"How did things go in Boston?"

"Much as you'd expect. It was Washington that was the disappointment." He told him about it, finishing, "And he made it clear Ferguson agrees with him."

"Well, we'll see about that. I'm my own man, and always have been. I'll see you in the morning and we'll discuss it."

"I'm going for a run in Hyde Park at seven-thirty. Have breakfast with me at nine."

"It's a date," and Dillon put down the phone.

He woke early the next morning and, looking at the clock, realized he had time to join Quinn on the run. He got up, dressed in a tracksuit, went downstairs, found his helmet, opened the mews garage, and drove away on the Suzuki.

On the way to Park Place, he thought about the Telecom van that Quinn had mentioned and wondered about the best way to handle that. Possibly an anonymous call to the police. Simple and direct.

He turned into South Audley Street from Grosvenor Square and, as he moved toward Park Place, Quinn emerged and darted across the road. A moment later, Cook and Newton, in tracksuits, showed up and followed him. Dillon cursed, swerved into Park Place, and turned in through Quinn's gates. He pulled the Suzuki up on its stand, reached into the right-hand saddlebag, lifted the secret flap at the bottom, and found his Walther. He slipped it into the right-hand pocket of his tracksuit and went after them, running fast.

Quinn crossed Park Lane using the underpa.s.s, ran up the steps on the other side, and entered Hyde Park, followed by Newton and Cook, but Dillon, pressing hard, was not far behind.

It was a misty morning, with a light drizzle. Half a dozen soldiers of the Household Cavalry cantered by, exercising their mounts, and there was the odd solitary rider. Quinn cut across the gra.s.s toward the trees. The mist was thicker there and there was no one about.

He heard a sudden rush of feet behind him and, as he turned, Newton shouldered him, sending him staggering. He fell to one knee and Cook kicked him in the chest. Quinn rolled over and managed to get to his feet as Cook ran in again. It all came back, the tricks of the trade, and he blocked Cook's punches, wrestled and threw him over his hip. Newton moved in from behind and slid an arm around his neck. Quinn dropped to his knees and turned over, tossing Newton over his head.

And then they were on their feet, both of them facing him. "Right, mate," Cook said. "This is where you get done."

And then there was a shot, the sound flat on the damp air, and Dillon arrived, Walther in hand. "I don't think so." He moved close. "Who put you up to this? Dauncey?"

"Get stuffed," Cook said.

Dillon kicked him between the legs, sending him down, turned to Newton, grabbed him by the front of his tracksuit, and held the Walther against his left ear.

"You have two choices. Number one, I blow your ear off. Number two, you tell me who sent you."

Newton panicked. "Okay, okay, it was Dauncey."

"There, wasn't that easy? I'd see to your friend if I were you, then report in and tell him Dillon was here." He chuckled. "Though I wouldn't want to be in your shoes when he finds out you've blown it." He nodded to Quinn. "Let's get out of here," and they jogged away.

At about the same time Newton and Cook were reporting the sad news to Dauncey, Quinn and Dillon confronted Ferguson at Cavendish Place. Hannah had just arrived in response to a call from Ferguson and was in time to hear what had taken place, both at the Priory and in the park.

Dillon finished his story and smiled. "So we know where we are. War to the knife."

"That's as may be," Ferguson told him, "but we still can't prove a thing. Dauncey will deny any relationship to those men."

"I couldn't care less," Quinn said. "This isn't about the law, Charles. It's about what we know and what we do about it."

"The President has spoken to me, you know." Ferguson shrugged. "You're on your own in this."

"No, he's not. He's got me," Dillon said.

"Then you no longer work for me," Ferguson told him calmly. "I'd think it over."

"I have." Dillon turned to Quinn. "Let's go, Senator."

Afterwards, Hannah said, "Are you sure about this, sir?"

"Only that Dillon will go to work with his usual ruthlessness."

"And that suits you?"

He smiled at her. "Admirably."

13.

