'We'll discuss that when I see you. Any equipment you need will be down there.'

'So all I have to do is think of the best way of disposing of twelve old Arab sheiks and getting away with my bollocks still intact?'

She laughed harshly. 'True. That last item could be a consideration. We Arabs are terrible people. You must be careful.'

He smiled. 'That I will, Lady Kate. You may be sure.' He raised his teacup. 'A toast. To peace, Lady Kate, to peace.' He took a swallow. 'And stuff it.'

Dillon had shepherd's pie at the pub and a glass of indifferent Sancerre. There were perhaps a dozen people in, locals from the look of them. He finished his meal, paid up and went to his Suzuki. Fifteen minutes later, he was in the copse overlooking the small airfield, waiting.

He sat there, thinking and smoking, sheltering from the light rain, and eventually he heard the sound of engines in the distance and the Titan appeared and turned in for a landing. Dillon watched through his glasses as Kate Rashid, Kelly and Grover talked. Then she and her security man got into her Mercedes and drove away. Dillon waited for a while, then got on the Suzuki and drove down to the airstrip.

In the old Nissen hut, Grover was boiling the kettle on the stove when he heard the Suzuki. He went to the window and glanced out as Dillon got off and pushed the bike up on its stand. The Irishman removed his helmet, left it on the bike and came in, pushing the door open before him. Grover said, 'What can I do for you?' 'Information,' Dillon said. 'Answers. That kind of thing.'

'What in the hell are you talking about?' Dillon unzipped the front of his leathers, took out a Walther with a silencer, and shot the kettle off the stove.

Grover was terrified. 'What's this, for Christ's sake?'

'Well, for starters, you tell me what I want to know and I won't cripple you. So, let's get down to it. The people you just flew out and flew in again. Who were they?'

'Guy called Kelly. I've known him for years. The woman? He said her name was Smith.'

'Really? Where did you take them?' Grover hesitated and Dillon fired on the floor between Grover's feet. 'Where did you take them?'

'County Down. A place called Drumcree.'

'To see who?'

'How in the hell would I know? I flew them in, they left me at the airstrip and drove off to the village. That's all I know. They were back in an hour and a quarter for the return flight.'

'And you didn't hear a word?'

'No. I've no idea what they were up to.'

Dillon raised his Walther again, and Grover jumped. 'I don't know anything, I tell you!' He paused. 'Just that at one point during the flight, they were talking. I heard her say "hazard", "Hazar", something like that.'

'Good man yourself.' Dillon shoved the Walther back inside his leathers. 'Now, let's get one thing straight. What's just taken place is between you, me and my God. No Kelly and no Miss Smith. Are you with me? Because if you're not, I'll come back and blow your right kneecap off.'

'Look, I don't give a damn,' Grover told him. 'Just bugger off and leave me.'

'Don't make me come back.'

Dillon went out, put on his helmet and rode away.

Grover watched him go. 'To hell with them. To hell with the lot of them.' At least he had three and a half thousand pounds in the brown paper envelope.

He opened a cupboard and found another kettle.

Not too far along the road, Dillon pulled into a lay-by and called Ferguson on his mobile.

'Where in the hell are you?' Ferguson demanded.

'Well, if you'll shut up, you old bowser, I'll explain.'

When he was finished, Ferguson said, 'All right, so she went to see Bell and the pilot heard her say Hazar. What does that mean?'

'I have a suggestion,' Dillon said. 'The Rashid house in Mayfair. Did you put in the phone taps yet?'

'Yes. Of course, they haven't said anything. They're too smart for that.'

'Well, it will make him feel confident if we appear to be doing the expected thing. So why don't you get your communications department chaps into the street outside, have them pretend to be working on the telephones, the usual rubbish. In reality, why not instal a directional microphone instead? Who knows? It could pick up some useful stuff.'

'All right, leave it with me. Only, get back here. I need you.'

Dillon went home to Stable Mews and changed. Then he called at the hospital to check on Hannah. The matron gave him five minutes only. She lay there, propped up, festooned with tubes. Dillon sat for a while, then left, angry and bitter. He met Professor Bellamy in the corridor.

'What's the verdict?' Dillon asked.

'Not good, Sean. I think she'll survive, but I can't promise exactly what shape she'll be in.'

'We will travel hopefully,' Dillon said and left.

At Cavendish Place, he found Ferguson going over papers at his desk. 'I've got some interesting news. That directional mike of yours caught a conversation between Rashid and his sister. Rashid said: "You be there to meet Bell and his three cronies when they arrive in Hazar."'

'Did he? Now that is interesting. So what do we do?'

'What do you do is more like it, Dillon. I'd say Hazar is your next port of call.'

'General, the minute I turn up in Hazar, I'll be in deep trouble.'

'We'll have to take that chance. I can't keep an eye on them without your being down there, being your usual bloody nuisance. I've even found a legitimate excuse for your presence. My cousin, Professor Hal Stone of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, is, by one of life's coincidences, in Hazar right now, conducting a diving operation on a World War II freighter. With typical university nonsense, he has no real money, so he can afford only a small operation of local Arab divers.'

'Sounds exciting.'

'Actually, it is. What's really interesting is that he's discovered what's left of a Phoenician trading ship partly underneath the freighter. You're a master diver, Dillon. Hal would love someone like you to help out, especially as you won't cost anything. You'd be able to monitor Lady Kate and Bell and company. I'll arrange for your flight, then come down myself once you're settled in. Do you agree?'

'Let's give it a try. There's just one thing. I know these Arab divers. They jump with a stone in both hands. I need another master diver to back me up.'

Ferguson sighed. 'Oh, dear, do you mean who I think you mean?'

'Billy Salter is a first-class master diver.'

'And you think he'll go?'

'Do I think he'll go?' Dillon started to laugh.

At the Dark Man, they found Harry Salter, Billy, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall sitting in a corner booth.

'Jesus, Brigadier, what brings you here?' Harry Salter demanded.

'First of all, it's not Brigadier anymore, Harry. They've made him a Major General,' Dillon said.

'Well, damn my eyes.' Salter waved to Dora behind the bar. 'Get champagne over here, girl. It's a special occasion.'

She found the bottle and came round the bar, but it was young Billy who said, 'What gives, Dillon? You aren't here playing patty fingers.'

'I'm going out to Hazar in the Gulf of Oman, Billy. The General's cousin is trying to work a World War II wreck with bits of a Phoenician ship under it.'

'He's what?' Billy's face was pale with excitement.

'The thing is, he's got no money, Billy, just Arab divers, so I'm going to work for bed and board.'

Billy got up. 'If he needs you, he needs me. When do we go?'

'Tomorrow morning.'

Billy turned to go, but Ferguson said, 'Tell the lad the truth, for God's sake. Last time out he killed four times for us. We owe him.'

Billy turned slowly. 'Is there going to be trouble?'

'Bad trouble, Billy. We're up against rough trade this time.'

'Then you'd better bloody well tell me,' Billy said and sat down again.