Villiers said, 'You're one hell of a marksman, Dillon.'

Harry Salter said, 'Christ, they should call you the Executioner.'

Villiers and Ferguson were looking at the four Arabs, and it was Ferguson who said, 'Dear God, this one is George Rashid.'

'Have we got a problem?' Dillon asked.

'Well, Paul Rashid won't be pleased.'

'Neither will Mrs Bronsby, so stuff Paul Rashid and his bloody money.' Dillon stood up and walked away.

At the Rashid villa at the port, Kate Rashid stood in a shower letting the heat soak into her, a futile attempt to make herself feel better. She had lost a brother, but more than that, this girl who was half English aristocrat, an Oxford MA, had been forced to confront Bronsby's truly dreadful torture.

She dried herself, pulled on a robe and went out. Paul Rashid sat by the open french window, working his way through papers. He looked up.

'How are you?'

'How should I be? George is dead.'

'Yes, and it was Dillon who killed him. Do you still like him, Kate?'

'We killed Bronsby, and in a terrible way.'

'True, and the good book says an eye for an eye. I don't mean the Koran, I'm referring to the Bible.'

'So now we get home to what?'

'We don't go home, not yet. This is Hazar. I still rule the Rashid, not the Council of Elders.

The attempt was in the Empty Quarter, disputed territory. No one can touch us.'

'So what do you intend, brother?'

'Dinner at the Excelsior. If I were a gambling man, I'd say that's exactly where our friends will go this evening. I think that of all of them, it's Dillon who will expect it. You know I love old movies. So often they depict life in a way life itself doesn't.'

'So what happens? There's a confrontation, guns are pulled?'

'Not necessarily. What happened to me at Shabwa?'

'The assassins?'

'These people are always available. They take quat, they would kill their grandparents for the right price. If we take out Dillon and his friends, to a certain degree it pays for George.'

'And afterwards?'

'We return to London.'

'To what?'

'Oh, I'll think about it. Now get dressed. Wear a nice frock and we'll go to the Excelsior and see if I'm right.'

On the Sultan, they sat under the stern awning and had a drink.

Ferguson said, 'What happens now, Tony?' Villiers said, 'You can't touch him, but then you know that.'

'We couldn't even touch him in Manhattan,' Blake said.

Dillon nodded. 'Or London.' Ferguson asked, 'So what happens?' There was a sudden flurry of rain and Ali, who had accompanied Villiers, reached for a bottle of champagne, his left arm in a sling, and refreshed the glasses.

Dillon said, 'I'd ask Harry. He's a student of human nature. The Krays and Al Capone couldn't hold a candle to him.'

Harry drank some champagne. 'I'll take that as a compliment, you little Irish so-and-so. As you said, the bastard can't be touched here or apparently anywhere else, but you, with the Colonel and Billy behind you, screwed up Rashid's plans and killed his brother. Now, it's just like Brixton in the old days. Eyes everywhere. We go into Hazar to have dinner at this Excelsior place and he'll know in ten minutes.' Professor Hal Stone said, 'Correction. Five minutes.'

'Sure,' Dillon said. 'Just like Belfast on a bad Saturday night.'

Ferguson said, 'So what do we do?'

It was Billy who answered, 'Well, actually, I'm hungry myself. I say let's go ashore to the Excelsior and take them on. If they're not there, we have a decent meal.'

Villiers laughed out loud. 'You young bastard. It's marvellous to find you confirm everything I've heard.'

'Only one thing,' Harry Salter said. 'If we go, we go tooled up.' He turned to Hal Stone. 'You know what that means, Professor?'

'I used to work for the Security Services, remember? You mean a pistol under my arm? I'm quite happy with that.'

Dillon laughed. 'If only they knew about you at high table at Corpus Christi.'

'I put up with it,' Hal Stone said. 'The wine list is excellent.'

Ferguson said, 'So we're going to eat and we're all going armed?'

'You old bugger,' Dillon said. 'You'll be disappointed if they're not there.'

They sat on the terrace at the Excelsior, the awning flapping, a light rain drumming. There were Ferguson, Dillon, Billy and his uncle. Hal Stone had decided to stay to watch things on the Sultan. There were lights on ships across the harbour, lights up in Hazar town.

'Looks like a TV programme about package holidays,' Billy said.

It was at that moment that Paul Rashid walked in with his sister.

Dillon stood up. 'Kate, you're looking grand.'

'Dillon,' she said.

Paul Rashid wore a tropical linen suit and a Guards tie.

Villiers stood up. 'Paul.' He offered his hand.

Rashid took it. 'Colonel Tony Villiers, Kate. You know the story. The Gulf War.'

Villiers turned on his considerable charm. 'Guardsmen are all the same, Lady Kate. You see the tie and always ask which regiment.'

'And you and the Earl and General Ferguson were all Grenadiers,' Dillon said.

'And Cornet Bronsby,' Billy put in. 'Let's not forget him. The Household Cavalry, Blues and Royals.'

There was a pause. It was Rashid who said, 'So I believe.'

Tony Villiers said, 'The trouble with the Households is that all that people see are those glamorous uniforms. They don't see them in places like Kosovo, in Challenger tanks and armoured cars.'

'They also provide a lot of volunteers for G Squadron in Twenty-Two SAS,' Ferguson put in.

'Well, that's a bleeding show stopper,' Harry said. 'I'm Harry Salter. Can I get you a drink?'

'I've heard about you, Mr Salter. You used to know the Kray brothers,' Kate said.

'They were gangsters, love, and so was I. It was what we were, only I got smart and turned legitimate.'

'Almost,' Billy said.

'Okay, almost. Glass of champagne, love?'

'No. With all due respect, there is a limit,' Paul Rashid told him. He turned to Dillon. 'I saw you, I knew it was you. With George, I mean.'

'And Bronsby, that means nothing?'

'George meant more.'

'The Arab side rising to the surface.'

'You couldn't be more wrong, Dillon. The Dauncey side.'

It was Ferguson who said, 'I'll be formal, my Lord. Leave it. It's gone too far. I would hope you have no expectations.'

'Of course he has,' Dillon said. 'That's why Aidan Bell isn't here.'

'Really?' Ferguson turned to Rashid. 'Could that be true?'

'Wait and see.'

'I've spoken to the Prime Minister about you. He was very angry.'

'And so was the President,' Blake Johnson said.

'What a pity.' Rashid smiled, a smile that could chill the heart. 'And I so much wanted to please the both of them. Well, I will just have to think of some other way. Good night, gentlemen.' Paul Rashid walked out, his sister on his arm.

There was silence and it was Harry Salter who said, 'I just hope you've got the message. We're going to get fucked when we leave here.'

'Really?' Ferguson opened a menu. 'Well, the kebabs they mention sound delicious. We might as well eat and enjoy ourselves.'

'And then walk down the dark streets of Hazar shoulder to shoulder?' Blake said.

'Yes, something like that, so make your choice,' Ferguson told him.

The Rashid Gulfstream took off from Haman and Aidan Bell sat back, accepted a whiskey and started to read a supply of English papers which had come out from London on the trip in.

The Premier and the Prime Minister were going to take a trip down the Thames to the Millennium Dome. The two-page article in the Daily Telegraph carried an itinerary. A night trip down the river. The major television companies would be involved and the two leaders, everything you could want.

Bell sat back, a half-smile on his face. It was like Time magazine and Cazalet all over again, not that Nantucket had worked out as expected, but this could be different. He'd always done well in London. All right, he'd lost the team, but this could be one of those jobs where you were better on your own.