LATER IN THE DAY, DAUNCEY LUNCHED WITH KATE RASHID and told her with annoyance about the events of that morning.

She shook her head. "What is this, the third time, Rupert? Either Quinn has a charmed life or we're seriously going to have to reexamine our way of doing business." She gave him a pointed look, but then she smiled. "But right now, I really don't care. Quinn was just the sideshow. The main event is about to begin."

"What do you mean?"

"I've heard from Barry Keenan. Colum McGee has arranged a meet."

"Where?"

"Drumcree, in three days' time. We'll go over Thursday afternoon, stay at the Europa, and drive down to Drumcree Friday morning. If things go well, we should be able to fly back from Aldergrove that evening."

"And is that when you're finally going to tell me what you're up to?"

"Absolutely, darling."

At the same time, Dillon and Quinn were ringing the bell at Regency Square. The door clicked open, and they found Roper at work as usual.

"I was just going to get in touch with you," he told Dillon. "Rashid and Dauncey are flying to Thursday afternoon. They're staying at the Europa and coming back Friday evening."

"You think this is important?" Quinn asked Dillon.

"I don't know. It could just be business, but the last time I was in Ireland with Kate Rashid, she was hiring the IRA. We'll fly out before her and see where she goes. Maybe I'll even show you the delights of City."

"Now that you've finished, could I get a word in?" Roper said.

"About what?"

"It so happens I know know where she's going. I know I'm a simple soul, but it seemed logical to me that they would have some company cars, and I found it in their database: a chauffeur, name of Hennesy, and his Volvo. He'll be driving them around." where she's going. I know I'm a simple soul, but it seemed logical to me that they would have some company cars, and I found it in their database: a chauffeur, name of Hennesy, and his Volvo. He'll be driving them around."

"You clever b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"No, I'm a brilliant b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I remember about your involvement with Rashid and Aidan Bell and the IRA last year...and that the name Drumcree figured largely."

"Jesus," Dillon said. "Don't tell me..."

"Oh, but I am am telling you. Hennesy picks her and Dauncey up at the Europa at nine-thirty Friday morning and proceeds to the Royal George at Drumcree. That's a strange name for a pub in the IRA heartland." telling you. Hennesy picks her and Dauncey up at the Europa at nine-thirty Friday morning and proceeds to the Royal George at Drumcree. That's a strange name for a pub in the IRA heartland."

"Well, I'm from County Down myself, and people have a sense of history where I come from. It's always been called that. Anything else?"

"Of course. As you'll recall, Drumcree was originally Aidan Bell's patch, before you killed him and his two henchmen, Tony Brosnan and Jack O'Hara."

"To be accurate, I killed Aidan and Jack. It was Billy Salter who shot Brosnan."

"I stand corrected. Anyway, I thought I'd access both the RUC and Army Intelligence at Lisburn, just to check on the Drumcree situation at the moment."

Quinn, who had stood by in silence, said, "You can do that?"

"I can do anything," Roper said, and smiled. "Even the White House."

"Never mind that," Dillon said. "Drumcree?"

"Oh, yes. Well, according to Lisburn, a chap called Barry Keenan runs things there now. Do you know him?"

"A long time ago. Aidan Bell's nephew."

"He has two minders, named Sean Casey and Frank Kelly. But they're not with the Provos anymore, they're Real IRA."

"Barry was always tops in the explosives business. Big with the bombs." Dillon nodded. "She's at it again."

"But at what, exactly?" Quinn asked.

"I'd say she's hiring Keenan to do what he does best-blow something up. Only not just any old thing, otherwise why go to the trouble of hiring the man considered by many the finest bombmaker in the IRA?"

"How do we find out the target?" Quinn asked.

"If she followed the pattern from last time, she'll meet Keenan in the snug at the Royal George. It's a kind of back parlor. She isn't about to speak to him in the bar," Dillon said to Roper. "A listening device, preferably with a recorder. We'd need to stick it somewhere in the snug."

"Will we have time to plant it?"

