Dillon moved to one of the jump seats and closed the glass partition. “How did it go?”

Ferguson told them, and Hannah said, “I think Omega is a good idea and you are important.”

“A damn sight more important than most of the half-baked cabinet ministers around at the moment,” Dillon said.

“Why, thank you, Dillon.”

“It’s a fact of life. I won’t remind you of how many years you’ve been around in the intelligence game, but I can’t think of anyone else in the Western world with your experience.”

“You should be my press agent.”

“Glad to. So, von Berger – did he come up?”

“The PM was explicit. Bring him down.”

“Easier said than done. Unless you’d like me to shoot him for you?”

Hannah said, “For God’s sake, Dillon.”

He opened the side window and lit a cigarette. “As I’ve said before, the Almighty has got little to do with it. I could take out Rossi quite cheerfully. Would that be okay?”

“You’re being stupid.”

Ferguson said, “Cut it out, you two. What about Rossi’s movements, Superintendent?”

“He left Belfast this morning.”

Ferguson turned to Dillon. “Call Roper. See if he’s got anything.”

Roper had, of course. “Landed at Gatwick, one pilot, two passengers.”

“You need two pilots for those things, it’s the law.”

“Of course, but Marco Rossi’s fully rated, he was the other one.”

“Who was the passenger?”

“One Charles Mackenzie, carrying a U.K. Northern Irish passport, an accountant apparently.”

“Apparently?”

“I went into the new visual system they have at check-in now and had a look at him. Derry Gibson.”

“I might have known.”

“You don’t know anything, Sean. What he’s doing here, for instance. Neither of them have any reason to be pleased with you.”

“So I should be looking over my shoulder?”

“He is Red Hand of Ulster, old son.”

“I’m frightened to death, Roper,” Dillon said. “Goodbye.”

“What was that all about?” Ferguson asked.

Dillon told him.

“Hmm,” Ferguson said. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Blowing up that ship was good, but why should we wait for them to make the next move? Why not stay on the offensive? We should know more about von Berger’s setup in Germany. Schloss Adler, Neustadt, the Darker Place, whatever the hell they call it.” He turned to Hannah. “Have a word with Roper, ask him to do a quick computer analysis of the area. See if we’ve got any intelligence sources there. Tell him to meet us at that restaurant of Salter’s, Harry’s Place. We’ll have a meal and listen to what he has to say. We’ll call at The Dark Man first.”

Two car lengths back, Newton and Cook followed.

It was early evening, The Dark Man quiet, Salter and Billy as usual in the corner booth, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall hanging around, when Ferguson and the others walked in.

Harry said, “This is a nice surprise, General, sit down, all of you.” He said to Dillon, “And you listened to me – brought Billy back in one piece.”

“After covering himself with glory.”

“No, that was the general,” Billy said.

Harry turned to Dillon. “And you, of course, did the usual.”

“More or less.”

“So what gives?”

“Rossi flew in from Belfast this morning, with a passenger named Charles Mackenzie on his passport.”

“But in fact, Derry Gibson, according to Roper,” Hannah put in.

Harry said, “And what would that bastard be doing here?”

“Yes, that’s the thing,” Ferguson said.

“Well, I’d say it’s bleeding obvious,” Billy put in. “He’s out for you, Dillon.”

Dillon lit a cigarette. “He could be out for any one of us.”

“Well, just let him try,” Harry said. “He sank my boat. I’ll have him for that.”

“The important thing is to find out what the Baron and Rossi plan to do next,” said Ferguson. “I’ve got Roper doing one of his searches on von Berger’s place in Germany. I suggested he meet us at your restaurant, Harry, if that suits you.”

“Absolutely.”

Newton phoned Rossi again. “We’ve followed them to this restaurant in Wapping, Harry’s Place. They’ve gone in, and Roper’s turned up in his wheelchair.”

“Stay there.” Rossi turned to the Baron.

“Interesting,” von Berger said, and then, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll tell you what, Marco, let’s go meet them. Oh! And go and get Mr. Gibson. We’ll all go together. We’ll stir the pot! Won’t that be amusing?”

“Infinitely,” Marco said.

Harry’s Place was another of Salter’s warehouse conversions on Hangman’s Wharf. The whole place had been revitalized, its brickwork cleaned, new windows in mahogany. There was always a line, mainly of young people trying to get into the bar, which had become a smart place to be seen. Steps had been added to make the entrance more imposing, and there was a ramp beside it, which Roper used when his black cab arrived.

Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were on the entrance in black tie, controlling the line. They came down and got Roper out of his cab.

“Great to see you, Major,” Joe said, and pushed him up the ramp.

There was a young punk in a silk bomber jacket standing with two girls at the front of the line. “You’ve got to be a bloody cripple to get service here.”

Sam Hall, almost casually, slapped him backhanded across the face, then grabbed him by the front of the jacket. “That man is probably the biggest hero you ever set eyes on, sunshine. So you get to go to the back of the line. Alternatively, you could just sod off.”

The youth put his hands up. “Okay.” He pulled the girls away and went.

Joe Baxter said, “Sorry about that, Major.”

“Sticks and stones, Joe, I couldn’t care less. I’m lucky to be here.”

They went inside and the headwaiter, a dark energetic Portuguese named Fernando, came forward. “Major Roper, a pleasure. I’ll lead the way.”

With Baxter at the helm, they followed Fernando into the restaurant, which was beautifully designed in Art Deco. There was a small dance floor, a four-piece band and cocktail bar straight out of the thirties. The waiters wore cruise ship monkey jackets. The Salters, Ferguson and his people were all in the largest booth. Harry got up and roughed Roper’s shoulder-length hair.

“You still go round like a bloody hippie.”

“I express my individuality, Harry.”

Salter looked down into that burned, ravaged face and gave him a hug. “You’re a real piece of work, Roper.”

“Now don’t take pity on me, Harry. If that gets out in the East End, you’ll be finished.” He turned to Ferguson. “Okay. Most of this you know, some you don’t. The whole thing with Holstein Heath, of course, is that due to an error, it was never East German nor West. If anything, it was neo-Nazi, even though von Berger never belonged to the party. He’s kept the flame alight. For years after the war, all the police there were former SS, and so on.”

He took a drink of whiskey. “Von Berger frequently visits Schloss Adler, often with Rossi. They come in by helicopter at a landing area close to the Schloss, but it’s a huge meadow and they can actually land a plane on it, too.”

“Do we have any kind of connection there?” Ferguson asked.

“It’s a tight-knit community. As a matter of interest, though, about forty kilometers from Neustadt, on the edge of the Schwarze Platz, is a small village called Arnheim. There’s a handful of houses, but an old Luftwaffe base from the Second World War. It’s dilapidated, but it has a landing strip that can take most things, and it’s used by a man called Max Kubel.” He turned to Ferguson. “He’s been on your list out there for a number of years. A smuggler of most things, including people to the West, flies an old Storch plane on special jobs. His father was Luftwaffe in the war. He knows Neustadt very well. I’ve spoken to him.”