“It’s come, Mr. Aroun. The signal we’ve been waiting for. I just heard it on the radio transmitter from Baghdad.”

The winds of heaven are blowing. Implement all that is on the table. May God be with you.

Aroun had gazed at it in wonder, his hand trembling as he held the notepad, and his voice was hoarse when he said, “The President was right. The day has come.”

“Exactly,” Rashid said. “Implement all that is on the table. We’re in business. I’ll get in touch with Makeev and arrange a meeting as soon as possible.”

Dillon stood at the French windows and peered out across the Avenue Victor Hugo to the Bois de Boulogne. He was whistling softly to himself, a strange, eerie little tune.

“Now this must be what the house agents call a favored location.”

“May I offer you a drink, Mr. Dillon?”

“A glass of champagne wouldn’t come amiss.”

“Have you a preference?” Aroun asked.

“Ah, the man who has everything,” Dillon said. “All right, Krug would be fine, but non-vintage. I prefer the grape mix.”

“A man of taste, I see.” Aroun nodded to Rashid, who opened a side door and went out.

Dillon, unbuttoning his reefer coat, took out a cigarette and lit it. “So, you need my services this old fox tells me.” He nodded at Makeev, who lounged against the fireplace warming himself. “The job of a lifetime, he said, and for a million pounds. Now what would I have to do for all that?”

Rashid entered quickly with the Krug in a bucket, three glasses on a tray. He put them on the table and started to open the bottle.

Aroun said, “I’m not sure, but it would have to be something very special. Something to show the world that Saddam Hussein can strike anywhere.”

“He needs something, the poor old sod,” Dillon said cheerfully. “Things aren’t going too well.” As Rashid finished filling three glasses, the Irishman added, “And what’s your trouble, son? Aren’t you joining us?”

Rashid smiled and Aroun said, “In spite of Winchester and Sandhurst, Mr. Dillon, Captain Rashid remains a very Muslim Muslim. He does not touch alcohol.”

“Well here’s to you.” Dillon raised his glass. “I respect a man with principles.”

“This would need to be big, Sean, no point in anything small. We’re not talking about blowing up five British Army paratroopers in Belfast,” Makeev said.

“Oh, it’s Bush you want, is it?” Dillon smiled. “The President of the United States flat on his back with a bullet in him?”

“Would that be so crazy?” Aroun demanded.

“It would be this time, son,” Dillon told him. “George Bush has not just taken on Saddam Hussein, he’s taken on the Arabs as a people. Oh, that’s total rubbish, of course, but it’s the way a lot of Arab fanatics see it. Groups like Hizbollah, the PLO or the wild cards like the Wrath of Allah people. The sort who would happily strap a bomb to their waist and detonate it while the President reached out to shake just another hand in the crowd. I know these people. I know how their minds tick. I’ve helped train Hizbollah people in Beirut. I’ve worked for the PLO.”

“What you are saying is nobody can get near Bush at the moment?”

“Read your papers. Anybody who looks even slightly Arab is keeping off the streets these days in New York and Washington.”

“But you, Mr. Dillon, do not look Arab to the slightest degree,” Aroun said. “For one thing you have fair hair.”

“So did Lawrence of Arabia and he used to pass himself off as an Arab.” Dillon shook his head. “President Bush has the finest security in the world, believe me. A ring of steel, and in present circumstances he’s going to stay home while this whole Gulf thing works through, mark my words.”

“What about their Secretary of State, James Baker?” Aroun said. “He’s been indulging in shuttle diplomacy throughout Europe.”

“Yes, but knowing when, that’s the problem. You’ll know he’s been in London or Paris when he’s already left and they show him on television. No, you can forget the Americans on this one.”

There was silence and Aroun looked glum. Makeev was the first to speak. “Give me, then, the benefit of your professional expertise, Sean. Where does one find the weakest security, as regards national leaders?”

Dillon laughed out loud. “Oh, I think your man here can answer that, Winchester and Sandhurst.”

Rashid smiled. “He’s right. The British are probably the best in the world at covert operations. The success of their Special Air Service Regiment speaks for itself, but in other areas…” He shook his head.

“Their first problem is bureaucracy,” Dillon told them. “The British Security Service operates in two main sections. What most people still call M15 and M16. M15 or D15, to be pedantic, specializes in counterespionage in Great Britain. The other lot operates abroad. Then you have Special Branch at Scotland Yard who have to be brought into the act to make any actual arrests. The Yard also has an antiterrorist squad. Then there’s army intelligence units galore. All life is there and they’re all at each other’s throats and that, gentlemen, is when mistakes begin to creep in.”

Rashid poured some more champagne into his glass. “And you are saying that makes for bad security with their leaders? The Queen, for example?”

“Come on,” Dillon said. “It’s not all that many years ago that the Queen woke up in Buckingham Palace and found an intruder sitting on the bed. How long ago, six years, since the IRA almost got Margaret Thatcher and the entire British Cabinet at a Brighton hotel during the Tory Party Conference?” He put down his glass and lit another cigarette. “The Brits are very old-fashioned. They like a policeman to wear a uniform so they know who he is and they don’t like being told what to do, and that applies to Cabinet Ministers who think nothing of strolling through the streets from their houses in Westminster to Parliament.”

“Fortunate for the rest of us,” Makeev said.

“Exactly,” Dillon said. “They even have to go softly-softly on terrorists-up to a degree anyway, not like French Intelligence. Jesus, if the lads in Action Service got their hands on me they’d have me spread out and my bollocks wired up for electricity before I knew what was happening. Mind you, even they are prone to the occasional error.”

“What do you mean?” Makeev demanded.

“Have you got a copy of the evening paper handy?”

“Certainly, I’ve been reading it,” Aroun said. “Ali, on my desk.”

Rashid returned with a copy of Paris Soir. Dillon said, “Page two. Read it out. You’ll find it interesting.”

He helped himself to more champagne while Rashid read the item aloud. “Mrs. Margaret Thatcher, until recently Prime Minister of Britain, is staying overnight at Choisy as a guest of President Mitterrand. They are to have further talks in the morning. She leaves at two o’clock for an air-force emergency field at Valenton, where an RAF plane returns her to England.”

“Incredible, isn’t it, that they could have allowed such a press release, but I guarantee the main London newspapers will carry that story also.”

There was a heavy silence and then Aroun said, “You’re not suggesting…?”

Dillon said to Rashid. “You must have some road maps handy. Get them.”

Rashid went out quickly. Makeev said, “Good God, Sean, not even you…”

“Why not?” Dillon asked calmly and turned to Aroun. “I mean, you want something big, a major coup? Would Margaret Thatcher do, or are we just playing games here?”

Before Aroun could reply, Rashid came back with two or three road maps. He opened one out on the table and they looked at it, all except Makeev, who stayed by the fire.

“There we are, Choisy,” Rashid said. “Thirty miles from Paris, and here is the air-force field at Valenton only seven miles away.”

“Have you got a map of larger scale?”

“Yes.” Rashid unfolded one of the others.