The unmistakable cockney voice of Billy's uncle echoed around the canteen. Harry Salter, a gangster for most of his life and now a property millionaire, said, "Well, this is nice, Roper, we could all have been roasted in our beds. What the hell was the bugger playing at? There was a grand in the till. Wasn't that enough?"

It was Ferguson who said, "It's me, Harry, and Dillon's just back from New York with the strangest story you've heard in a long time." He turned to Roper. "You explain."

Which Roper did.

Standing on Cable Wharf in Wapping near his beloved pub, the Dark Man, Harry said, "Jesus Christ, Roper, this is incredible."

"But true, Harry. The guy who shot Blake, the one who attacked Miller, and then the General's rogue driver last night, all were in possession of the same prayer card."

"Tell me again what it says?"

Roper did. "The police will search your arsonist's body when they get him up. Billy can use some muscle by flashing his MI5 card. See where it gets you, and call back."

Ferguson said, "An interesting one, gentlemen."

"What is?" Harry Miller entered at that moment.

"Well, it goes something like this…" Roper began. At the end of Cable Wharf were three patrol cars and a medium-sized police truck, the sign on one side reading "Salvage amp; Recovery." There were two divers down there in scuba gear, four uniformed policemen, and an inspector who had turned up and gone to inspect the bar.

Harry and Billy were standing by watching with Baxter and Hall and Ruby Moon, who was wearing a reefer coat two sizes too large. The inspector emerged from the bar and approached.

"Nasty business, Mr. Salter. Stinks in there. You'll have to close for a while. Could have been very nasty if he'd dropped a match."

Harry had known him for years. "A real evil bastard, had to be, to do a thing like that. We could have all ended up cooked for breakfast."

"Sure you haven't been annoying anyone lately?"

"On my life, Parky, those days are long gone. I own most of the developments round here, and my nephew Billy's got an MI5 warrant card in his pocket."

"Yes, I heard they'd taken him on. I was impressed. I'd always understood they wouldn't accept anyone with a record."

"True, Parky, it was the folly of youth, where Billy was concerned, but all wiped clean now."

"You must have friends in high places these days, Billy."

"Oh, I do, Inspector," Billy said. "And here's my warrant to prove it." He offered it. "As you know, I'm involved in cases where the highest security and the welfare of the nation is involved-so I'd like to check the identity of the man who's being hauled up at this moment. It could explain the severity of his intentions."

"Are you saying you could have been his target?"

"It's possible," Billy said, and at that moment an ambulance rolled up, two paramedics emerged, opened the rear door, and pulled out a stretcher, which they took forward to where the four policemen were hauling up the drowned man in a sling.

Water poured from the man as they laid him down on the stretcher, and one of the paramedics removed the balaclava, revealing the unshaven face, handsome enough, eyes closed in death, dark hair with silver streaks in it.

"Good God, I know this one," Parky said. "He used to live round here when I was a young constable. Bagged him coming out of a booze shop he'd broken into on Wapping High Street. Costello, Fergus Costello. He went down the steps for two years. Petty criminal, when he got out. Irish bloke, drunk and disorderly, that kind of thing, always getting arrested."

"Can you remember what happened to him?" Billy asked.

"Not really, it's so long ago." They watched as a police officer went through the dead man's pockets, producing a bunch of skeleton keys, a folded flick-knife, and a.38 Smith amp; Wesson revolver, which they handed to Parky.

"He certainly meant business."

A passport came next, which turned out to be Irish. "See, I was right," Parky said, but frowned when he opened it. "John Docherty, and there's a Dublin address." He shook his head and handed the passport to Billy. "Even though he's dead, you can see from the photo it's the same man."

"You're right." Billy gave it to Harry. "Must be a forgery. Let's see what's in the wallet."

Parky went to his car, opened the wallet, and took out the wet contents-a driver's license, a Social Security card, and a credit card. "All in the name of John Docherty, and an address in Point Street, Kilburn."

"So he was living under a false name," Harry said.

Parky nodded. "You know, I remember now, it's all coming back. He used to get in a lot of trouble over the drink, and then there was a refuge opened, run by Catholics. They used to get visits from a priest, who had a big influence on the boozers there. I can't remember his name, but, as I recall, Costello stopped getting into trouble and started churchgoing, and then he cleared off."

The officer who had been searching the pockets said, "There's this, sir, tucked away."

He offered the damp card, and Parky examined it. "I've seen something like this before. It's a prayer card."

Billy took it from him and read it aloud. "'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.'"

Harry said, "But what the hell does it mean?"

Parky smiled. "I told you he'd turned to religion, didn't I, so I was right."

"You certainly were," Billy said. "I'll hang on to this and the passport. You can keep the rest."

They met in the computer room at Holland Park, all of them, Ferguson presiding, and Harry Salter was a very angry man indeed.

"I mean, what in the hell is going on?"

"It's simple, Harry," said Dillon. "You've been targeted, you and Billy, just like Blake Johnson, General Ferguson, and Major Miller. Maybe somebody thinks it's payback time."

"All very well," Harry pointed out. "But that bastard Costello or Docherty, or whatever he called himself, was prepared to torch the pub, just to get at Billy and me."

"Whoever these people are, they're highly organized and totally ruthless. The would-be assassin in Central Park, Frank Barry, called somebody and told them where he was. The instant response was an executioner."

"Exactly," Miller put in. "And one professional enough to remember to snatch Barry's mobile before departing, so details of that call couldn't be traced."

"I've spoken to Clancy Smith, brought him up to speed, including the arson attack on the pub," Roper said. "His people have established that Flynn's passport was an extremely good forgery, as was his driver's license and Social Security card."

"So there's no way of checking if he had a police record?" Ferguson put in.

"Exactly," Roper carried on. "His address in Greenwich Village is a one-room apartment, sparsely furnished, basic belongings, not much more than clothes. An old lady on the same floor said he was polite and kept to himself. She'd no idea what he did for a living, and was surprised to hear he had an American passport, as she'd always thought he was Irish. She's a Catholic herself and often saw him at Mass at the local church."

Miller said, "Interesting that Costello-cum-Docherty has a forged Irish passport, too, and his religion had been the saving of him, according to Inspector Parkinson."

"A passport which claims he was born in Dublin, yet we know from his other identity documents that his address is in Point Street, Kilburn," Dillon said.

"And Henry Pool from Green Street, Kilburn," Ferguson said. "Too many connections here. This would appear to be a carefully mounted campaign."

"Another point worth remembering," Roper said. "I've processed the computer photo of Major Miller that was in Barry's wallet." His fingers worked the keys, and the photo came on screen. "Just a crowded street, but that's definitely the side of a London black cab at the edge of the pavement. The photo was definitely taken in London, I'd say."