“They’re bagging him now. The Brigadier’s here. I’ll see if he wants a word.” She called to Ferguson. “Dillon, sir. Do you want to speak to him?”

Ferguson, who was talking to Father Thomas, called, “Tell him to come to Cavendish Square. I’ll see you there as well. I’m waiting for the American Ambassador.”

“Dillon?” she said. “Stay there. I’ll pick you up.”

He got himself a Bushmills and moved to the door giving access to the theatre section. The young girl on duty had the door half open and was peering inside herself.

She half-turned as Dillon appeared at her shoulder. “It’s a sellout, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right, I just wanted a peek. I happen to know Grace Browning.”

He looked over her shoulder across the darkened room, the audience seated at the tables, to the brightly lit stage area. Grace Browning, dressed in a costume from the nineteen thirties, was vigorously denouncing her leading man. She turned and stormed off and the audience applauded.

The young girl said, “Isn’t she wonderful?”

“You could say that,” Dillon said and smiled. “Yes, I think you could.”

He turned away as the intermission crowd started to come out to the bar and saw Hannah enter. He went to her, draining his glass and putting it on the bar.

“I might have known. I meant you to wait outside, not inside,” she said. “Let’s get going.”

“Jesus, girl, the bad mood you’re in.”

“I got both barrels from the Brigadier. In his opinion you and I have fallen down on the job rather badly.” They got into her car and drove away. “Now what happened back there?”

“She stepped out from a mausoleum doorway on the other side of Bell. There wasn’t much light and she had the scarf around her head. I shouted to Bell to get down, but she shot him twice, silenced weapon of course. As I fired in return, she faded away.”

“And then?”

“Rather stupid. I emptied my gun, hoping for a lucky hit. While I was reloading she stepped into the path, leveled her gun, and called to me.”

“What did she say?”

Dillon told her. “And the accent was very Pakistani, no doubt about that. When she made off, I opened fire again, which was when you arrived.”

“So we’re looking for a Muslim woman?”

“Or someone pretending to be one.” Dillon took the Harrod’s shopping bag from inside his trench coat and opened it. “A pair of muslin trousers and one chador.”

“Good,” she said. “You can get good fingerprints from a plastic bag, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“But why didn’t she shoot you?” Hannah shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. And how did she know who you were?”

He lit a cigarette. “Oh, that’s easy. You see, I think we’ve met before.”

NINE

Ferguson was sitting by the fire, the telephone in his hand, when Kim showed them in. He waved them to sit.

“Yes, Prime Minister, of course, I’ll be there in an hour.” He nodded. “We’ll have a complete update for you.” He put the phone down. “What a balls-up. God knows what President Clinton’s going to say.”

“Yes, it’s bad news, I’m afraid,” Hannah said.

“Bad news?” His face was purple. “It’s bloody disastrous. I mean, you two were supposed to watch out for him.”

It was Dillon who said, “She was ahead of him, waiting in ambush in the cemetery. It was only chance that I noticed her as we drove off.”

“What happened? Tell me everything.”

Which Dillon did. When he was finished he said, “A bit of luck finding the muslin trousers and the chador, not that they’ll help much in my opinion.”

“Which doesn’t count for very much at the moment,” Ferguson told him.

Hannah said, “Dillon has a theory that January 30 will claim this one, sir.”

Ferguson, in the act of taking a cigarette from a silver box, paused, frowning a little. “But they just have. Phoned the BBC about an hour ago. That’s one of the things the Prime Minister wants to see me about.” He lit his cigarette. “All right, Dillon, let’s have it.”

“I think we’ve met before. That’s why she knew me.”

“Where?”

“ Belfast, when the Sons of Ulster set me up, the lone motorcyclist in black leathers who took out the lookout man. I said at the time, if you recall, that he made a strange gesture. Raised an arm in salute before riding off.”

“And?”

“She did exactly the same tonight. So it was no man on that motorcycle in Belfast; it was her.”

“Another thing, sir,” Hannah said. “The night she saved Dillon in Belfast she used an AK, but all the other hits have been with the same weapon, the Beretta. I’ve a hunch that the rounds that come out of Mr. Bell will match.”

“I’m not sure that makes sense to me,” Ferguson said, “but we’ll wait and see what the lab report shows. Anyway, I’ve got to go and see the PM now to discuss this whole unfortunate affair and the possible repercussions. You two will just have to wait here until I get back. Not much sleep for anyone tonight, but that’s the way it is.”

Simon Carter and Rupert Lang were waiting downstairs when Ferguson arrived at Downing Street.

“Good God, Ferguson, what went wrong?” Carter demanded.

“I’ll explain that to the Prime Minister,” Ferguson said as an aide took them upstairs. “Are you thoroughly briefed on all this?” he asked Rupert.

Lang nodded. “I’m afraid so. Terrible business.” He was, in fact, more up-to-date than any of them, for he had been at Cheyne Walk after the show discussing the night’s events with Grace, Curry, and Belov when the call on his Cellnet phone had summoned him to Downing Street.

The aide showed them into the study. The Prime Minister didn’t bother with the courtesies. “Sit down and let’s get on with it, gentlemen. Brigadier, what went wrong?”

Ferguson explained exactly what had happened. When he was finished, Carter snorted angrily. “So Dillon failed this time?”

“Nonsense.” It was the Prime Minister who had spoken. “There was nothing more that Dillon or Chief Inspector Bernstein could have done, that’s obvious. This woman was ahead of them, waiting to ambush Mr. Bell. What I’d like to know is how she knew about him, knew he was here, knew his whereabouts.”

“Yes, a mystery that, Prime Minister,” Ferguson said, “and Dillon has supplied another.” He explained briefly Dillon’s theory that the motorcyclist in Belfast and the Muslim woman were one and the same person. “And it may not be just a theory,” he concluded. “ Dillon predicted who would claim responsibility before we heard about the call to the BBC.”

“January 30,” the Prime Minister said. “Surely to God we can do something about these people? Brigadier, I would be obliged if you’d mount a special investigation, go over everything they’ve ever been connected with. There must be something, some clue or other. There must be.”

“If there is, we’ll find it,” Ferguson told him. “ Perhaps the Deputy Director’s people can do the same. Two separate approaches might turn something up.”

“Of course, Prime Minister,” Carter told him. “And I’d particularly like to find out why this woman didn’t shoot Dillon when she had the chance.”

The Prime Minister stood up and warmed his hands at the fire. “Events in Ireland are moving faster than I would have thought possible. Because of this, I intend to make my flying visit to see President Clinton to-morrow. With luck I’ll be back before anyone knows I’ve gone. I do not, I repeat, do not want this on the front page of the Daily Express.”

“We understand, Prime Minister,” Carter said.

“But I stress again how worried I am that the Protestant factions may get out of hand and ruin all hopes of peace at the most crucial stage. This January 30 business tonight will hardly help. I know they’ve operated across the board, appear to kill willy-nilly, but Bell was not only a good man, he was a Catholic, and this won’t sit well with Sinn Fein and the IRA.”