“You think Wrath of Allah is part of that?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. We know a great deal about them and a great deal about Belov, as you’ve read. Don’t forget that when he was with the KGB, he was totally dedicated to helping the downfall of all Western values. A kind of old-fashioned Bolshevik. He’s got all the money in the world, so money is only a means to an end.”

“But what’s the point?” Cazalet demanded. “Why behave as he does?”

“The game, Mr. President,” Hannah said. “The game is the thing. The ultimate power of being able to move his way around the chessboard and laugh at us all, be untouchable.”

“So what do we do about it?” Cazalet asked.

Ferguson said, “Sending that GRU major, Novikova, on Selim’s trail to Baghdad probably means the worst. That Selim’s served his purpose and knows too much. I imagine they’ll finish him off if they can, though I’m not completely sure of that.”

“Which is why you’ve sent Dillon. To save him?”

“Dillon will do what seems appropriate in the circumstances. If that means saving him, fine, and if that means making sure Selim meets a bad end, so be it. If Selim can be retrieved, there’s always the possibility of squeezing more information out of him about the Belov connection.” He shrugged. “If not, he’s dispensable.”

Cazalet said, “Whichever way it goes, it’s going to get very nasty.”

“Exactly, Mr. President, but that’s what my organization was set up for all those years ago. We’re responsible only to the Prime Minister. Nobody else can touch us – the Security Services, the Ministry of Defence, even Parliament.”

“A license to kill,” Cazalet said.

“If that’s what it takes. We’re dealing with global terrorism. It’s a whole new threat, and we can’t cope with it by playing according to the rule book.”

“I totally agree, Mr. President,” Blake said.

“The Prime Minister’s made it plain that I’m in charge and that I’m to take any steps that seem appropriate. That, in effect, is why I’m here. He wanted to make it clear to you that such an attitude will reflect our policy in the future.”

“So you’ll forget the legal system, the courts and everything that goes with it?”

“Desperate times call for desperate remedies.”

Cazalet turned to Hannah. “From what I’ve come to know about you, Superintendent, I’d say such an attitude might give you a moral problem.”

“It does, sir. In a troubled world, it seems to me that if we don’t have the law, a justice system, we have nothing.”

“Which is exactly what our enemies count on,” Ferguson replied. “It’s a question of survival. We either fight back or go under. Anyway, that will be our plan of action from now on. The Prime Minister wanted you to know.”

Cazalet turned to Blake. “You agree with all this?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Everything we stand for, all our values, are on the line these days. As the General says, we fight back, or go under.”

“I thought you’d say that.” Cazalet sighed. “Okay, General, anything we can do.”

“We’re together on this, Mr. President?”

“We always have been.”

“And Belov?” Blake put in. “He’s pretty untouchable.”

“Nobody is untouchable.” Cazalet wasn’t smiling now. “Take him down, gentlemen, whatever it takes.”

Three hours later, rising up from Andrews Air Force Base in the Citation and leveling at fifty thousand feet, Ferguson unfastened his seat belt and smiled at the pretty young RAF sergeant standing over him.

“I’ll have a large Scotch, my dear.” He turned to Hannah on the other side of the aisle. “What about you, Superintendent?”

“I don’t think so, sir. I’m having difficulty enough keeping my head straight.”

“Right now, Superintendent, even as we speak, Dillon and young Billy Salter are out there in harm’s way dealing with some very nasty people.”

“I know that, sir.”

“Then you’ll have to decide which side you’re on. It’s up to you, Superintendent.” And he drank his whiskey.

An hour out of Baghdad, the Citation down to thirty thousand feet, Billy was reading Roper’s report for the fourth time. Dillon had found a half bottle of Irish whiskey in the bar box and poured a large one.

Billy closed the report. “This guy Belov, his bleeding life’s been a saga, and Ashimov – he’d kill the Pope, wouldn’t he?”

“I’d agree with you. I’d say he was the one who pushed Mrs. Morgan off that jetty.”

“And this Novikova woman?”

“A looker, Billy, but don’t be fooled. You don’t make major in the GRU by being soft. That’s why Ashimov’s rushed her to Baghdad.”

“To take care of Selim.”

“He’s a walking dead man.”

“And where’s that leave us?”

“They’ll be expecting us, Billy. Let’s put it that way.”

The telephone rang at his side; he answered and found Roper. “I thought you’d like to know that Greta Novikova landed safely four hours ago,” Roper said. “She didn’t go to the embassy. She’s at the Al Bustan.”

“Well, that’s nice. What about Selim?”

“Dropped in at Kuwait twelve hours ago, collected his car and set off north. It’s a long, hard drive to Baghdad these days, Sean. Sharif is meeting you at the hotel early evening.”

“Thanks.”

“Have fun.”

Dillon replaced the phone. Billy said, “What was that?”

Dillon told him.

Billy was highly amused. “What are we going to do about Novikova? Have a drink in the bar?”

“Who knows? Stranger things have happened.”

“Another thing, those two IRA geezers at this Drumore Castle. Did you know them in the old days?”

“You could say that.”

“Friends or enemies? I mean, if Ashimov asked them to try and blow your head off, would they do it?”

“Yes.”

“For a price?”

“That and the game, Billy.” Dillon poured another whiskey. “Especially if they couldn’t think of anything better to do.”

“Crazy,” Billy said. “All you Micks are crazy.”

Parry appeared. “Landing in fifteen minutes. It’ll be a very fast descent, so strap up well.” He smiled. “It’s the missiles, the ones some peasant fires from his shoulder. We’d just as soon avoid them if we could.”

“That really makes my day,” Billy said. “Thanks very much,” and did as he was told.

But the landing went perfectly. Baghdad looked like most large airports except for the guards, the gun pits, the hardware heavily on display everywhere and lots of military aircraft. They taxied to the main RAF area, parked under instructions and Lacey switched off.

Parry left the cockpit and opened the door. “Good flight, huge tailwind. We’re over an hour early.” An RAF Land Rover drove up to meet them and a sergeant got out in camouflage battle dress and saluted Lacey.

“If you gentlemen will get in, I’ll see to the luggage and take you to the mess. Parker’s my name.”

“What about transport down to town?” Dillon asked.

“Taken care of, sir, what we call a safe taxi. You’ll be fine. It’s been quiet lately.”

They were drinking very English tea in the RAF mess, eating biscuits with Lacey and Parry, when a flight lieutenant turned up.

“I’m Robson – police.” He shook hands with Lacey. “Haven’t seen you since Kosovo. Heard about your Air Force Cross. Good show.” He turned to Parry. “We’ve never met, but good show, too. I’ve seen your priority rating – higher even than the Prime Minister turning up. I’ve been in the RAF long enough to know it doesn’t pay to ask questions. You chaps are obviously moving in very exalted circumstances. Mr. Dillon?”

“That’s me.”

Robson handed him an envelope. “A red Security One tag. It covers everything.”

“Everything?”

“Oh yes, immediate response if you’re in trouble, and I presume you gentlemen could be?” He handed a similar envelope to Billy. “Mr. Salter.”