“Good,” Dillon said. “It’s perfectly clear that only one country road links Choisy to Valenton and here, about three miles before the airfield, there’s a railway crossing. Perfect.”

“For what?” Aroun demanded.

“An ambush. Look, I know how these things operate. There’ll be one car, two at the most, and an escort. Maybe half a dozen CRS police on motorbikes.”

“My God!” Aroun whispered.

“Yes, well. He’s got very little to do with it. It could work. Fast, very simple. What the Brits call a piece of cake.”

Aroun turned in appeal to Makeev, who shrugged. “He means it, Michael. You said this was what you wanted, so make up your mind.”

Aroun took a deep breath and turned back to Dillon. “All right.”

“Good,” Dillon said calmly. He reached for a pad and pencil on the table and wrote on it quickly. “Those are the details of my numbered bank account in Zurich. You’ll transfer one million pounds to it first thing in the morning.”

“In advance?” Rashid said. “Isn’t that expecting rather a lot?”

“No, my old son, it’s you people who are expecting rather a lot, and the rules have changed. On successful completion, I’ll expect a further million.”

“Now look here,” Rashid started, but Aroun held up a hand.

“Fine, Mr. Dillon, and cheap at the price. Now what can we do for you?”

“I need operating money. I presume a man like you keeps large supplies of the filthy stuff around the house?”

“Very large,” Aroun smiled. “How much?”

“Can you manage dollars? Say twenty thousand?”

“Of course.” Aroun nodded to Rashid, who went to the far end of the room, swung a large oil painting to one side disclosing a wall safe, which he started to open.

Makeev said, “And what can I do?”

“The old warehouse in rue de Helier, the one we’ve used before. You’ve still got a key?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ve got most things I need stored there, but for this job I’d like a light machine gun. A tripod job. A Heckler amp; Koch or an M60. Anything like that will do.” He looked at his watch. “Eight o’clock. I’d like it there by ten. All right?”

“Of course,” Makeev said again.

Rashid came back with a small briefcase. “Twenty thousand. Hundred dollar bills, I’m afraid.”

“Is there any way they could be traced?” Dillon asked.

“Impossible,” Aroun told him.

“Good. And I’ll take the maps.”

He walked to the door, opened it and started down the curving staircase to the hall. Aroun, Rashid and Makeev followed him.

“But is this all, Mr. Dillon?” Aroun said. “Is there nothing more we can do for you? Won’t you need help?”

“When I do, it comes from the criminal classes,” Dillon said. “Honest crooks who do things for cash are usually more reliable than politically motivated zealots. Not always, but most of the time. Don’t worry, you’ll hear from me, one way or another. I’ll be on my way, then.”

Rashid got the door open. Rain and sleet drifted in and Dillon pulled on his cap. “A dirty old night for it.”

“One thing, Mr. Dillon,” Rashid said. “What happens if things go wrong? I mean, you’ll have your million in advance and we’ll…”

“Have nothing? Don’t give it a thought, me old son. I’ll provide an alternative target. There’s always the new British Prime Minister, this John Major. I presume his head on a plate would serve your boss back in Baghdad just as well.”

He smiled once, then stepped out into the rain and pulled the door shut behind him.

DILLON PAUSED OUTSIDE Le Chat Noir on the end of the small pier for the second time that night. It was almost deserted, a young man and woman at a corner table holding hands, a bottle of wine between them. The accordion was playing softly and the musician talked to the man behind the bar at the same time. They were the Jobert brothers, gangsters of the second rank in the Paris underworld. Their activities had been severely curtailed since Pierre, the one behind the bar, had lost his left leg in a car crash after an armed robbery three years previously.

As the door opened and Dillon entered, the other brother, Gaston, stopped playing. “Ah, Monsieur Rocard. Back already.”

“Gaston.” Dillon shook hands and turned to the barman. “Pierre.”

“See, I still remember that little tune of yours, the Irish one.” Gaston played a few notes on the accordion.

“Good,” Dillon said. “A true artist.”

Behind them the young couple got up and left. Pierre produced half a bottle of champagne from the bar fridge. “Champagne as usual, I presume, my friend? Nothing special, but we are poor men here.”

“You’ll have me crying all over the bar,” Dillon said.

“And what may we do for you?” Pierre enquired.

“Oh, I just want to put a little business your way.” Dillon nodded at the door. “It might be an idea if you closed.”

Gaston put his accordion on the bar, went and bolted the door and pulled down the blind. He returned and sat on his stool. “Well, my friend?”

“This could be a big payday for you boys.” Dillon opened the briefcase, took out one of the road maps and disclosed the stacks of hundred dollar bills. “Twenty thousand American. Ten now and ten on successful completion.”

“My God!” Gaston said in awe, but Pierre looked grim.

“And what would be expected for all this money?”

Dillon had always found it paid to stick as close to the truth as possible, and he spread the road map out across the bar.

“I’ve been hired by the Union Corse,” he said, naming the most feared criminal organization in France, “to take care of a little problem. A matter of what you might term business rivalry.”

“Ah, I see,” Pierre said. “And you are to eliminate the problem?”

“Exactly. The men concerned will be passing along this road here toward Valenton shortly after two o’clock tomorrow. I intend to take them out here at the railway crossing.”

“And how will this be accomplished?” Gaston asked.

“A very simple ambush. You two are still in the transport business, aren’t you? Stolen cars, trucks?”

“You should know. You’ve bought from us on enough occasions,” Pierre told him.

“A couple of vans, that’s not too much to expect, is it?”

“And then what?”

“We’ll take a drive down to this place tonight.” He glanced at his watch. “Eleven o’clock from here. It’ll only take an hour.”

Pierre shook his head. “Look, this could be heavy. I’m getting too old for gunplay.”

“Wonderful,” Dillon said. “How many did you kill when you were with the OAS?”

“I was younger then.”

“Well, it comes to us all, I suppose. No gunplay. You two will be in and out so quickly you won’t know what’s happening. A piece of cake.” He took several stacks of hundred dollar bills from the briefcase and put them on the bar counter. “Ten thousand. Do we deal?”

And greed, as usual, won the day as Pierre ran his hands over the money. “Yes, my friend, I think we do.”

“Good. I’ll be back at eleven, then.” Dillon closed his briefcase, Gaston went and unlocked the door for him and the Irishman left.

Gaston closed the door and turned. “What do you think?”

Pierre poured two cognacs. “I think our friend Rocard is a very big liar.”

“But also a very dangerous man,” Gaston said. “So what do we do?”

“Wait and see.” Pierre raised his glass. “Salut.”

Dillon walked all the way to the warehouse in rue de Helier, twisting from one street to another, melting into the darkness occasionally to check that he wasn’t being followed. He had learned a long time ago that the problem with all revolutionary political groups was that they were riddled with factions and informers, a great truth where the IRA was concerned. Because of that, as he had indicated to Aroun, he preferred to use professional criminals whenever possible when help was needed. Honest crooks who do things for cash, that was the phrase he’d used. Unfortunately it didn’t always hold true and there had been something in big Pierre’s manner.