“Is that all, sir?”

“It’s enough. Get yourself down to the office. See if French Intelligence has anything on him, then try the CIA, the FBI, anybody you can think of. He must be on somebody’s computer. Did you get anything on this Bob Carney fellow, the diver?”

“Yes, sir, an interesting man in more ways than one.”

“Right, you can brief me in the morning, but get cracking on this Santiago thing now. Five hours earlier than us in the States, remember.”

“I’ll try to, sir.”

Lane put the phone down with a groan, opened the microwave oven and looked with distaste at the pizza. What the hell, he’d nothing better to do and he could always pick up some fish and chips on the way to the Ministry.

At his flat, Smith was on his second large Scotch, his right forearm in plaster and held by a sling. He felt terrible and it was beginning to hurt a great deal. He was pouring another Scotch when the phone rang.

Santiago said, “Have you anything for me?”

“Not yet, Mr. Santiago.” Smith searched wildly for something to say. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Shah has been on the phone. Johnson shot and you with a broken arm. ‘Fucking little Irish bastard,’ I believe that was the phrase you used. Presumably Dillon?”

“Well, yes, Mr. Santiago, we did have a run-in with him. We’d got the girl, see, and he managed to jump us. He had a gun.”

“Did he really?” Santiago commented dryly. “And what did you say when he asked you who your employer was?”

Smith answered instinctively, “Not a bloody thing, it was Johnson who…”

He stopped dead and Santiago said, “Carry on, tell me the worst.”

“All right, Mr. Santiago, the stupid bastard did give Dillon your name.”

There was silence for a moment and then Santiago said, “I’m disappointed in you, my friend, most disappointed.” The phone clicked and the line went dead.

Smith knew what that meant. More frightened than he had ever been in his life, he packed a suitcase one-handed, retrieved a thousand pounds mad money he kept in a sugar tin in the kitchen and left. Two minutes later he was behind the wheel of the van and driving away one-handed. He had an old girlfriend in Aberdeen who’d always had a weakness for him. Scotland, that was the place to go. As far away from Johnson as possible.

At the nursing home Shah sat behind his desk, the phone to his ear. After a while he put it down, sighed heavily and went out. He went into the small pharmacy at the side of the operating theater, fitted a syringe together and filled it from a phial he took from the medicine cupboard.

When he opened the door at the end of the corridor, Johnson was sleeping, linked to a drip. Shah stood looking down at him for a moment, then bared the left forearm and inserted the needle. Johnson sucked in air very deeply for about five times, then stopped altogether. Shah checked for vital signs, found none and went out. He paused at the reception desk, picked up the phone and dialed.

A voice said, “Deepdene Funeral Service. How may we serve you?”

“Shah here. I have a disposal for you.”

“Ready now?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Thank you.”

Shah replaced the receiver and went back to his office, humming to himself.

It was almost eleven when Travers returned to Lord North Street and found Dillon sitting in the study reading a book. “Jennifer gone to bed?” Travers asked.

“More than an hour ago. She was very tired.”

“Not surprising, been through a hell of a lot that girl. Fancy a nightcap, Dillon? Can’t offer you Irish, but a good single malt perhaps?”

“Fine by me.”

Travers poured it into two glasses, gave him one and sat opposite. “Cheers. What are you reading?”

“Epictetus.” Dillon held the book up. “He was a Greek philosopher of the Stoic School.”

“I know who he was, Dillon,” Travers said patiently. “I’m just surprised that you do.”

“He says here that a life not put to the test is not worth living. Would you agree to that, Admiral?”

“As long as it doesn’t mean bombing the innocent in the name of some sacred cause or shooting people in the back, then I suppose I do.”

“God forgive you, Admiral, but I never planted a bomb in the way you mean or shot anyone in the back in me life.”

“God forgive me, indeed, Dillon, because for some obscure reason I’m inclined to believe you.” Travers swallowed his whisky and got up. “Good night to you,” he said and went out.

Things had gone better than Smith had expected and he soon had the hang of handling the wheel one-handed, just the fingers of his right hand touching the bottom of the wheel. The rain wasn’t helping, of course, and beyond Watford he missed a turning for the motorway and found himself on a long dark road, no other vehicles in sight, and then headlights were switched on behind and a vehicle came up far too fast.

It started to overtake him, a large black truck, and Smith cursed, frightened to death, knowing what this was, and he frantically worked at the wheel. The truck swerved in, knocking him sideways, and with nowhere to go, the van spun off the road, smashed through a fence and turned over twice on its way down a seventy-foot bank. It came to a crumpled halt and Smith, still conscious as he lay on his side in the cab, could smell petrol as the fractured tank spilled its contents.

There was the noise of someone scrambling down the bank and footsteps approached. “Help me,” Smith moaned, “I’m in here.”

Someone struck a match. It was the last thing he remembered. One final moment of horror as it was flicked toward him through the darkness and the petrol fireballed.

In Paris at Charles de Gaulle Airport it was almost midnight by the time Jenny Grant had retrieved her suitcase and she walked out into the concourse quickly and found an Avis car rental desk.

“You’re still open, thank goodness,” she said as she got her passport and driving license out.

“But of course,” the young woman on duty replied in English. “We always wait until the final arrival of the day, even when there is a delay. How long will you require the car for, mademoiselle?”

“Perhaps a week. I’m not certain, but I’ll be returning here.”

“That’s fine.” The girl busied herself with the paperwork and took a print from her charge card. “Follow me and I’ll take you to the car.”

Ten minutes later Jenny was driving out of the airport sitting behind the wheel of a Citroën saloon and headed west, Normandy the destination. The traveling urn was on the passenger seat beside her. She touched it briefly, then settled back to concentrate on her driving. She had a long way to go, would probably have to drive through the night, but that didn’t matter because London and the terrible events of the last few days were behind her and she was free.

Dillon rose early, was in the kitchen cooking bacon and eggs at seven-thirty when Travers entered in his dressing gown.

“Smells good,” the Admiral said. “Jenny about yet?”

“Well, to be honest with you, Admiral, she’s not been about for some time.” Dillon poured boiling water into a china teapot. “There you go, a nice cup of tea.”

“Never mind that. What are you talking about?”

“Well, drink your tea like a good lad and I’ll tell you. It began with her getting upset and going for a walk.”

Dillon worked his way through his bacon and eggs while he related the events of the previous night. When he was finished the Admiral just sat there frowning. “You took too much on yourself, Dillon.”

“She’d had enough, Admiral,” Dillon told him. “It’s as simple as that and I didn’t see any reason to stop her.”