He placed the Gladstone bag on the bed, took out a toilet bag and a carton of cigarettes. He opened a pack, lit a cigarette and checked the closet. There were clothes in there in plastic zip-up bags, shoes, new shirts in Marks amp; Spencer bags, underwear, socks, everything he would need. The kettle was whistling. He went in, switched it off, sat down at the table and phoned the Dorchester with his mobile.

'Senator Cohan,' he asked, when the switchboard replied.

'May I say who's calling, sir?'

'George Harrison, American Embassy.'

A moment later, Cohan answered. ' Mr Harrison?'

Barry laughed. 'It's me, you daft bastard, Barry.'

'Jack?' Cohan laughed back. 'Where are you?'

'Still in Ulster,' Barry lied. 'I spoke to the Connection. He told me all the bad news. Though I suppose it's good news for the undertakers.'

Cohan shuddered. 'You always see a joke in everything.'

'As we used to say in Vietnam, if you can't see the joke, you shouldn't have joined. Look on the good side. You're in luxury at the Dorchester, your every need taken care of. You're well out of New York at the moment.'

'The Connection said he'd take care of things. Can you imagine this suggestion that a woman got to Ryan? Is that crazy?'

'Well, the good news is I'm leaving for New York myself in an hour. That's why I thought I'd call you. The Connection wants me there to help clean this mess up.'

'Is that a fact?'

Barry was lying smoothly now. 'I'm driving down to Shannon. I'll catch the New York plane from there.'

'Let's hope you can sort things out.'

'I'll keep in touch. Let you know where I'm staying. What's your room number?' Cohan gave it to him. 'Good. You going out tonight?'

'No, I'll take it easy. Big night tomorrow.'

'Sounds right to me. Stay well.'

Cohan put the phone down, aware of a feeling of considerable relief. He opened the bottle of complimentary champagne and poured a glass. If anyone could handle this whole sorry mess, it was Barry.

Barry took out an excellently tailored black suit, white shirt and a striped tie. He laid them down on the bed, went back into the saloon, reheated the kettle and made coffee in a mug. When it was ready, he went up the companionway and stood on the deck at the rail thinking about things.

How to do it was the thing. Access to the Dorchester was no problem. After all, he'd be dressed like a whiskey advert and he had Cohan's room number. All he needed to do was knock on the door, drop him and be on his way. If he left the do-not-disturb card on the door, they wouldn't find him for hours, possibly not until the morning.

Feeling suddenly quite cheerful about it, he went back below. He took off his bomber jacket, pushed the Browning into his waistband and put the kettle on again. He checked out the clothes, took the shirt out of its plastic envelope and unfolded it. The kettle whistled again and he changed his mind about more coffee. He switched it off, found a bottle of Scotch in a cupboard, poured one into a paper cup and went back on deck.

It was raining now, silver lances in the yellow light of the deck lights, and he stood under the slightly tattered awning, smelling the river, the damp, nostalgic for something he didn't understand. There was a sudden slight cough and he turned, his hand sliding inside the bomber jacket to feel for the butt of the Browning.

A man was standing at the end of the gangway with an umbrella over his head, smiling down at him. 'We haven't met face-to-face, Mr Barry, but the name's Ferguson.'

Waiting in his Mini Cooper at the junction of Wapping High Street and Chalk Lane, Dillon had an eye out for the Daimler and had been totally astonished when a black cab had drawn up and Ferguson had got out and paid the driver. He'd carried an umbrella, which he didn't bother to put up, hurried along the pavement and got in beside Dillon.

'Filthy night.'

'You in a cab? I can't believe it. I suppose you'll claim the fare on expenses?'

'Don't be flippant, Dillon. What do you intend?'

'I haven't the slightest idea. Are you carrying?'

'What would you expect?' Ferguson asked wearily, and produced an old. 38 Smith amp; Wesson automatic. 'I also have these.' He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

'You are hopeful, old man.'

'All right, let's get on with it,' and Ferguson got out and put up his umbrella.

They walked down Chalk Lane side by side, the Brigadier's umbrella protecting them. When they reached the basin, they paused in the doorway of one of the old warehouses.

'One houseboat on this side, four on the other,' Ferguson whispered. 'Lights in the nearest and two of the others. Which is which?'

Dillon took a small pair of binoculars from his pocket. ' Nightstalkers. Miracle of modern science.' He focused them on the first houseboat and passed them to Ferguson. 'Take a look.'

Ferguson did so and the houseboat emerged in every detail, although in a greenish tint, the name Griselda clear on the prow. 'Excellent. I could have done with those in the trenches on the Hook. What's your plan?'

'I'm a simple man, and the lights being on, I presume it is Barry.'

'So?'

Dillon examined the Griselda again. 'I don't think we'll get anywhere by stepping on board and shouting down the companionway, "Come out with your hands up." I noticed there's a stern hatch.'

'Yes, well, I'd like to point out that there could be a certain amount of noise in doing that, Dillon. Lifting the hatch, I mean, which could also be locked on the inside.'

'Brigadier, you've got to travel hopefully. I'll have a go and you wait here for me.'

'Oh, I see, keeping the old man safe, are we?'

Dillon didn't bother to answer, simply handed him the Night-stalker and faded into the darkness beside the warehouse wall. Ferguson focused the night sight, saw Dillon slide over the stern rail and move to the hatch. It lifted and Dillon slipped inside.

As Ferguson lowered the Nightstalker, Jack Barry emerged from the companionway. Ferguson checked him out, the paper cup in one hand, the butt of the Browning sticking out of his waistband. Ferguson thought of Dillon down there trying to make his way through unfamiliar territory, and made his decision. He put the Nightstalker in his pocket, took out the Smith amp; Wesson, and held it against his back in his left hand. He walked along the quay, and paused at the gangway, umbrella held high.

'We haven't met face-to-face, Mr Barry, but the name's Ferguson.'

Ferguson started down the gangplank and his left hand emerged holding the Smith amp; Wesson.

Wyatt Earp, the great American marshal, once said that what had made his reputation as a gunfighter was when a young cowboy had tried to shoot him in the back in the darkness of Dodge City at fifty paces. Earp had turned and fired as a reflex, without taking aim, and shot the gun from the boy's hand, a total fluke.

Jack Barry did the same now, pulling the silenced Browning out, firing from the hip, catching the Smith amp; Wesson in Charles Ferguson's hand and blowing it away. Dillon, easing in through the hatch above the shower room, had heard Ferguson, took out his Walther, dashed through the kitchen and saloon, and went out headfirst into Barry, as Ferguson fell back to the deck.

Dillon rammed the Walther into Barry's back. 'Drop it, Jack, or I'll blow your spine in two.'

Barry froze. 'Why, Sean, it's you.'

Ferguson got to his feet. Dillon said, 'Are you okay, Brigadier?'

Ferguson was holding his wrist, which was bleeding. 'Just a scratch. I'm fine.'

Barry leaned over and placed the Browning on the deck, then as he straightened, he lifted his right elbow into Dillon's face, turning sideways so that Dillon's reflex shot went into the deck. Dillon dropped the Walther and they closed together, Barry staggering back as they struggled furiously. When they went over the rail, it was still together.