“I finally discovered. The night in Belfast when our mystery woman saved me and then raised her arm in salute. I’d seen Grace Browning’s picture on a theatre poster at the Europa. After the same woman didn’t shoot me and gave me that identical salute in the cemetery at Vance Gardens, I walked up to the King’s Head in Upper Street and saw Grace Browning’s face on a theatre poster.”

There was silence. Ferguson said, “That’s pretty slim evidence, Dillon. Circumstantial to say the least.”

“I know, Brigadier, but it’s what Carl Jung meant by synchronicity,” and Dillon went into the other office.

Within an hour he and Hannah were back at Ferguson ’s desk.

“Well, what have we got?” he demanded.

Hannah turned to Dillon. “You start.”

“Right,” Dillon said. “In October ninety-one, Grace Browning did a short run at the Minerva in Chichester of Brendan Behan’s The Hostage. The company was asked to do a two-week run of the play at the Lyric Theatre in Belfast. The first and second weeks in November.”

He paused. “Go on,” Ferguson said.

“The killing of those two IRA men that January 30 claimed credit for took place during the first week of the run.” He turned. “Hannah?”

She said, “Professor Tom Curry was there for four days covering the time in question, and also Rupert Lang. He was there for two days, but one of them was the day in question.”

“Dear God!” Ferguson said.

“More bad news,” Hannah Bernstein told him. “According to the record, Lang is licensed to carry a handgun when in Northern Ireland.”

“And the weapon?”

“A Beretta 9-millimeter Parabellum. We’d need to check the rounds it’s fired.”

“Of course,” Ferguson said. “But there’s increasingly little doubt about what we’d find.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“One slight clue,” Dillon told him. “It seems Curry came from Dublin. There was a history of Irish nationalism in the family, but his mother became a card-carrying member of the Communist Party.”

“All right, that might explain Curry, but the Browning woman, one of our finest actresses, and Rupert Lang.”

“There is one link, sir,” Hannah Bernstein said. “A violent one. When she was twelve her parents were murdered in a street robbery in Washington. She was present. Saw it all.”

“Good Lord.”

“After that she came to London and lived with her aunt in the house she presently occupies in Cheyne Walk.”

“And Rupert Lang isn’t just Mr. Savile Row,” Dillon said. “He was at Bloody Sunday with One Para, wounded, killed at least three times, according to his Army record, and was awarded a Military Cross for undercover work.”

Ferguson sighed and turned to Hannah. “Is it still a circumstantial case, Chief Inspector?”

“Oh yes, sir, but a strong one.”

He nodded. “I can see that, but I’ll have to speak to the Prime Minister.”

“And Lang, sir?”

“We’ll see. Leave it to me.”

At around the same time, Grace Browning and Tom Curry, driving down from London into Kent, found a sign to Coldwater. The village wasn’t much, a line of cottages on either side of the road, a village green, a pond, a small inn called The George and Dragon. They carried on through and found another sign a quarter of a mile farther on that indicated Cold-water airfield to the right.

They found it at the end of a narrow lane, a couple of old hangars, a control tower, and a single tarmac runway that was crumbling badly. There was an old Land-Rover parked outside a Nissen hut. They parked beside it, and as they got out the door opened and a man emerged.

He was of medium height, obviously in his late forties, with a graying beard and tangled hair. He wore black flying overalls and an old American Air Force flying jacket.

“Mr. Carson?” Curry asked.

“That’s me.”

“Don’t let’s bother with names.”

Carson didn’t offer to shake hands. “Colonel Belov said you’d be around. Better come in.”

Curry opened the boot of his car and took out two suitcases and followed him into the Nissen hut, Grace behind him. Inside, he put the cases down and looked around. There was a stove for heating, a desk, charts pinned to the wall.

“You know the flight’s planned for Sunday?” Curry asked.

“That’s right.” Carson unrolled a flying chart across his desk. It covered Ireland across to the Galway coast. “I’ve found an old flying strip about ten miles from this Drumgoole place. Here at Kilbeg.”

“Do you envisage any problems with the flight?” Grace asked him.

“Only with the weather. Ireland ’s a sod. Too much rain. Flight time to County Clare could be anything between three and four hours, depending on the wind. I can’t do anything about that. You’re stuck with what you get on the day.”

“In view of what you say, if we want to be at Drumgoole by noon we’ll need an early start,” Curry said.

“I’d say seven to seven-thirty in the morning to be on the safe side,” Carson said.

“Fine.” Curry nodded. “We’ll be here.”

“And the return?” Carson asked.

“Let’s say we’ll be back with you by two o’clock,” Curry told him.

“That’s good. I don’t want to hang about.”

Grace said, “Could we see the plane?”

“Sure. This way.”

It had started to rain as they crossed to the hangars. She said, “It’s a strange place, this.”

“RAF feeder station during the Second World War. Everything falling apart now.”

He rolled back one of the hangar doors and led the way in. There were two planes in there, one single engined, the other a twin.

“The single is an Archer, the twin is a Cessna Conquest. That’s what we’ll be using.”

“Fine,” Grace said.

They turned and went out and he closed the door. When they reached their car Tom Curry said, “We’ll be here at the crack of dawn on Sunday. Let’s hope we have a good day.”

“I don’t care what kind of day you have,” Carson told him. “I’m getting more than well paid, so I mind my own business. I’m an in-and-out man, that’s all I’m interested in.”

“We’ll be seeing you then,” Grace told him.

He frowned slightly. “Do I know you from somewhere? You seem familiar.”

“I don’t think so,” she said and got in the car.

Curry opened the door. “The two suitcases aren’t locked, so you don’t need to break into them. Look after them until Sunday.”

He got behind the wheel and drove away. Carson watched them go and then went back into the Nissen hut. He lit a cigarette and stood looking down at the suitcases. Finally he shrugged and put them on the desk. When he opened the first one he found a priest’s cassock and clerical collar. The second one contained a nun’s habit. Underneath there was an AK-47 and a Beretta automatic.

He shivered and closed the cases quickly. None of his business, any of it. He didn’t want to know, much better that way, and he put the cases on the floor against the wall.

In the study at Downing Street the Prime Minister sat grim-faced as he listened to what Ferguson had to say.

“So there it is, Prime Minister. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”

“You were right, of course, to advise me to keep quiet about Sunday’s meeting at Ardmore House,” the Prime Minister said. “If there is any truth in what you say, if Rupert Lang is connected with January 30, the consequences could have been grave.”

“I must point out, Prime Minister, that even if January 30 knew of the meeting, it doesn’t necessarily mean they would have made an attempt on Senator Keogh’s life. Their general motive has been obscure to say the least.”

“True, but you’ve made a more than circumstantial case against Lang and the others, as far as I am concerned.”

“I’m afraid the word circumstantial is apt, Prime Minister. They can tough it out, the Browning woman and Professor Curry.”

“And Lang?”