Afterwards, he said, 'What a bunch of bastards. I mean, if you're British, you're British. I don't mind this Rashid being half Arab, but you behave yourself. I don't know, Dillon, ever since I've met you, I end up trying to save the world. What time do we leave in the morning?'

'Ten o'clock from Northolt.'

'Who's flying us? Lacey and Parry as usual?'

'Who else could you trust to drop you in from six hundred feet?'

Billy smiled wolfishly. 'Too bloody right. They got an Air Force Cross each last time, didn't they?'

'That's right.'

'Any chance of me getting one?'

'Not in a million years, Billy.'

'And they wouldn't give you one?'

'All they'd give me is twenty years if they could.'

Harry Salter got up. 'Right, we'd better go and get on with the packing.'

'We?' Ferguson said.

'I can't bloody well dive, but I can use a shooter and sit in the boat,' Salter said. 'It's called family.'

At the Mayfair house, Paul Rashid said to Kate, 'Take George. He can act as a link with the tribesmen. He knows the dialect, and they respect him, because he's my brother. They respect you, too, because you're my sister, but they're Arabs. They still feel uncomfortable with a strong woman.'

'Then they must learn.'

He embraced her. 'Bell is what matters. He's good, but he has to obey you. Any trouble, and I'll have him and his three friends wiped off the face of the map. Those are my people there.'

'I know, brother, I know. I won't let you down. I'll astound you.'

Dillon went back to check on Hannah Bernstein. She was slightly more alert and responded to him.

'What are you up to, Sean?' she murmured.

'It's what Rashid is up to. He's recruited Bell to go down to Hazar with his cronies. We don't know what for yet.'

'And you're going?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me about it.'

Which he did.

Afterwards, she said, 'So it's you and Billy and dear old Harry into the war zone again?'

'So it would appear.'

'You'll never stop, will you, Sean?'

'It's what I am, Hannah. I lack a good woman, that's my trouble.'

'Oh, get on with it and stop making excuses.'

'I love you, too.' He kissed her on the forehead. 'God bless, Hannah.'

And for once, she gave him a smile, a real smile, 'God bless, Sean.'

Strange, but there he was: Sean Dillon, the ultimate hard man, and when he went out, there were tears in his eyes.

When he got home, he spoke to Blake Johnson on the phone and brought him up to date.

Blake said, 'Jesus, Sean. Hazar is Rashid territory, and you and Billy and Harry are going to go play deep-sea divers with Ferguson's cousin? Come on, you won't be able to go into a waterfront bar for a drink without someone trying to stick a knife in you.'

'True. All life will be there, Blake. You should come and join in the fun.'

'Frankly, my fine Irish friend, I'm tempted. What are the Rashids up to, Sean? Why import an IRA hit squad into Hazar?'

'Well, that's what I'm going to find out.'

'Then watch your back.'

Dillon laughed out loud. 'That I will, Blake. Who would have thought it – an IRA enforcer and two of London's finest gangsters in the middle of the desert. Why does it always have to be us?'

'Sean, I'm not into moral philosophy. I just have a sneaking suspicion that you and Billy are going to have much too good a time… I dive, too, you know. Do you really think the President…?'

'There's only one way for you to find out.'

At Northolt the following morning, they found Lacey and Parry waiting and, in something of a surprise, Ferguson.

'I thought I'd see you off. Lacey's had the roundels removed, since we needn't advertise the RAF. What are we calling it, Lacey?'

'A United Nations charter, General.' 'Ah, well, no one will quarrel with that.' The Quartermaster appeared, a rather tall and forbidding retired Guards Sergeant Major. 'There's a question of weapons, Mr Dillon. May we talk?' 'Of course,' Dillon said.

The Quartermaster led the way into an anteroom. On a wide table were several AK-47S, Brownings, Carswell silencers, and three small machine pistols.

'Parker-Hales, Mr Dillon.'

'Excellent, Sergeant Major.'

'I've had diving equipment loaded on board. You'll need air bottles down there. I'd take care if I were you. Never know what these Arab buggers might try to put in them.'

'I take the point,' Dillon told him.

'Good, because I would like to meet you again, Mr Dillon.'

'We'll see what we can do.'

The Sergeant Major said, 'I'll load up, sir.'

While the plane was loading, they drank coffee and tea in the lounge. Ferguson said, 'We have little outright influence in Hazar any longer. All these small countries like their independence these days. They don't have an army, just the Hazar Scouts, a small regiment of Arab Bedu traditionally commanded by British officers. At the moment Villiers is the commander – you know about him.'

'Do I liaise with him?' Dillon asked.

'He could be useful. He has his ear to the ground, knows what's going on. At the moment, as I understand it, the Scouts are patrolling the Empty Quarter. They have problems with Adoo bandits up there, men on the run from Yemen: Lawrence of Arabia stuff. It's just like the old days – any game is better than no game. Just like Northern Ireland, really.'

Billy said, 'The old sod's getting at you, Dillon.'

'Yes, I know he is, Billy, but it's okay.' Dillon smiled amiably. 'What do you want me to do, tell him to get stuffed?'

'Oh, you've been doing that one way or another for some years now, Dillon.' Ferguson got up. 'I don't know what's going on out there, but it's certain to be dodgy. Take care.'

'Ah, but I always do.' Dillon shook hands. 'Don't worry, Charles, you've got me, Billy, and Harry. We're an unbeatable combination.'

A few minutes later, the Gulfstream roared along the runway at Northolt. Ferguson waited, then turned and got into his Daimler and was driven away. It was all up to Dillon now, but then there was nothing new in that.

Hazar The airport at Hazar was five miles out of town. It was a single runway but had been built by the RAF in the old days for military use, so it was capable of handling anything, even a Hercules. When the Gulfstream landed and they disembarked, two Land Rovers drove up. The man who got out of the first one was in his sixties, deeply tanned, white-bearded, wearing a crumpled bush hat, khaki shirt and slacks.

'Hal Stone.' He held out his hand. 'I understand you're a hell of a diver, Dillon.'

'How did you know it was me?'

'The wonders of modern science. Computers, the Internet, the downloading of pretty colour pictures.' He turned to the others. 'Billy and Harry Salter. What a combination. Even the Kray brothers would have been impressed.'

He called in Arabic and two men got out of the other Land Rover. 'Load everything. Take it to the Sultan.'

Lacey and Parry found them, and Dillon made the introductions. Stone said, 'Are you staying over?'

'Not this time, sir,' Lacey told him.

'Good, then you won't need my rather dubious expertise on Hazar. What to avoid, which on the whole is everything.' He turned to the others. 'Come on. I could do with a cold beer before I show you the Sultan.'

In the Land Rover, Dillon lit a cigarette. 'You're actually a Cambridge don?'

'A Fellow of Corpus Christi and Hoxley Professor of Marine Archaeology. There's another thing you should know about me: I used to work for the Secret Security Services when I was a lot younger and rather more foolish. Cousin Charles has filled me in on you and your friends, so I know what you're up to, but frankly I don't care as long as you do some diving for me.'

'Well, that sounds okay,' Billy told him.

'Billy is a master diver,' Dillon said. 'He's good.'