After the meeting at Harry’s Place, Rossi had phoned Newton and Cook and told them to report to South Audley Street.

“You stay on Ferguson. First thing tomorrow, you find out every single place he goes.”

“But why?” Newton said. “What’s the purpose of this?”

“The purpose, you stupid oaf, is that we’re going to lift him at the right moment.”

There was consternation on both faces. “Now look here,” Cook said. “We’re not into that.”

Marco Rossi said, “You’re into what I say you are or I’ll see you never work again. Do what you’re told and don’t fuck with me.”

There was a moment of hesitation, then Newton said, “As you say, Mr. Rossi.”

“Right, get on with it. And don’t use your car. Get a white van, something anonymous, right?”

They went out and Gibson, who’d been in the room, watching, said, “They used to be SAS? No wonder the Provos did so well. What happens now?”

“There’s an old airbase at Fotley; it’s got a decaying runway but it’s usable. I’ll have one of our planes left there. When we lift Ferguson, I’ll fly it myself.”

“To where?”

“Schloss Adler. The game starts there. The game, Derry, that will bring in Sean Dillon.”

“Well, that will suit me fine.”

In South Audley Street, Dillon left the Mini and walked through light rain to the side street where the Rashid house stood. He stood in the shadows and watched, and suddenly the door opened and Newton and Cook emerged. He recognized them at once and drew back into the shadows. They crossed to their car and got in. It was only then that Dillon hurried across the street, opened the door and put the muzzle of his Walther to Newton ’s temple.

“Hello, guys, am I your worst nightmare or not?”

Newton said, “Christ, it’s you, Dillon.”

“As ever was. What’s going on with Rossi?”

“For God’s sake, we just work for Rashid on security. He’s our new boss. That’s all, I swear.”

He was genuinely fearful and Dillon sensed it. “Okay, piss off, but come up against me and I’ll kill you, both of you.”

They drove away. Dillon turned to walk and the door opened and Rossi emerged in a blue tracksuit, a towel at his throat. He started to run.

Dillon called, “Hey, you bastard.”

Rossi paused, turned and saw him. “Dillon, is that you? What are you going to do, shoot me?”

“I’d love to, but you’ve been put off-limits at the moment.” Dillon shook out a cigarette and lit it. “Killing the old woman – a big war hero like you. It couldn’t have given much of a kick.”

“Fuck you, Dillon,” Rossi said.

“You’ve got it wrong. Right time, right place, I’ll kill you, Marco. She was a nice old lady. You shouldn’t have done it.”

He turned and walked away. Marco Rossi took a deep breath and started to run again. Behind him, the front door of the house gently closed. The Baron had followed him, had wanted a word, and instead had heard everything. He turned, and with a heavy heart mounted the stairs.

The Daimler picked Ferguson up the following morning at Cavendish Place, where Newton and Cook were parked in a British Telecom van, wearing appropriate yellow anoraks. They followed at a discreet distance to Harley Street, watched the Daimler park and waited, Cook opening the rear door of the van, taking out a large toolbox and looking busy. Newton strolled up the street, glancing at the brass nameplate on the door as he passed, and returned to Cook.

He leaned against the van and lit a cigarette. “Some surgeon, name of Merriman.”

Professor Henry Merriman was a large, avuncular man who greeted Ferguson warmly. A young nurse stood at a side table, various medical items laid out beside her.

“A pleasure, General. We’ll get straight on with it. It’s a very quick procedure. Just strip to the waist and Emily here will take care of your things.” He went to the table.

Ferguson got his jacket, tie and shirt off. “I hope it doesn’t hurt,” he said cheerfully.

“Nothing a little local anaesthetic can’t handle.” He turned, a small plastic ampoule in his hand. “Sit down, please, and raise your left arm. It’s instant.”

A slight prick and his skin was numb. “Excellent,” Ferguson said.

Emily was standing with what looked like a small aluminum pistol in one hand. Merriman took it from her. “I call it my stun gun, but that’s a joke.” He placed the muzzle against Ferguson ’s armpit, pulled a trigger. There was the slightest of clicks. He smiled. “You can get dressed.”

He handed the gun to the girl. Ferguson picked up his shirt. “That’s it? What happens now?”

“Nothing. Your implant is already code-indexed into the Omega Program’s computer. Where you go, it goes – any corner of the world.”

Ferguson finished dressing. It made him feel rather gloomy. “What about the toilet? Will it locate me there?”

Which the young nurse found very funny and laughed. Merriman smiled. “A possibility.”

Ferguson said, “Good morning, Professor. It’s been a sincere treat.”

Dillon called in at Roper’s and found him, as usual, at the computer banks. He paused from what he was doing. “Did you do something stupid?”

“I suppose so.” Dillon told him what had happened.

“Damn you, Sean, for an idiot. You’re baiting, stirring the pot.”

“It’s Rossi. I want to see him in…”

“I know – hell. Have you told Ferguson?”

“No. He wouldn’t be pleased. Anyway, he was doing the Omega thing today. Can you access that?”

“I can access anything, Dillon. I’ve already extracted his index code.”

“But he only had it this morning.”

“The microchip is precoded into the system, so he’s on the system from the moment he’s implanted. Watch.” His fingers danced over the keys. A map of England appeared. “There he is, the yellow luminous dot. Now we go in closer – London, and there’s the dot again. Closer, and there we are. Pall Mall and moving. Knowing Ferguson, I’d say lunch at the Reform Club.”

“Thanks for the information, but I’ll keep out of his way,” and Dillon left.

Rossi landed at Fotley, the old RAF airbase he had chosen, and found Gibson waiting for him. Rossi taxied to the end of the runway and turned, then switched off and got out and Gibson drove up to him.

“You found it, then?” Rossi said.

“I must have; I’m here, aren’t I? Queer sort of place. Everything looks as if it’s falling down.”

“It is. The war was a long time ago, but the runway’s still sound and that’s all that matters.”

“Twenty miles I made it.”

“That’s what I figured. Back to town.”

“To what?” Derry asked, as he turned onto a country road.

“You’ll see.”

To his astonishment, what he returned to was not what he had expected. The Rolls was parked outside the Rashid house, the chauffeur loading luggage into the trunk. The Baron appeared out of the door in his trilby and black leather coat and leaning on his cane.

Rossi said to Gibson, “Pull over and leave this to me.” He approached von Berger. “Father, what is this?”

“I’ve decided to go away, Marco. To Schloss Adler.”

“But why?”

“I need time to think. I heard you and Dillon last night, my son. You lied to me. You shouldn’t have done it. It wasn’t honorable.”

“But, Father…”

The Baron said nothing more. He got in the Rolls, the chauffeur slipped behind the wheel, and they drove away. Gibson said, “What in the hell was that all about?”

“Dillon,” Rossi said. “Damn him. He’s been a stone in my shoe too long. I’ll have him.” At that moment, his mobile sounded, and when he answered, Newton said, “We’re around the corner from the Reform Club in Pall Mall. Ferguson ’s gone in.”

“Probably for lunch,” Rossi said. “Okay, don’t stay. Go to Cavendish Place and set up there. I’ll send Gibson to join you. We’re going to do it today.”