"They should be there by eleven, certainly not any earlier. If we leave at seven-thirty, we'll be there at nine. They do breakfast at the pub, an Irish fry-up. One of us can dump the recorder in the snug." He turned to Roper. "But can you supply the right article?"

"Nothing run-of-the-mill would do. They might talk a long time. As it happens, I've got just the thing. It'll give you two hours." He held up a small gadget, silver in appearance and no bigger than the palm of his hand.

"From when?" Dillon asked.

"From when you turn it on." He produced a black plastic box with a scarlet b.u.t.ton. "Remote control. Just press the b.u.t.ton when you see her go in the pub."

"That should do it?"

"As long as we can recover the recorder afterwards," Quinn said.

"We travel hopefully on that one," Dillon told him.

He took the recorder and the remote control and slipped them into one of his pockets. Roper said, "There's just one thing, Dillon. Your face isn't exactly foreign to the IRA, and certainly in Drumcree, where you've been before."

"True, but the British Army knew my face, too, and couldn't lay a hand on me in thirty years." He turned to Daniel Quinn. "I did a bit of theater work before I answered the call of the glorious cause." He laughed. "I once walked down the Falls Road dressed as a bag lady, and no one suspected. I can fix myself up."

"Taking the Gulfstream?" Roper asked.

"No, I'll fly myself on this one."

Roper looked at him questioningly.

"I'll explain later, old son. Let's go, Daniel."

Back in the Mercedes, Dillon said, "There's an aero club at Brancaster out in Kent. They have a nice Beechcraft there."

"Will we have any problems?"

"No. I still have top security clearance."

"Even though Ferguson has disowned you?"

"Don't worry about Ferguson. He's playing silly b.u.g.g.e.rs. Noninvolvement simply means deniability for him. He still wants the results."

"You're sure of that?"

"Absolutely. Now let's go book that Beechcraft."

There was no problem with the plane except that the available slot was after lunch the following day, later than Dillon had wanted. They had something to eat in a roadside cafe on the way back, and Luke took him to Stable Mews.

Dillon went into the kitchen, poured a Bushmills, and sat at the table. Everything was in motion now, he could feel it. He didn't know exactly what Rashid was up to, but the time for waiting was over, and that felt good. Only one thing bothered him. After all, Ireland was Ireland. If things got out of hand, would Quinn be able to do what was necessary? Could he pull the trigger without question? He'd handled himself well so far, but killing a man was different from beating up a couple of thugs.

Dillon sighed. He needed somebody to protect his back and that meant only one person.

He drove to Park Place, and when Quinn answered the door, he said, "I've got to see some friends of mine. Come on, it'll complete your education."

They drove down to Wapping and parked outside the Dark Man. Dora was behind the bar, polishing gla.s.ses. There was no sign of Harry or Billy.

"They're down on the boat," she said.

Dillon led the way along the wharf and it started to rain a little. "Amongst other enterprises, Harry has a few riverboats. He's had one of the smaller ones, the Lynda Jones, Lynda Jones, refurbished. It's his pride and joy. Wait till you see." refurbished. It's his pride and joy. Wait till you see."

There was a desolate air to the river at this point, which was strangely attractive: some decaying boats, two half-sunken barges. The Lynda Jones Lynda Jones was at the end and reached by a gangway. Baxter and Hall were varnishing on the prow, Harry and Billy sat at a table under the stern awning, reading: Harry, a newspaper and Billy, a book. was at the end and reached by a gangway. Baxter and Hall were varnishing on the prow, Harry and Billy sat at a table under the stern awning, reading: Harry, a newspaper and Billy, a book.

"Philosophy, Billy?"

They both looked up and Harry said, "Well, look what the cat dragged in."

"Harry, Billy, I'd like you to meet a friend, Senator Daniel Quinn."

Harry frowned, then got up and held out his hand. "We know all about you, Senator, sit down." He turned to Dillon. "I a.s.sume this isn't a social visit, Dillon. What's up?"