Carson had a frying pan on the stove, and he turned and smiled. “Eggs and bacon. Best I can do, but you’ll need something inside you.”

She was surprised to find that she felt hungry and checked her watch. It was six-fifteen. She opened the door and looked outside at the relentless rain.

“It looks rough. Will there be a problem?”

“Not really,” he told her and dished out the bacon and eggs on two metal plates. “A bit bumpy to start, but we’ll soon climb above it. There’s bread and butter there and tea in the pot. Help yourself.”

At about the same time, Dillon and Hannah Bernstein arrived in Cavendish Square and were admitted to Ferguson ’s flat by Kim, who vanished at once into the kitchen. Ferguson appeared from his bedroom fastening a Guards tie.

“Ah, there you are. Have you had breakfast?”

Hannah glanced at Dillon. “Hardly, sir, we knew you were anxious for an early start.”

“Very conscientious of you, Chief Inspector. We’ll beat the traffic to Gatwick. Time enough to have breakfast at one of the airport cafes.”

“Jesus, but you’re a thoughtful man, Brigadier,” Dillon said.

“Aren’t I? Which is why I told Kim to make us a nice pot of tea.” At that moment the Ghurka came in with a tray. “There you are,” Ferguson said. “Help yourselves while I finish dressing,” and he went out.

It was soon after that the Cessna Conquest roared along the runway at Coldwater and lifted into the rain. Carson was sitting in the pilot’s seat, a chart spread on the right-hand seat. Grace sat in a seat at the rear of the cabin, her suitcase wedged between two seats on the other side.

She looked out of the window and saw only rain and heavy cloud. The plane rocked from side to side and was buffeted by a crosswind as they turned and climbed. After a while they broke out through the cloud, but there was no sunshine, only a great vault of gray.

The buffeting had stopped now and they seemed to have leveled out. “Curtain up,” she said softly. “First act.” She leaned back and closed her eyes.

At precisely nine o’clock the Lear Jet lifted off at Gatwick and started to climb. Ferguson sat on the right of the gangway, Hannah Bernstein on his left. Dillon sat opposite her facing them.

The phone rang and Hannah Bernstein answered it. She listened, then said, “Thank you,” and put it down.

“What was that?” Ferguson said.

“The Yard. The River Police have recovered Grace Browning’s BMW but not her.”

“Oh, she’ll come up eventually,” Ferguson said, “and we’ll have a lovely funeral, half of show business crying into their hankies.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, that is rather callous,” Hannah told him.

“That’s as may be.”

“As for me, I’d be happier if I’d seen her laid out on the slab,” Dillon said. “It’s my superstitious nature.”

“Now that is being melodramatic,” Ferguson told him. “Go and do something useful. From what the pilot tells me the weather at Shannon isn’t marvelous. Go and check with him. You’re the flyer.”

Dillon unbuckled his seat belt and Ferguson took a Times from the pile of newspapers he’d purchased at Gatwick and opened it.

After a while he said, “Here we go. Coroner’s inquest on Rupert Lang today.”

“Shouldn’t Dillon have been there, sir?”

“I got an exclusion order from the Home Office. Defense of the Realm and all that, so the Coroner has agreed to accept Dillon’s written statement. I wrote it myself. Rather good. Dillon was acting as a security guard, Lang suggested they go for a ride on the motorcycles, and it went tragically wrong.”

“What about the shepherd, Sam Lee?”

“All that lout can say is what he saw. They were riding along the track and Lang lost control and went through the gate. Funeral is tomorrow. St. Margaret’s, Westminster.”

“I should think that will be quite a turnout,” Hannah said.

“Good God, yes. They’ll all be there. The PM and the Cabinet, Leader of the Opposition, not to mention officers from the Grenadiers and the Parachute Regiment. After all, he was a hero,” Ferguson said. “MC and all that, brave officer. They’ll see him out in style.”

“He must be laughing his head off,” she said.

“Yes, he always was a cynical bastard.”

Dillon came back and slid into his seat. “Low cloud and turbulence at Shannon and heavy rain that’s expected to last most of the day.”

“Any problems?” Ferguson asked.

“Not with the two lads up there in the cockpit flying this thing. They flew Tornadoes in the Gulf War. Twenty trips each to Baghdad.”

“That’s all right then.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “We’ll have some tea, and just to stay politically correct and on the right side of Miss Wonderful here, I’ll make it.”

The conquest came out of cloud at approximately a thousand feet and saw the coast of Ireland ahead, County Waterford to be precise. Carson went lower, approaching the coastline at five hundred feet over a turbulent sea. And then, as Grace looked out, they were across, green fields below, hedgerows and farmhouses. A few miles inland and he started to climb until they were enveloped in cloud. She unbuckled her belt and went forward and tapped him on the shoulder and he pulled down his earphones.

“Any problems?” she asked.

“None so far, but there are headwinds from now on.”

“Will it hinder us? My timing is of absolute importance.”

“I shouldn’t think so, thanks to that early start. If it stays like this we’ll have a tailwind most of the way back. A much quicker trip home.”

“Good,” she said.

“There’s a black box back there by the luggage compartment and toilet. You’ll find a thermos flask of boiled water and coffee and tea bags.”

“What’s your preference?”

“Coffee, very black.”

“I’ll see to it,” and she turned and went along the gangway.

The Lear Jet came in to Shannon Airport sixteen miles west of Limerick at twenty minutes to eleven. The pilot made an excellent landing and proceeded to a dispersal point at the far end of the hangars as ordered, an area of little activity. The only other machine in sight was a helicopter, two crew visible in the cockpit. There was also a black Rover car parked there, a driver at the wheel, and a large man in a navy-blue raincoat and an umbrella over his head came forward as one of the pilots opened the door of the Lear jet and the stairs came down. Ferguson went first, followed by Hannah Bernstein and Dillon, who carried a canvas hold-all bag.

The big man had a Cork accent and a tough, hard face to him. “Brigadier Ferguson? I’m Chief Superintendent Patrick Hare, Special Branch.”

Ferguson shook hands. “This is my assistant, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch.”

“A great pleasure.” Hare shook her hand.

“And this rogue is one Sean Dillon, of whom you may have heard over the years.”

Hare’s astonishment was plain. “Holy Mother of God, I can’t believe it.”

“In the flesh,” Dillon said. “I remember back in the eighties I was on the run in the Republic and you were snapping at my heels. Chief Inspector then.”

Hare grinned reluctantly. “So you’ve gone over?”

“Haven’t we all these days?” Dillon said and offered his hand.

After a slight hesitation Hare took it and turned to Ferguson. “There’s an office in the hangar we can use. The Gulfstream carrying Senator Keogh is twenty minutes out. As you can see, the helicopter is ready and waiting.”

“How much do you know?” Ferguson asked as they went into the hangar.

“Everything. I’ve been briefed by the Prime Minister himself, who stressed the need for total secrecy, which is why he’s not here himself. It would obviously attract too much attention.”