The bar and restaurant area was hardly busy, with no more than a couple of dozen people scattered around the tables, three or four on bar stools. The fans stirred on the flaking ceiling, the ornate mirrors at the back of the bar were cracked in places, and here and there the wall was pockmarked with bullet holes, but the two barmen wore white jackets, the headwaiter a tuxedo. They were all trying. The war, after all, was over.

Billy had two cameras slung around his neck and snapped away with genuine enthusiasm, going out through the open French windows to the terrace and the floodlit pool area. He returned.

“Great, Dillon, just great. We could make a movie.”

Dillon had discovered an acceptable bar champagne and toasted him. “Just your thing, Billy. You’d look great in a white tuxedo. We’ll get Harry to put up the money.”

And then Greta Novikova walked into the bar, elegant in a very simple black silk dress that was short, but not too short, set off by gold high-heel shoes, with her hair tied back.

“I was wondering where you’d got to,” Dillon said. “But it was worth the wait, girl. You look grand.”

“You’re a cheeky bastard, Dillon, I’ll say that for you. I’ll have champagne on the terrace.”

She walked out, heads turning, and selected a table and Dillon ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon from the headwaiter.

“ Ferguson is obviously extremely generous when he allows you to order stuff like that,” Greta said.

Billy was seated on the balustrade, snapping away. “Oh, Dillon’s the man for you. He’s got plenty stacked away.”

As the headwaiter uncorked the bottle and a waiter brought three glasses, Dillon said, “That’s a great lie, or part of a one. Billy here and his uncle Harry have millions in property development by the Thames, but he’s a boy of simple tastes. Prefers being a photographer.”

“Photographer, my ass,” she said to Dillon in Russian.

“And what was that all about?” Billy asked.

“I couldn’t bear to tell you,” Dillon said. “But it was rude.” He turned to the headwaiter. “Only two glasses. The boy doesn’t drink.”

“No, he just shoots people when the mood takes him,” Greta said, and sipped some of her champagne. “I know very well who you are. Your uncle is one of the most notorious gangsters in London, and you’re not far behind.”

“I’ll have to run faster, then.”

Dillon produced a pack of Marlboros and gave her a light. “So where do we go from here? You know what the game is, or think you do.”

“But my game could be different from yours. We Russians can be very devious.” She emptied her glass in a quick swallow. “Not vodka. Now, there’s a real drink. Buy a bottle and I’ll trade glass for glass with you.”

Billy was laughing. “You’re one of a kind, lady. Go on, Dillon, give it a go.”

And Dillon liked her, liked her more than any woman in a long time, as she leaned across the table so close that he could smell her perfume, her chin on one hand. “Come on, Dillon.” She was challenging him now. “Would you like to give it a go?”

There was a pause, then Dillon said, “I capitulate.” He ordered a bottle of vodka, which was provided almost instantly.

She insisted on having the first one. “I am the taster.” She took it straight back, Russian style, and made a face. “Now, this one they’ve made in some backyard in Baghdad. Try it, Dillon.”

He did, and it burned like fire. He coughed, tears in his eyes. “Well, it’s not Irish whiskey, but it’ll do to take along. Let’s save some for your friends. They’ll be joining you, I’m sure.” She poured him another with a steady hand. “Makeev and Zorin.”

“Sounds like a variety act,” Billy said.

“Ah, Mr. Salter, there you would be making a mistake. They come highly recommended.”

Two men came out through the French windows, strangely similar in black shirts and tan suits, around forty, hard and fit with military-style haircuts.

The nearest one said in Russian, “Major Novikova. Igor Zorin. This is Boris Makeev.”

“Make it English. Mr. Dillon here speaks Russian almost as well as you do.”

“A man of taste, which doesn’t extend to his choice of vodkas,” Makeev said. “But when you’re Irish, anything’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

Makeev drank from the bottle, made a face and spat it out onto the table, spotting Greta’s dress. “Control yourself,” she said angrily. “That’s an order.”

“We’re not in the army now,” Makeev told her. “We’re working for wages, and I can tell you we don’t take kindly to women who try to give orders.”

Billy took a step toward him, and Dillon said, “Leave it.”

Sergeant Parker appeared through the French windows, wearing a dark blue blazer and flannel slacks. He put his right hand inside the blazer and stood, silent and watchful.

“Nothing to say?” Makeev asked.

“Your hair fascinates me,” Dillon said. “Shaved off like that, the two of you look like a couple of convicts on the run. Now, the SAS at Hereford, England, grow their hair long because they don’t know from one day to the next when they might have to go undercover. But then, they’re the best. You can’t be expected to compare.”

“Why, you little shit,” Makeev said in Russian, leaned down to grab Dillon by the shirtfront and was promptly head-butted. He staggered back, and Billy put out a foot and tripped him, following it up with a kick in the ribs.

“Nice one,” Billy said.

As Zorin picked his friend up, Greta jumped to her feet, furious. “Go to my cottage and wait for me. Now!” she added fiercely.

“Billy, you just can’t get good help these days,” Dillon said.

“I don’t know what the world’s coming to.” Billy was smiling, but Greta wasn’t.

“Damn you to hell, Dillon,” and she turned and followed the other two down to the cottage area.

People had settled again, unfazed by a minor affray in a city where bombs and violence were part of their daily lives.

Parker said, “What in the hell was all that supposed to be about?”

“That, ould son, is the opposition, but I’ll fill you in down at our cottage. Time to move out, Billy, not that we actually unpacked.”

“It’s all go with you.”

As they went down the steps from the terrace, Dillon’s Codex Four went. It was Sharif. “Mr. Dillon, Selim arrived a short while ago at the farm.”

“We’re on our way. Don’t forget, half an hour and then call her.”

“As we arranged.”

Sharif switched off his mobile and stood there in the orange grove, aware of the smell, the lights of Ramalla Village over to his left, the farm beside the Tigris below, and felt strangely sad. Had he done the right thing? Who knew? It was in the hands of Allah now.

In their cottage, Dillon brought Parker up to speed and opened the hardware bag. He produced two Colt.25 semiautomatics in ankle holsters and gave one to Billy.

“A woman’s gun,” Parker said.

“Not with hollow-point cartridges. Put a Walther in your waistband behind your back, Billy.” He smiled at Parker. “If anybody searching finds it, they think that’s it.”

“My God, what is this, the third Gulf War?”

So Dillon told him.

Afterward, Parker said, “I knew it was big when Robson briefed me, but this is something else.”

“A totally black operation. That’s the way we work. You can sign the Official Secrets Act later.”

“Unless you’d prefer not to,” Billy said.

“Get stuffed. Like I said, it’s got a bit boring lately.”

Dillon took an Uzi machine pistol from the bag. “There are two of these in here, so with your Browning, I’d say we’re ready to rock and roll.”

“Just one thing,” Parker said. “Does all this mean you don’t trust Sharif?”

“No – what it means is I don’t trust anybody. So we take the hardware bag, leave anything else, leave the lights on and the radio.”