“I feel a whole lot better,” Billy said.

Robson turned back to Dillon. “There’s a safe taxi parked outside with Sergeant Parker at the wheel in civvies. He’ll be on line. Mobile number in your envelopes. Twenty-four-hour watch.” He turned to Lacey and Parry. “I’ve had special instructions. Informed General Ferguson at the MOD that you’d landed and was told you two were to stay and wait here, the Citation refueled for instant takeoff when required.”

“So they can’t go to downtown Baghdad and have a drink with us?” Dillon asked.

“Too dangerous, old boy,” Robson said.

“Of course,” Billy told him. “This just gets better all the time.”

“Your bags are in the taxi, gentlemen, no inspection at the gate.” He smiled. “But why would there be? You’re just a journalist and a photographer.” He got up. “All I can say is enjoy.”

The run to Baghdad itself was calm enough, with plenty of traffic, a lot of it local – cars, trucks and vans, plus lots of donkeys loaded with produce, peasants walking beside them. It was late afternoon, but they were headed for tomorrow’s markets in Baghdad. Rounding it all off were military vehicles of every kind everywhere.

Dillon said to Parker, “So tell us the worst, Sergeant.”

“Well, I’m an old hand. Served in both Gulf Wars, Bosnia and Kosovo in between. If you think things are better because the Yanks grabbed Saddam, you’d be wrong. Plenty of Iraqis were pleased about that, but lots weren’t and they still hate each other. Sunni Muslims, Shiites, stir in a few Kurds, mix it with so-called ‘Muslim freedom fighters’ from all over the world, and that’s not even counting Al Qa’eda.”

“You shouldn’t have joined,” Billy said.

“Well, I did.” Parker laughed. “And you know what? I love every bloody awful minute of it.” He hesitated. “I’m not supposed to ask, but, well, I spent fifteen years in the RAF police. I’ve been around the houses.”

“Which means?” Dillon said.

“Well, you sound Northern Ireland. I should know, because I did four tours there. But Belfast Telegraph? I doubt it. As for Mr. Salter, with the greatest respect, he’s been around the block as well.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t made warrant officer,” Dillon said.

“I once had a falling-out with a warrant officer and punched him.” Robson opened the glove compartment in the car and produced a Browning. “Should I keep this handy?”

“Very sensible.”

“Thank God. Things have been getting boring lately.”

Baghdad was Baghdad. The streets all seemed to be some kind of a market, the traders’ voices high as they shouted to passersby, music blaring out from scores of shops, and traffic everywhere, so much of it that they were reduced to a crawl.

“Is the Al Bustan far?” Dillon asked.

“Which one? There are several. It’s a very common name. Still, don’t worry, I know the right one.”

The evening dusk was setting in as they finally moved off a road not far from Al Rashid Street in the old quarter and turned up a narrow lane and halted at a gate that stood open but had a bar across it. An Iraqi peered out of a small hut and took his time coming.

“Get it up, for Christ’s sake,” Parker told him.

The man said something pretty basic in Arabic, and Dillon reached out through the open window, grabbed him by the throat and told him exactly what to do in reasonably fluent street Arabic himself. The startled man staggered back, got the bar up and Parker drove on.

The hotel was very old-fashioned, the grounds quite large, with a swimming pool and a number of cottage apartments dotted around surrounded by palm trees. They coasted up to the main entrance, braked to a halt, and a couple of porters came down the steps to meet them and take the luggage. Parker didn’t get out.

He said to Dillon. “ Belfast Telegraph? I never heard Arabic like that on the Shankill.”

“We spoke it on the Falls Road all the time.”

“I’m sure you did.” Parker smiled. “I look forward to hearing from you,” and drove away.

The reception area was very old-fashioned as well, with three great fans hanging from the ceiling and swirling around. In the taxi, Billy had extracted two cameras from his bag and had slung them around his neck. He took a couple of pictures of the foyer and moved to an archway opening into a huge bar and café area. He took more pictures and turned to Dillon.

“Brilliant. Just like Casablanca. All we need is Rick.”

“You’ve made your point, Billy.”

The man behind reception interrupted. “Gentlemen, my name is Hamid. I am the manager. May I help you?”

“Dillon and Salter,” Dillon told him.

“Ah, Mr. Dillon. We weren’t expecting you yet.”

“Hell of a tailwind,” Billy put in.

Dillon lit a cigarette. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. Cottage Five.”

“I was hoping to meet Miss Novikova.” Dillon said it in Arabic, and Hamid was startled. “She’s arrived, I know that.”

“Yes, she arrived a few hours ago. Cottage Seven.” He snapped his fingers to the two porters, who picked up the bags and led the way out, Billy and Dillon following, down a narrow path leading through the palm trees. They saw tables beside the pool, sheltered by umbrellas, people sitting around having drinks. As the porters forged ahead, Dillon pulled Billy close to him.

“The end table with the green-and-white umbrella. The woman in a light blue dress sitting with what looks like an Iraqi. Black hair, bushy mustache.”

“Yes?”

“That’s Greta Novikova.”

“And the guy?”

“Sharif. I’ve seen his photo. Keep moving.”

They passed on, following the porters to the cottage. One of the porters unlocked the door and they led the way in. It was all very acceptable. A sitting room, two bedrooms and a shower room. There was even a small kitchen and a terrace.

Dillon paid the porters off, unlocked the French windows and moved out onto the terrace. Billy joined him. “What do you think about Novikova?”

“I don’t know, Billy, except that she shouldn’t be so cozy with Sharif.”

“So what do we do?”

“Unpack, have a shower – you can go second – and speak to Sharif when he turns up. After that, venture out into the bar, and who knows? We might just bump into Novikova.”

Billy smiled. “Harry’s right, you are a sod.”

Toward the end of her flight, Greta had received a call from Ashimov. “Ah, the wonders of cyberspace. It’s just as I thought. Dillon’s on his way to Baghdad, too. I’ve even got his estimated time of arrival.”

“I’m impressed.”

“To the great Ashimov, anything is possible. I’ve arranged for two mercenary friends of mine in Baghdad, Igor Zorin and Boris Makeev, to handle the dirty work.”

“Are they good?”

“Ex-paratroopers, good Chechen experience. They’ll do. Like you, Dillon is staying at the Al Bustan. He’s got a backup with him, that young gangster, Billy Salter. They’re posing as press.”

“Isn’t that going to be awkward, them staying here, too?”

“Not really. He’d have run you down soon enough. The beauty of it is that the manager at the Al Bustan, a guy called Hamid, has worked for me many times before. He’s already informed me that a Major Sharif, a former Republican Guard, was making inquiries about Dillon’s arrival. I gave Hamid instructions to speak to this man on my behalf. To seduce him with money. You like it?”

“Poor Dillon.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to speak to Sharif before Dillon and Salter get there. Stay in touch.”

At the Al Bustan, Hamid couldn’t do enough for her, the magic name of Belov pervading the air. He took her to her cottage personally, then called Major Sharif on his mobile. Greta didn’t bother to unpack; instead she simply went and sat at the table by the pool and ordered a large vodka cocktail from a passing waiter. She was sipping it, thinking, when Sharif approached and introduced himself. He was a large man in his forties, with black hair and mustache, and sad eyes. He wore a creased linen suit, and the bulge in the right-hand pocket indicated a weapon.