“That’s it.”

“Okay, but even if they put a face to him, they still have to identify him.”

“He told Riley that he really was a lawyer, but that Brown wasn’t his real name,” Cazalet said.

“A lot of lawyers in London, Mr. President.”

“Teddy, I don’t need this,” the President said. “These men are all I’ve got.”

There was agony on his face and Teddy was immediately contrite. “That was stupid of me. Forgive me.” He turned and went out, closing the door behind him and stood there in the corridor cursing. “You fool,” he said softly. “You stupid damn fool!”

Devlin saw them off at Dublin airport, watching the Gulfstream climb away, then went and got a taxi into town. He told the driver to stop on the way at a phone box and called Leary.

“It’s me, Liam,” he said. “I’ll be at the Irish Hussar in twenty minutes,” and he put the phone down.

On board the Gulfstream, Blake was enjoying a coffee while Dillon and Riley drank tea. “One thing,” Dillon said, “I owe you, Dermot, for warning me that Bell was in the loft.”

“And tipping Devlin and me off about Barry being behind the door,” Blake said.

“Not that it did any good,” Riley told him.

“Yes, it did,” Dillon said. “We stiffed both the bastards in the end.”

Riley seemed troubled. “Tell me, Sean, will Ferguson play square with me? Will he let me go once this thing is over?”

“My hand on it.”

“But go where? I still can’t see me being safe in Ireland.”

“Leave it to Liam. He’ll fix it.”

Blake said, “Do you really think he can pull it off?”

“Look at it this way. As I’ve said, nothing Dermot did in this affair was against the interests of the IRA. Once Liam’s explained that, it’ll be okay. He can be very persuasive.”

“But what about Bell and Barry?”

“Plenty more rubbish where they came from, whereas Liam Devlin is the living legend of the IRA. It will work because he’ll make it work.”

“God, I hope so,” Riley said fervently.

At that moment, Devlin was paying off the taxi outside the Irish Hussar. When he went in, it was half full and many of the drinkers nodded in recognition and he heard his name mentioned. Michael Leary and the Chief of Staff were in the end booth.

“God save all here.” Devlin sat down and neither of them said a word. “God save you kindly was the answer to that.”

“Liam, what in the hell have you done?” Leary demanded.

“Cut his own throat is what he’s done,” the Chief of Staff said.

Devlin waved to a waitress. “Three large Bushmills over here.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and eyed the Chief of Staff. “I haven’t always approved of the tactics, but haven’t I always supported the organization?”

“You’ve served us well,” the Chief of Staff said reluctantly.

“None better,” Leary agreed.

“Then why would I lie now, and me an old man with one foot in the grave?”

“Ah, fug you, Liam,” the Chief of Staff said. “Get on with it.”

So Devlin gave them a truncated version of the story, embellished a little.

“A phoney lawyer called Brown sees Dermot in Wandsworth and offers him a way out. Contact Ferguson and say he would offer knowledge of where a very nasty terrorist called Hakim was hanging out. Sicily, as it happens.”

“So?”

“Well, the whole thing was a scam by another Arab fundamentalist group who Dillon had done a bad turn to. They knew it was Dillon that Ferguson would send after Hakim, and Riley, as ordered, offered to go with him to show good faith.”

“And what happened?”

“Oh, they grabbed Dillon at some Sicilian fishing port, Riley with them, only by this time he was beginning to suspect he’d get shafted himself, so he jumped overboard while they were leaving harbor and swam back. The rest you know.”

“No, we don’t,” Leary said, but the strange thing is it was the Chief of Staff who was laughing.

“Go on,” he said, “and how did Dillon get away? I mean, it must have been good.”

“He had one gun in his pocket, another in his waistband at the rear under his coat. They found those and missed the Walther he had under his left trouser leg in an ankle holster. He shot three and took to the water himself. Of course, when he reached the shore, Dermot was long gone.”

“And that’s the way of it?” the Chief of Staff said.

“Absolutely. Dermot’s wanted in London for one purpose only. To see if he can put a face to this phoney lawyer, Brown, on the security video. Once he’s done that, he’s free.”

“I see.”

“Nothing to do with the IRA in any of this,” Devlin said. “My word on it. The person who’s really scored is Dermot. He could have been sitting in a cell for the whole fifteen years, even twelve if he got remission, the Brits are the losers on that one. I’d have thought you’d have liked that.”

The Chief of Staff glanced at Leary, then grinned reluctantly. “All right, Liam, you win. Riley can come home and we’ll drink to it.”

When Ferguson picked up his phone, Devlin said, “So there you are, you old sod. Are they in yet?”

“Too early,” Ferguson said. “Long car trip once they’ve landed. You did sterling work.”

“Keep the soft soap for those who need it. Tell Dillon I’ve good news for Riley. I’ve seen Leary and the Chief of Staff and he’s to be allowed home.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I told them a half-truth, if you like.” He carried on and told Ferguson the story he had sold to Leary and the Chief of Staff.

Ferguson said, “My God, you’re the most incredible man I’ve ever known.”

“I agree with you.” Devlin laughed. “Tell Sean to watch his back,” and he put the phone down.

Hannah drove out of the Ministry of Defense garage in her red Mini car, the one she found best in London traffic. She parked on the forecourt of her ground floor flat in Ebury Place, unlocked the door, and went in.

The man who called himself George Brown straightened behind the wheel of the black Ford Escort parked along the street and reached for his mobile.

“She’s here. Get over as quickly as you can. If she leaves before you get here, I’ll follow and contact you.”

Hannah at that moment was having a quick shower. She stepped out, toweled dry, then put on fresh underwear and a blouse. She found a fawn trouser suit, dressed, and went downstairs.

She phoned her father’s office in Harley Street, only to discover from his secretary that he was doing a heart and lung transplant at the Princess Grace Hospital that would probably take eight hours.

Not that it mattered, for she knew who she really wanted to see. She grabbed her handbag, went out, and drove away in the Mini car just as an ambulance turned the corner. Brown cursed and went after her, but five minutes later and proceeding along the Embankment beside the Thames, was comforted to find the ambulance on his tail.

The driver was Aaron Eitan, Moshe in the seat beside him. “Keep close,” Moshe said. “This traffic is terrible.”

Aaron laughed. “It’s years since I last drove in London. What fun.”

Rabbi Thomas Bernstein was seated at his study desk, a small but distinguished-looking man with a snow-white beard and hair topped by a plain yarmulke in black velvet. There was a knock, the door opened, and his granddaughter came in.

He put down his pen and held out his arms. “So there you are, light of my life.”

She embraced him warmly. “Your sermon for Shab-bes?”

“Queen of the week. It’s like show business. I have to catch their attention. How are you?”

“Busy.”

He laughed. “I’ve learned enough about you and your work to know that means you’re on a big case.”

“The biggest.”

He stopped smiling. “Can you tell me about it?”