Miller joined them and said, 'That's because the Provos never wore one.'

'Now that wasn't fair,' Roper mocked.

'Remember what President Kennedy once said,' Dillon shrugged. 'Anyone who expects fairness in this life is seriously misinformed.'

'I love that,' Holley said, as he joined them. 'Seriously misinformed. It has a ring to it. Rolls off the tongue.'

Sergeant Doyle came in. 'I'm ready, gentlemen.'

'No fond farewells from the boss?' Dillon said. 'Ah, well, we who are about to die salute you.'

'Oh, get out, Dillon,' Roper said. 'I'll start to cry.' 'That'll be the day,' Dillon said, and led the way out. They reached Farley Field in forty minutes and discovered Ferguson and the Salters standing beside the Daimler, talking.

'There you are,' Ferguson said. 'We thought you'd got lost.'

'No, that's what happens when we try to find Algeria, General.' Dillon shook hands all round. 'Keep the faith. We'll see you soon.'

'It would seriously inconvenience me if you didn't,' Ferguson told him.

Holley and Miller got in, and Dillon paused. 'Keep an eye on Mickeen Oge for me, Billy.'

'You can count on it,' Billy called, as the door closed and Dillon moved up to take his seat beside Holley.

Ferguson and the Salters moved back to the Daimler and stood watching as the engines fired and it started to move away.

'What do you think?' Harry Salter asked.

'I don't know: a funny one, this.' Ferguson looked up as the Falcon lifted. 'All up to Dillon, I suppose.'

'Well, there's nothing new in that,' Harry said. The Citation had taken off two hours before the Falcon. Chuck Alan, a former US Navy pilot with a DFC who had served in Iraq and Afghanistan, was familiar with Justin Talbot's vagaries, but with the fabulous salary he was paid, never complained. Cruising at thirty-five thousand feet, he put the Citation on automatic pilot and went over their route.

'Should be easy,' he said. 'We'll pass over the Irish Republic, Bay of Biscay, Spanish mainland, and across the sea to Algeria and this Khufra place. Presumably there's a decent landing facility? You said we'd speak about that.'

Justin produced a photo text he'd obtained from the computer. 'Just there on the edge of the Khufra marshes is a desolate old airfield the Germans built in the Second World War. The buildings are ruins, but the runway can still take traffic.'

'You didn't mention that,' Chuck said. 'Is this an illegal drop?'

'No, it's part of a covert operation run by Algerian Military Police, which I'm assisting in. I should return in twenty-four hours. You'll be safe by the plane. I'm carrying a spare AK47 in my bag just for you.'

'That's a bit outdated,' Alan said.

'Not at all. It's the perfect weapon for swamp country. Vietnam proved that. You can bury one for years, dig it up, load it and it will fire instantly.'

'I don't know about this,' Alan said. 'Maybe I won't be able to land.'

'If you can't, I will, but after Iraq and Afghanistan, I'm willing to bet you a bonus of fifty thousand dollars that you can put this baby down at Fasa.'

Chuck Alan brightened considerably. 'You're on!'

'Good,' Talbot told him. 'Just turn off the automatic pilot and let's see some real flying. I'll go and get some coffee.'

Which he did and also called the Preacher. 'Thirty-five thousand feet up, cloudless blue sky and we're on our way.'

'You should be a couple of hours ahead of our friends when you land.'

'Not that it will make any difference to the final outcome,' Justin said, and switched off.

He had his coffee and a whiskey in it, thinking of what lay ahead, but his thoughts also turned to his mother. He brooded for a while, considering whether to call her, but decided on Jack Kelly instead. He found him in the estate office.

'I've gone away in rather a hurry for a few days,' he said. 'I'd like you to keep an eye on my mother.'

'I've seen her already, and she's distraught. Hannah found her weeping in her bedroom.'

'We didn't exactly part on the best of terms.'

'What on earth are you up to?'

'The problem is, it appears that she's taken to listening in to my phone conversations, and since she can only hear half of them, she seems to have come to the wrong conclusions about what's going on.'

'From what she's said to me, I'd say she's got an excellent idea – and it's scaring her to death. This Algerian trip, what the hell is it all about?'

'Al Qaeda business. A way of sorting out the Ferguson problem. I came up with a good idea and the Preacher approved.'

'What is it?'

Justin told him and, when he was finished, said, 'Quite clever, though I say it myself. What do you think?'

'That you're a raving bloody lunatic, Justin Talbot. You're Colonel Henry's grandson, all right.'

'Don't you dare say that to me.' Justin flared up at once.

'You do realize that the men you are going up against are extraordinary by any standards? Dillon and Holley, two of the most feared enforcers the Provisional IRA ever produced, and Major Harry Miller, who did our movement more harm during the Troubles than any other individual. Frankly, it's Hakim and his fifteen crooked coppers I'd be worried about in that swamp.'

'The difference is, I'll be there waiting for them.'

'Well, I'd take care, Justin, great care, that's all I can say. Watch your back. You'll need to.'

After he had gone, Justin opened the holdall which contained his Tuareg clothing. It would work, the whole thing, he told himself: had to. He checked and loaded the weapons, putting an AK47 to one side for Chuck and the other in a military rucksack, together with a few assorted grenades and extra ammunition, three field-service wound packs and some penicillin. He returned to the cockpit and eased into the second seat.

'Everything okay?' Chuck asked.

'Go have a coffee or whatever. I'll take over.'

He sat there, flying the plane; normally he enjoyed it, but not this time, and he knew why. It was what Kelly had said. A raving bloody lunatic. You're Colonel Henry's grandson all right. It was what he'd been afraid of for most of his life. It would take more than consigning his grandfather's portrait to the bonfire to make it go away. The call came in while Miller and Dillon were in the cabin eating sandwiches. Miller took it and switched it on to speaker.

Roper said, 'Check your laptop, Harry. I've just sent yu a couple of better photos I managed to run down of Ali Hakim and Hamza. I know Daniel's familiar with them, but they should be of use to you, too.'

'Thanks for that,' Miller told him. 'How is everybody?'

'Billy's gone to Rosedene to see Bellamy, and Harry insisted on going with him. He's taken the situation very seriously. I believe he thinks Billy might die on him.'

'And Ferguson?' Dillon asked.

'Just after seeing you off, he got a call from your pal, good old Henry Frankel, the Cabinet Secretary. The PM wants one of those one-page reports that he can use during Question Time. The worst problems facing the Secret Intelligence Services at the moment, blah blah blah. Naturally, Ferguson asked me to come up with a quick answer, but I doubt it's the kind of thing the PM wants to raise in the House of Commons.'

'Let me guess,' Dillon said. 'Number one, Muslim fundamentalism. Two, the rise of the Russian Federation. And three, the fact that, since the Peace Process in Ulster, what was the PIRA has become a criminal organization that's bigger than the Italian Mafia.'

'Got it all, Dillon. Hardly worth my writing it down. The Russians have sixty-two thousand in the GRU. Compared to that, British Military Intelligence is a joke. With the Muslims, Al Qaeda is only one of an exponentially growing number of extreme jihadist organizations.'

'And the Provos?' Miller said. 'They blew up the centre of Manchester and made a fortune out of rebuilding it, at least that's what many people think. It's a funny old life.'