'Anything for me?' Ferguson asked.

'Not much, sir. That business with the Rashids?'

'What?'

'Our information is they're all in New York. Some kind of family party.'

'What's Dillon up to?'

'Believe it or not, sir, he's gone shooting in West Sussex with Harry Salter. Pheasant.'

'Salter? That damn gangster?'

'Yes, sir, and young Billy.'

'The nephew? Wonderful. He's almost as bad as Harry.'

'I need hardly remind you, sir, he was a great help last time around on that job in Cornwall.'

'You don't need to remind me, Superintendent. But he's still a gangster.'

'He agreed to jump by parachute with no training whatsoever, and killed four of Jack Fox's men. Dillon would be dead without him.'

'Agreed. And he's still a damned gangster.'

At Compton House in West Sussex, it rained remorselessly, none of which bothered the shooting party. It was a syndicate of thirty that Harry Salter had paid into. He emerged from a long wheel-based Shogun wearing a cloth cap, a Barbour, jeans and rubber half-boots. He was sixty-five, with a fleshy and genial face until he stopped smiling. One of the most famous gang bosses in London, he'd been to prison only once in a long career.

These days he had millions in dockside developments and leisure construction, though the rackets being in his blood, he was still involved in smuggling from the Continent. There was a lot of money to be made from the cigarette trade. In Europe, they were incredibly cheap, but in Britain, the most expensive in the world. No need to get involved in drugs or prostitution when you had cigarette smuggling.

He stood in the rain. 'Bleeding marvellous. Isn't it bleeding marvellous, Dillon?'

'Country life, Harry.'

Dillon was wearing a cap and black bomber jacket. Billy Salter, Harry's nephew, a man in his late twenties with a pale face and wild eyes, emerged next, wearing cap and anorak. His uncle's right-hand man, he'd been in prison four times, all relatively short sentences for assault and grievous bodily harm.

'This is all your fault, Dillon. What have you got me into now?'

'Shoot a few pheasant, Billy, breathe the country air. Last time out, it was villains trying to hit you. This should make a change.'

Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, Harry's two minders, dressed in jeans and anoraks.

'What a bunch of idiots.' Billy nodded at the other members of the syndicate emerging from Jeeps and Range Rovers.

'Why the funny gear? What are those ridiculous trousers?'

'It's how people like that dress to shoot, Billy,' Dillon said. 'It's an old English custom.'

The rest of the party was grouped around a large man with a florid face, and Dillon heard someone address him as Lord Portman. They all turned and looked at the Salter party with disfavour.

'Good God, what have we here?' Portman asked.

Another large man, this one with a grizzled beard, approached. 'Gentlemen, can I help? I'm the head keeper, Frobisher.'

'I should hope so, old son. Salter's the name -Harry Salter.'

Frobisher was astonished, hesitated, then turned to the others. 'This is Mr Harry Salter, president of the syndicate.' There were looks of horror.

Salter said, 'Lord Portman, is it?'

'That is correct,' Portman said frostily.

'Chairman of Riverside Construction, right? So we've got something in common.'

'I can't imagine what.'

'You don't have to imagine. I took you over last week. I'm Salter Enterprises, so, in a manner of speaking, you work for me.'

The horror on Portman's face was profound. He actually recoiled, and it was Dillon who said genially to Frobisher, 'Can we get on?'

Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were unloading.the gun bags. Frobisher said, 'We'll space the valley up to that wood. I'll give you a number each.'

'We know how it works, old son,' Dillon told him. 'I've explained to my friends.'

Frobisher hesitated. 'So you have shot before?'

'Only people,' Billy told him. 'So let's get on with it.'

Three hours later, in the Shogun, Baxter was driving and Billy opened a bottle of champagne and poured it into plastic cups.

'What a bunch of toffee-nosed idiots. The look on their faces when I scooped the pool.'

'Yes, well, you have had a certain amount of practice,' Dillon said.

Harry Salter swallowed his champagne. 'That Portman's bleeding face was something to see.'

'Are you going to throw him out, Harry?' Billy asked.

'No, I know his track record and he's good. I'll improve his package. He'll come to heel. It's what's called business, Billy.'

'And bloody boring.' Billy turned to Dillon. 'You got anything on the go I could help with?'

'Back to Heidegger, is it, Billy? You feel the need for some action and passion?'

'Here, you lay off,' Salter told his nephew. 'Last time, we almost didn't get you back.'

'So, I'm bored,' Billy said. 'And you won't let me do the booze and cigarette runs from Amsterdam anymore.' "Cos I don't want you nicked. Lesser mortals can take that chance. You just be a good boy.'

He poured more champagne, and Dillon said, 'I'll keep you in mind, Billy.'

Billy raised his glass. 'Always willing and available, Dillon.'

At the White House, Jake Cazalet sat at his desk in the Oval Office in shirtsleeves, working through a stack of paperwork. The door opened and Blake Johnson came in. Outside, rain drove against the window. The President sat back.

'What have you got for me?'

'Hazar, Mr President.'

'The Sultan's death?'

'The Sultan's assassination.'

Jake Cazalet got up, went to the window, and looked out. Blake said, The CIA doesn't know anything about it, they say. They claim to be totally baffled. The question is: Baffled? Or embarrassed? We know the Sultan's people tried to kill Paul Rashid on behalf of our own oil interests and the Russians', and the Sultan was the CIA's man. I'd say they have a lot to answer for. And now, there's all this agitation from Hizbullah, Army of God, Sword of Allah, all the rest of them. Something's going on.'

'Dammit!' Jake Cazalet said. 'I don't like it at all.'

'It's a dirty world, Mr President. I can't prove it, but I'll lay you odds Rashid struck back.'

'Does Charles Ferguson know anything about it?'

'I don't know, Mr President. I haven't asked him.'

'Well, do so. Then get back to me.'

It was late in London as Ferguson sat by the fire of his flat in Cavendish Place and talked to Blake.

'I can't help you with the Sultan, although my personal feeling, too, is that it was a Rashid hit.'

'You're certain?'

'Absolutely. I have a trusted operative, Colonel Tony Villiers, commanding the Hazar Scouts as a contract officer. He keeps me well informed. During the Gulf War, he also commanded the SAS unit Rashid served in.'

'Well, that's close enough. Thanks, Charles. How's Dillon?'

Ferguson hesitated. 'Well, since you mentioned him… Dammit, Blake, this is strictly confidential, but… sit back, my friend, I've got a story to tell you. It concerns the Rashids.'

He went through everything: Drumcree, Aidan Bell, Kate Rashid, the shooting of the Provisional IRA men.

'My God,' Blake said. 'What are they up to?'

'So you don't believe their story either, do you? The Rashids are moving into Northern Ireland, that's a fact.'

'Maybe, but there's a lot more to all this than they're saying. Well, keep me informed, Charles.

Give my love to Hannah – and tell Dillon to watch his back.'

He put down the phone and went back to the Oval Office to bring the President up to date.

Nantucket They made the trip from Long Island to Nantucket in the Alice Brown overnight. Arthur Grant took the wheel from Casey at midnight. Aidan Bell replaced him at four a.m.

It was still dark and the Irishman sat in the swivel seat, smoking a cigarette in the light of the binnacle, enjoying every minute of it and thinking about things.