes to arms-dealing. Now we hear of your connection with Rashid and your control over the oil market. It won’t do, not in the context of terrorism, and the Middle East and Southern Arabia. To be frank, my government will place every obstacle we can think of in your way.”

“Excellent.” The Baron stood up. “So now we know where we stand. Good morning, Prime Minister,” and he walked out, followed by Rossi.

The Prime Minister turned to Ferguson. “Keep an eye on him, General. I don’t trust that man one bit.”

Outside Number Ten, the Baron was still sitting in his Rolls-Royce, the door open, Rossi standing beside it, as Ferguson approached.

“Was there something else, Baron?”

“Don’t bother with your disposal team, General, I’m not Rupert Dauncey.”

“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ferguson said.

“Don’t bother. I know everything.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means that I am declaring Jihad on you in memory of my dear friend Kate Rashid. Tell that to Dillon, and the rest of your friends.”

Rossi joined him, closed the door and they drove away.

“Well, to quote our hostile friend, at least now we know where we stand, Charles.” Blake shook hands. “I’ll see you.”

Ferguson went to his Daimler, the chauffeur standing beside it. Dillon was waiting in the rear and Ferguson joined him. He punched a number on his mobile. It was answered instantly.

“Who is this?”

“Roper, this is Ferguson. Get yourself down to the Dark Man and bring the file you’ve prepared on von Berger. We’ve got problems.”

“Will Sean be with you?”

“Yes.”

“On my way.”

As they drove off, Dillon said, “Well?”

“Oh, the Prime Minister put the boot in hard. No kind of government cooperation. They’ll place all sorts of obstacles in the Baron’s way.”

“And how did he take it?”

“He’s just declared Jihad on all of us in memory of Kate Rashid – and he told me he wasn’t a candidate for the disposal team.”

“That’s interesting.”

“He knows, Dillon, God knows how. So I think it’s time we had a council of war.”

“Well, that makes sense.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “Quite like old times.”

As they progressed through the usual bad London traffic, Dillon thought about von Berger and what he would entail. The Daimler turned along a narrow lane between warehouse developments and came out on a wharf beside the Thames. They parked outside The Dark Man, Salter’s pub, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a dark cloak.

The main bar was very Victorian: mirrors, mahogany bars behind, porcelain beer pumps. Dora, the barmaid, sat on a stool reading The London Evening Standard.