“Ah, there you are, Ferguson, right on time.”

“Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, my personal assistant, and Sean Dillon.”

“Your personal hit man.” Lang smiled at Dillon. “We probably traded shots back there in Derry in the old days.”

“And isn’t that a fact?” Dillon told him.

Lang turned to Hannah. “And what have they brought you along for, Chief Inspector? To read me my rights, make an arrest?”

“If necessary, sir.”

“Well it isn’t, I assure you. Stupid mistake, the whole thing, but come in out of the rain and I’ll explain.”

He led the way into the drawing room where Danger, lying in front of the fire, got up. “Down, boy.” Lang stroked him cheerfully. “Not a bit of harm in him, believe me. Soft as a brush. I’ve got a bottle of Bollinger on ice and Mrs. Farne will serve a light lunch in the conservatory before you go back.”

“Don’t you mean we, sir?” Hannah said.

“A trifle premature, I would have said. Would you mind doing the honors, Dillon? It’s stuffy in here.” He went and opened the French windows to the terrace. “That’s better.”

Dillon uncorked the champagne and poured. Hannah said, “Not for me.”

“On duty, Chief Inspector?” Lang smiled, looking immensely attractive, and held a glass out to her and in spite of herself she took it. “Now what shall we drink to?”

“Why not January 30?” Ferguson said.

“Oh dear, there you go again, Brigadier. I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. As for the Beretta, well unfortunately it’s been stolen from my desk at the House…”

Ferguson held up a hand and took one of the chairs by the fire. “I’d sit down if I were you.” He turned to Hannah. “Chief Inspector, in the matter of Mr. Rupert Lang’s involvement in the terrorist group we know as January 30, make your case.”

Land sprawled in a chair listening, a slight smile on his face, one hand stroking Danger’s head, the other holding his glass of champagne. When she was finished, he stood up and went and recharged his glass.

“Anyone else?” he asked, holding up the bottle. “No?”

“A convincing case, you must agree, Lang,” Ferguson said.

“Total fantasy, the lot of it. Tom Curry and I have lived together for years and quite openly, that’s the connection there. Colonel Yuri Belov is someone I’ve met casually on the Embassy party circuit, as I’m sure many Members of Parliament have. Grace Browning is a dear friend to both Tom Curry and myself. To attempt to tie us all in together as members of this January 30 group quite frankly beggars belief.”

“High melodrama, the whole thing, I grant you that,” Ferguson told him.

“And totally circumstantial. I mean, come on, Ferguson. I’m in Belfast on Government business, Tom has a few days at Queen’s, and Grace Browning happens to be performing at the Lyric Theatre, and when a couple of IRA louts end up dead in an alley, you accuse the three of us.”

“I accuse January 30,” Ferguson said, “who claimed those killings. After all, there’s the business of Dillon and the Sons of Ulster. Only Dillon himself, Chief Inspector Bernstein, Simon Carter, myself, the Prime Minister, and you knew about that, and the same circumstance applied in the unfortunate killing of Liam Bell.” He shook his head. “Simple process of elimination, Lang. In both cases you had to be the leak.”

Lang stood there, the slight fixed smile on his face. “Any good barrister could demolish that argument at an Old Bailey trial in five minutes flat. You see, Ferguson, the only link to the January 30 killings is the Beretta. Now you say it’s my Beretta, but as that has unfortunately been stolen, we’ll never know, will we? Of course, I’m sorry I panicked and cleared off after finding the gun was missing. Naturally I’ll offer the PM my resignation.”

It was Dillon who broke the log jam. “Jesus, me ould son, but you’ve got a tongue on you.” He went to the table and took the bottle of Bollinger from the bucket. “Is it all right if I help myself?”

“Be my guest, old sport.”

Dillon filled his glass. “Why did you do it, that’s what interests me. I mean, Belov I understand. He’s a pro working for his own side, and Curry is obviously your typical British middle-class wealthy liberal nut case who wants to make the world safe for Communism. Have I left anything out?”

“He’s Irish, actually,” Lang said.

“As for the girl, I’ve formed the opinion she’s touched in the head,” Dillon told him. “But that’s another story.” He looked up at the portrait of the Earl of Drury over the fireplace. “Ancestor of yours, from the look of his face. A grand arrogant bastard who walked over everybody. He probably laid his riding crop over the shoulders of his servants and made all the maids have sex with him.”

Lang’s face was pale. “Take care, Dillon.”

“You’d rather be him, is that it? Modern life too boring? All the money in the world and all you could find to do was play at politics and then January 30 came along. I don’t know how, but it came along.” There was that wolfish look on Lang’s face now. Dillon said, “I’d like to know one thing. Did Grace Browning make all the hits or did you share?”

“You go to hell,” Lang told him.

Ferguson stood up. “I believe there is enough evidence to take you into custody, Lang. You’ll come back to London with us.” He turned to Hannah. “Read him his rights, and for the moment charge him with treason.”

“Nobody’s taking me anywhere,” Lang said and snapped his fingers. “Stand, boy.” Danger was on his feet instantly, a rumble like distant thunder deep in his throat. “He’ll tear your arm off, Ferguson, if I tell him to.”

“Is that a fact?” Dillon said and whistled, a strange eerie sound that seemed to come from another place. “Now then, Danger boy.” He held out a hand. The wolfhound wriggled close, reached up and licked the hand.

“Good God!” Lang said.

“A man who was once my friend taught me that trick,” Dillon said.

“Ah, well, it just goes to show you can’t rely on anything in this wicked old world,” Rupert Lang said and took a Browning from inside the pocket of his smock. “Except one of these, of course. Sorry, Ferguson, but I’m not going anywhere.”

He backed out of the window and was gone, the dog running after him. Dillon took out his Walther and ran onto the terrace, pausing to get his bearings. There was no sign of Lang and then the roaring of an engine and he rode out of the barn on the Montesa, skidded out through the main gate, and took the track up to the moor.

Dillon ran across to the Range Rover and in the same moment saw the other Montesa on its stand inside the barn.

He turned and called to Ferguson and Hannah, who had emerged onto the terrace. “There’s another bike. I’m going after him. I’ll call you on my Cellnet phone, Hannah.”

A moment later, he roared out of the barn, turned through the gates, and went after Lang, who was high up on the track now, the wolfhound chasing him.

Dillon’s tweed suit was soaked within minutes, water spraying everywhere from the rough track, and the rain dashed in his face, half-blinding him. For some reason he seemed to be gaining, and when he went over a rise after coming up through the trees he saw Lang no more than a hundred yards in front, Danger running alongside, keeping pace with him with apparent ease.

And yet it was the wolfhound in the end that was Lang’s undoing, for as they reached the crest of the track, high above the forest, three sheep came over the drystone wall. Danger, ahead of the motorcycle at that point, crossed in front to snap at the sheep. Lang swerved to avoid him.

At that point there was a wooden five bar gate. He smashed through it, careered down a grass slope, and plunged over a ledge of rock, still astride the Montesa and, amazingly, the dog leapt after him.