“So far. Have you heard from Ferguson?”

“Not yet. When do you make your move?”

“Daley said he’d get back to me.” He took off his hat. “I need a shower. I want to get rid of this hair dye.”

She made a face. “Yes, it’s just not you, Dillon.”

He took off his coat and jacket and made for the bathroom. At that moment the phone rang. He raised a hand – “Leave it to me” – and picked the phone up.

“Barry Friar,” he said, putting on the public school accent.

“Daley. Mr. Quinn will see you tomorrow night at six.”

“Same place?” Dillon asked.

“No, drive from the Europa to Garth Dock. It’s close to where you were tonight. I know you have a hire car, so use that – and make sure you come alone. You’ll be picked up. Mr. Quinn will be there.”

The phone went dead. Hannah Bernstein said, “Now what?”

“Daley. The next meeting is tomorrow evening at six to meet Quinn. I’m to drive there alone.”

“It worked,” she said. “You were right.”

“I usually am.”

“Where’s the meeting?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I tell you, you’ll tell Ferguson, and he’ll have some SAS hit squad on my case. No go, Hannah.” He smiled. “I’ll be all right, girl dear. Go and do your bit with Ferguson and I’ll have a shower.”

“Damn you, Dillon!” But she knew better than to waste her breath in argument. She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

He stripped and went into the bathroom, whistling cheerfully as he turned on the shower, stood under it, and watched the black dye run from his hair.

In most places in the world, by the early seventies, terrorism was a growing problem, especially in Britain because of the IRA and in spite of the activities of the Security Services and Scotland Yard. The Prime Minister of the day had decided drastic measures were needed and had set up an elite intelligence unit responsible to him alone and no one else.

Brigadier Charles Ferguson had headed the unit since its inception, had served every Prime Minister in office, had no personal political allegiance. He usually operated from an office on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence overlooking Horse Guards Avenue, but when Hannah Bernstein rang him on the red phone she was patched through to his flat in Cavendish Square.

“Bernstein, Brigadier. Dillon made contact.”

“With Quinn?”

“No, Curtis Daley. Dillon has a meeting tomorrow night at six. He won’t tell me where. Says he doesn’t want you sending the heavy brigade in. He has to drive there alone.”

“Awkward sod,” Ferguson said. “Will Quinn be there?”

“So it seems, sir.”

Ferguson nodded. “Catching him is the name of the game, Chief Inspector. Some of these Loyalist groups are now as big a threat as the IRA. Quinn is certainly the most dangerous leader to be found amongst their rather numerous factions. Sons of Ulster.” He grunted. “I mean, my mother was Irish, but why do they have to be so damned theatrical?”

“Dillon always says it’s the rain.”

“He would, wouldn’t he. Everything’s a joke.”

“So what do you want me to do, sir?”

“You do nothing, Chief Inspector. Dillon wants to do things his own way as usual, get close enough to Quinn to put a bullet between his eyes. Let him get on with it, but I won’t have you in the line of fire. You provide backup at the Europa only. If he pulls this thing off tomorrow night, get him straight to Aldergrove airport. I’ll have the Lear jet waiting to fly you to Gatwick.”

“Very well, sir.”

“I’ll have to go. I’ve got my weekly meeting with the Prime Minister at Downing Street in an hour.”

Hannah Bernstein checked her makeup and hair, then left her room and took the lift downstairs. She went into the bar, but there was no sign of Dillon, so she sat at a corner table. He came in a few minutes later wearing a roll-neck sweater, Donegal tweed jacket and dark slacks, his hair, washed clean of the black dye now, so fair as to be almost white.

“Half a bottle of Krug,” he called to the barman and joined her, taking out an old silver case and lighting a cigarette.

“Still determined to take a few years off your life,” she said.

“You never give up, do you, sweetheart?” His voice was Humphrey Bogart to perfection. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she walks into mine.”

“Damn you!” She laughed as the waiter brought the Krug and opened it.

“You could have a Guinness instead. After all, you’re in Ireland.”

“No, I’ll force a little champagne down.”

“Good for you. Did you speak to Ferguson?”

“Oh, yes. I brought him right up to date.”

“And?”

“You can go to hell in your own way. If it works, the Lear will be waiting at Aldergrove and I get you straight out.”

“Good.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to us. Are you free for dinner?”

“I can’t think of anything else to do.”

At that moment he noticed a poster by the bar. “Good God, Grace Browning.” He went over to inspect it and turned to the barman. “Is it still playing?” Dillon asked, reverting to his English accent.

“Last night tomorrow, sir.”

“Could you get me a couple of tickets for tonight’s performance?”

“I think so, but you’ll have to be sharp. Curtain up in forty minutes. Mind you, the Lyric isn’t too far.”

“Good man. Ring the box office for me.”

“I will, Mr. Friar.”

Dillon went back to Hannah. “There you go, girl dear. Grace Browning’s one-woman show. Shakespeare’s Heroines. She’s brilliant.”

“I know. I’ve seen her at the National Theatre. Tell me, Dillon, don’t you ever get confused? One minute sounding like you’ve been to Eton, the next Belfast-Irish?”

“Ah, you’re forgetting my true vocation was the theatre. I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art before Grace Browning did. In fact, I played the National Theatre before she did. Lyngstrand in Lady from the Sea. Ibsen that was.”

“You’ve mentioned it several times since I’ve known you, Dillon.” She stood up. “Let’s get moving before that monumental ego of yours surfaces again.”

Ferguson ’s Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and the front door of the most famous address in the world was opened to him instantly. An aide took his coat and led the way up the stairs, knocking on a door and ushering him into the study.

John Major, the British Prime Minister, looked up and smiled. “Ah, there you are, Brigadier. The week seems to have gone quickly. I’ve asked Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, to join us, and Rupert Lang. You know him, I take it? As an Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office I thought he might have a useful contribution to make to our weekly consultation. He serves on a number of Government committees.”

“I have met Mr. Lang, Prime Minister. Like myself, Grenadier Guards until he transferred to the Parachute Regiment.”

“Yes, fine record. I know you don’t care for Simon Carter, and the Security Services don’t care for you. You know what they call you? The Prime Minister’s private army.”

“So I believe.”

“Try and get along, if only for my sake.” There was a knock at the door and two men entered. “Ah, come in, gentlemen,” the Prime Minister said. “I believe you all know each other.”

“Hello, Ferguson,” Carter said frostily. He was a small man in his fifties with snow-white hair.

Rupert Lang was tall and elegant in a navy-blue striped suit and Guards tie, hair rather long, an intelligent, aquiline face, a restless air to him.

“Nice to see you again, Brigadier.”

“And you.”

“Good. Sit down and let’s get started,” the Prime Minister said.

They worked their way through a variety of intelligence matters for some forty minutes with particular reference to terrorist groups of various kinds and the new menace of Arab fundamentalism in London.