The House of Commons has sometimes been referred to as the most exclusive club in London, mainly because of the amenities which, together with the upper chamber, the House of Lords, include twenty-six restaurants and bars each providing subsidized food and drinks.

There is always a queue waiting to get in, supervised by policemen, composed not only of tourists, but of constituents with appointments to see their Members of Parliament and everyone has to take their turn, no matter who, which explained why Ferguson and Dillon waited in line, moving forward slowly.

“At least you look respectable,” Ferguson said, taking in Dillon’s double-breasted blazer and gray flannels.

“Thanks to your Amex card,” Dillon told him. “They treated me like a millionaire in Harrods.”

“Really?” Ferguson said dryly. “You do realize that’s a Guard’s Brigade tie you’re wearing?”

“Sure and I didn’t want to let you down, Brigadier. Wasn’t the Grenadiers your regiment?”

“Cheeky bastard!” Ferguson said as he reached the security checkpoint.

It was manned not by the security guards usually found at such places, but by very large policemen whose efficiency was in no doubt. Ferguson stated his business and produced his security card.

“Wonderful,” Dillon said. “They all looked about seven feet tall, just like coppers used to do.”

They came to the Central Lobby where people with an appointment to see their MP waited. It was extremely busy and Ferguson moved on, through a further corridor and down more stairs, finally leading the way out through an entrance on to the Terrace overlooking the Thames.

Once again, there were lots of people about, some with a glass in their hand enjoying a drink, Westminster Bridge to the left, the Embankment on the far side of the river. A row of tall, rather Victorian-looking lamps ran along the parapet. The synthetic carpetlike covering on the ground was green, but further along it changed to red, a distinct line marking the difference.

“Why the change in color?” Dillon asked.

“Everything in the Commons is green,” Ferguson said. “The carpets, the leather of the chairs. Red for the House of Lords. That part of the Terrace up there is the Lords’.”

“Jesus, but you English do love your class distinction, Brigadier.”

As Dillon lit a cigarette with his Zippo, Ferguson said, “Here they are now. Behave yourself, there’s a good chap.”

“I’ll do my best,” Dillon said as Simon Carter and Sir Francis Pamer approached.

“There you are, Charles,” Carter said. “We were looking for you.”

“People all over the place,” Pamer said. “Like a damned souk these days. Now what’s happening, Brigadier? Where are we at with this business?”

“Well let’s go and sit down and I’ll tell you. Dillon here’s going to handle things at the sharp end.”

“All right,” Pamer said. “What do you fancy, afternoon tea?”

“A drink would be more to my taste,” Ferguson told him. “And I’m pressed for time.”

Pamer led the way along to the Terrace bar and they found seats in the corner. He and Carter ordered gin and tonics, Ferguson Scotch. Dillon smiled with total charm at the waiter. “I’ll have an Irish and water, Bushmills if you have it.”

He had deliberately stressed his Ulster accent and Carter was frowning. “Dillon, did you say? I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“No,” Dillon said amiably, “although not for want of trying on your part, Mr. Carter. Sean Dillon.”

Carter’s face was very pale now and he turned to Ferguson. “Is this some sort of practical joke?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Carter shut up as the waiter brought the drinks and as soon as he had gone, continued. “Sean Dillon? Is he who I think he is?”

“As ever was,” Dillon told him.

Carter ignored him. “And you’d bring a damned scoundrel like this, here to this particular place, Ferguson? A man that the Intelligence services have hunted for years.”

“That may be,” Ferguson said calmly. “But he’s working for Group Four now, all taken care of under my authority, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”

“Ferguson, you go too far.” Carter was seething.

“Yes, I’m told that often, but to business. To give you a résumé of what’s happened. There was a burglary at Lord North Street, which may or may not have been genuine. However, we did discover a bug in the telephone which could indicate some kind of opposition. Have you any agents working the case?” he asked Carter.

“Certainly not. I’d have told you.”

“Interesting. When we were at the inquest on Baker this morning Dillon noticed two men who gave him pause for thought. He noticed one of them again later when we were at the crematorium.”

Carter frowned. “But who could it be?”

“God knows, but it’s another reason for having Dillon on the job. The girl still insists she doesn’t know the site of the submarine.”

“Do you believe her?” Pamer put in.

“I do,” Dillon said. “She’s not the sort to lie.”

“And you would know, of course,” Carter said acidly.

Dillon shrugged. “Why should she lie about it? What would be the point?”

“But she must know something,” Pamer said. “At the very least she must have some sort of a clue.”

“Who knows?” Ferguson said. “But at this stage of the game we must proceed on the assumption that she doesn’t.”

“So what happens next?” Carter demanded.

“Dillon will proceed to St. John and take it from there. The girl mentioned a diver, a man named Carney, Bob Carney, who was a close friend of Baker. Apparently he knows the area like the back of his hand. The girl can make a suitable introduction, persuade him to help.”

“But there’s no guarantee he can find the damned thing,” Pamer said.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Ferguson looked at his watch. “We’ll have to go.”

He stood and led the way outside. They paused by the wall on the edge of the Terrace. Carter said, “So that’s it then?”

“Yes,” Ferguson told him. “Dillon and the girl will probably leave for St. John tomorrow or the day after.”

“Well I can’t say I like it.”

“No one is asking you to.” Ferguson nodded to Dillon. “Let’s get moving.”

He moved away and Dillon smiled at the two of them with all his considerable charm. “It’s been a sincere sensation, but one thing, Mr. Carter.” He leaned over the parapet and looked down at the brown water of the Thames. “Only fifteen feet, I’d say, maybe less when the tide’s up. All that security at the front door and nothing here. I’d think about that if I were you.”

“Two-knot current out there,” Pamer said. “Not that I can swim myself. Never could. Should be enough to keep the wolves at bay.”

Dillon walked away and Carter said, “It makes my skin crawl to think of that little swine walking around here, a free man. Ferguson must be crazy.”

Pamer said, “Yes, I see your point, but what do you think about the girl? Do you believe her?”

“I’m not sure,” Carter said. “And Dillon has a point. Why would she lie?”

“So we’re no further forward?”

“I wouldn’t say that. She knows the area, she knew Baker intimately, the kind of places he went to and so on. Even if she doesn’t know the actual location she may be able to work it out with this Carney fellow to help her, the diver.”

“And Dillon, of course.”

“Yes, well, I prefer to forget about him and under the circumstances, what I could do with is another drink,” and Carter turned and led the way into the bar.

At his suite in Paris Max Santiago listened patiently while Pamer gave him details of the meeting on the Terrace.

“Astonishing,” he said when Pamer had finished. “If this Dillon is the kind of man you describe, he would be a formidable opponent.”

“But what about the girl?”

“I don’t know, Francis, we’ll have to see. I’ll be in touch.”