He put the phone down momentarily, picked it up again and rang Smith in London and when he answered, told him exactly what he wanted him to do.

It was just after six and Dillon was in the study reading the evening paper by the fire when the doorbell sounded. He went and opened it and found old Mr. Cox standing there, a hearse parked at the curb. He was holding a cardboard box in his hands.

“Is Miss Grant at home?”

“Yes, I’ll get her for you,” Dillon told him.

“No need.” Cox handed him the box. “The ashes. They’re in a traveling urn inside. Give her my best respects.”

He went down to the hearse and Dillon closed the door. The Admiral had gone out to an early evening function at his club, but Jenny was in the kitchen. Dillon called to her and she came out.

“What is it?”

He held up the box. “Mr. Cox just left this for you,” and turned and went into the study and put it on the table. She stood beside him, looking at it, then gently opened the lid and took out what was inside. It wasn’t really an urn, just a square box in dark, patterned metal with a clasp holding the lid in place. The brass plate said: Henry Baker 1929-1992.

She put it down on the table and slumped into a chair. “That’s what it all comes down to at the final end of things, five pounds of gray ash in a metal box.”

She broke then and started to cry in total anguish. Dillon put his hands on her shoulders for a moment only. “Just let it come, it’ll do you good. I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” and he turned and went along to the kitchen.

She sat there for a moment and it was as if she couldn’t breathe. She had to get out, needed air. She got up, went into the hall, took the Admiral’s old trenchcoat down from the stand and pulled it on. When she opened the door it had started to rain. She belted the coat and hurried along the pavement and Smith, sitting in the van with Johnson, saw her pass the entrance to the alley.

“Perfect,” he said. “Let’s get on with it,” and he got out and went after her, Johnson at his heels.

Dillon went along the hall to the study, the cup of coffee in his hand, and was aware first of the silence. He went into the study, put down the cup and went back to the hall.

“Jenny?” he called and then noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

“For God’s sake,” he said, took down his flying jacket and went out, putting it on. There was no sign of her, the street deserted. He’d have to take a chance, turned left and ran along the pavement toward Great Peter Street.

It was raining very hard now and he paused on the corner for a moment, looking left and then right, and saw her at the far end where the street met Millbank. She was waiting for a gap in the traffic, saw her chance and darted across to Victoria Tower Gardens by the river, and Dillon also saw something else, Smith and Johnson crossing the road behind her. At that distance, he didn’t actually recognize them, but it was enough. He swore savagely and started to run.

It was almost dark as Jenny crossed to the wall overlooking the Thames. There was a lamp about every twenty feet, rain slanting in a silver spray through a yellow light, and a seagoing freighter moved downstream, its red and green navigation lights plain. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself and felt better. It was at that moment she heard a movement behind her, turned and found Smith and Johnson standing there.

She knew she was in trouble at once. “What do you want?” she demanded and started to edge away.

“No need to panic, darling,” Smith said. “A little conversation is all we need, a few answers.”

She turned to run and Johnson was on her like a flash, pinning her arms and forcing her back against the wall. “Jenny, isn’t it?” he asked and as she struggled desperately, he smiled. “I like that, do it some more.”

“Leave off,” Smith told him. “Can’t you ever think of anything except what’s in your pants?” Johnson eased away, but moved round to hold her from the rear and Smith said, “Now about this U-boat in the Virgin Islands. You don’t really expect us to believe you don’t know where it is?”

She tried to struggle and Johnson said, “Go on, answer the man or I’ll give you a slapping.”

A voice called, “Put her down. I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been, does she? She might catch something.”

Dillon’s Zippo lighter flared as he lit the cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth. He walked forward and Smith went to meet him. “You want trouble, you’ve got it, you little squirt,” and he swung a tremendous punch.

Dillon swayed to one side, reaching for the wrist, twisted it so that Smith cried out in agony, falling to one knee. Dillon’s clenched fist swung down in a hammer blow of tremendous force across the extended arm, snapping the forearm. Smith cried out again, fell over on his side.

Johnson said, “You little bastard.”

He threw Jenny to one side and took an automatic pistol from his left-hand raincoat pocket. Dillon moved in fast, blocking the arm to the side, so that the only shot Johnson got off went into the ground. At the same time the Irishman half-turned, throwing the other man across his extended leg, ramming his heel down so hard that he fractured two of Johnson’s ribs.

Johnson writhed on the ground in agony and Dillon picked up the automatic. It was an old Italian Beretta, small caliber, somewhere close to a point-two-two.

“Woman’s gun,” Dillon said, “but it’ll do the job.” He crouched down beside Johnson. “Who do you work for, sonny?”

“Don’t say a word,” Smith called.

“Who said I was going to?” Johnson spat in Dillon’s face. “Get fucked.”

“Suit yourself.”

Dillon rolled him over, put the muzzle of the gun against the back of his left knee and fired. Johnson gave a terrible cry and Dillon took a handful of his hair and pulled his head back.

“Do you want me to do the other one? I’ll put you on sticks if you like.”

“No,” Johnson moaned. “We work for Santiago – Max Santiago.”

“Really?” Dillon said. “And where would I find him?”

“He lives in Puerto Rico, but lately he’s been in Paris.”

“And you did the burglary at Lord North Street?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy. See how easy it was?”

“You stupid bugger,” Smith said to Johnson. “You’ve just dug your own grave.”

Dillon tossed the Beretta over the wall into the Thames. “I’d say he’s been very sensible. Westminster Hospital’s not too far from here, first-class casualty department and free, even for animals like you, thanks to the National Health Service.”

He turned and found Jenny staring at him in a daze and he took her arm. “Come on, love, let’s go home.”

As they walked away Smith called, “I’ll get you for this, Dillon.”

“No you won’t,” Dillon said. “You’ll put it down to experience and hope that this Max Santiago feels the same way.”

They emerged from the gardens and paused at the pavement edge, waiting for a gap in the traffic. Dillon said, “Are you all right?”

“My God!” she said wonderingly. “What kind of man are you, Sean Dillon, to do that?”

“They’d have done worse to you, my love.”

He took her hand and ran with her across the road.

When they reached the house she went straight upstairs and Dillon went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, thinking about things as he waited for it to boil. Max Santiago? Progress indeed, something for Ferguson to get his teeth into there. He was aware of Jenny coming down the stairs and going into the study, made the coffee, put the cups on a tray. As he went to join her he realized she was on the phone.

“British Airways? What’s the last flight to Paris tonight?” There was a pause. “Nine-thirty? Can you reserve me a seat? Grant – Jennifer Grant. Yes, I’ll pick it up at reservations. Yes, Terminal Four, Heathrow.”