“You’re a liar.” The young man nodded and someone standing behind Callaghan punched him in the kidneys so that he went down on one knee. “You’re an Irish terrorist, Protestant variety, here with Daniel Quinn to acquire a supply of plutonium from a KGB agent named Bikov and Selim Rassi of the Party of God.”

“There’s been a mistake,” Callaghan said.

The young man nodded again. This time a rifle butt thudded into Callaghan’s back and he went down again. The two men who had been standing behind him started to kick him in the body savagely.

“Not his face,” the young man ordered.

After a while they stopped, pulled Callaghan up, and sat him in a chair. He was in considerable pain and half sobbing as he said, “You’ve got the wrong man.”

“Really.” The young man leaned back and lit another cigarette. “I don’t think so, but we’ll see.” He nodded to the others. “Let’s save some time. Put him in the well. I don’t think he’ll last long down there.”

They grabbed Callaghan by the arms, picked him up and hustled him out along a passage, across a courtyard, and into a barn. There was the round, low stone wall of a well in the center. One of the men provided a key and unfastened Callaghan’s handcuffs. The other picked up a rope with a loop on the end and slipped it over his head beneath his arms.

“Now look here,” he said.

One of them slapped him, then they ran him across the barn and shoved him over the wall, hanging on to the rope, bracing themselves as he swung against the stonework. They lowered him quite quickly, and after about thirty feet, he splashed into water. He had a moment of panic as he went under, but it was only about four feet deep, the bottom a thick and slimy ooze and the stench was terrible.

“Loosen the rope,” one of them called.

Callaghan did as he was told, looking up at the faces peering down at him, watching the rope going up. It was bitterly cold and he shivered and then the light went out and there was only the darkness.

At that moment back at the cafe, Dillon leaned over the rail looking out at the shops in the darkness of the harbor, waiting for Walid Khasan. There had been no sign of Quinn, not that he’d really expected one. He went down some steps to a lower level where motor boats were moored. As he lit a cigarette, there was a footfall and he turned and found Anya, the prostitute, there.

“So here you are,” she said in Arabic.

“So it would appear,” he said. “And the answer is still the same.”

“What a pity.” She reached in her shoulder bag, produced a Colt.32 automatic with a silencer on the end, and rammed it into his side. “No one will hear, Mr. Dillon, so I suggest you do as I say.” She reached in his pocket and found the Walther. “So, now we walk to the other end and mount the steps, all very sensibly. You follow me?”

“Oh, if needs be, I’m the most sensible man in the world, girl dear,” he told her in English.

“Good, then let’s get moving.”

There were several cars parked at the top of the dock and she took him across to the other side where the same van which had transported Callaghan earlier was waiting. Two men moved out of the shadows. One of them pulled a bag over his head and the other handcuffed him. They pushed him in the rear and joined him. Anya got behind the wheel and drove away.

When they took the bag off his head he was standing in the same room Callaghan had found himself in earlier and the same young man sat behind the desk. The two men stood behind Dillon and the girl went and leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette.

“You do good work,” Dillon told her. “I’m only sorry I didn’t take you up on your offer.”

The man behind the desk said, “My sister, Mr. Dillon, so mind your mouth.”

He nodded and one of the men put a rifle butt into Dillon’s back, sending him down on his knees. They lifted him up and put him in a chair.

The young man said, “You are Sean Dillon, an ex -IRA enforcer now working for Brigadier Charles Ferguson of British Intelligence. You are staying at the Al Bustan with a good-looking lady called Amy Cooper who is really Chief Inspector Bernstein of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch.” He shook his head. “Jewish. We don’t like Jews here in Beirut. They’ve given us a lot of trouble.”

“Well good for them,” Dillon said.

One of the men clouted him across the side of the head and the young man said, “My name is Omar, that is all you need to know. I’m with the Dark Wind group. You’ve heard of us?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you.”

“I know why you are here. To find an Irish Protestant terrorist called Daniel Quinn who is here to do a deal with Selim Rassi of the Party of God and a piece of KGB slime called Ilya Bikov.”

“You’ve a vivid imagination.”

One of the men hit Dillon again and Omar said, “You were following Callaghan tonight, Quinn’s right-hand man. You were a nuisance, Mr. Dillon. You see, we of Dark Wind don’t care for the Party of God at the best of times, but in this case, we would like the plutonium for ourselves.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

“Like you, I don’t know where Quinn and Selim are hanging out. However, we do have Callaghan at the bottom of the well on the other side of the courtyard. He won’t like it down there, he won’t like it at all, and neither will you.”

“I see,” Dillon said. “I’m to have a bath too?”

“You will end up dirtier than you went in, Mr. Dillon. It’s rather unpleasant. I don’t think Callaghan will last the night. He’ll talk by morning.”

“You seem sure about that.”

“Oh, I am. You see, I’ve had a rather ingenious idea. I’ve nothing against you, so I’ll have a message sent to Walid Khasan and the Chief Inspector offering to sell you back.”

“Now isn’t that kind of you,” Dillon said.

“Ah, there’s a catch. Once down there with Callaghan, you go to work on him. I don’t care how you do it, but you get him to tell us where Quinn may be found.”

“Is that all?” Dillon said.

Omar got up, came round, put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “Enjoy it, Dillon, your last for some time, and be sensible. You see, if you don’t get Callaghan to talk, I won’t sell you back. I’ll have you shot.”

Dillon smiled at Anya. “See where an interest in good-looking women gets you? I should have listened to my aunt Mary.”

Anya laughed out loud and Omar smiled. “I like you, Dillon, but business is business.” He nodded to the two men. “Take him.”

They led Dillon along the passage, across the courtyard, and into the barn. They paused at the well while one of them removed his handcuffs, then slipped the loop over his head.

“Over you go,” he ordered.

Dillon climbed over the wall and they lowered him down into the darkness. He was aware of the water, cold and clammy, the stench, glanced up as he slipped out of the rope and saw them peering down. They pulled up the rope.

Dillon turned, aware of the other man against the wall. “Would you be Francis Callaghan?”

“Who in the hell are you?”

One of the men called in English, “Have a good night,” and the light was turned out, leaving only the darkness.

Dillon said, “I’m supposed to be Harry Gaunt, working for the United Nations and staying at the Al Bustan.”

“Supposed to be.”

“I’m Sean Dillon. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“My God, I can’t believe it. The big IRA gunman that turned sides and works for Brit Intelligence?”

“The same. I was following you.”

“And why would you do that?”

“I want Quinn, Francis me boy. We know all about this plutonium deal and Selim Rassi and Bikov, so don’t bother to deny it.”

“Screw you,” Callaghan said.

“Have you heard from Belfast lately? Daley, Jack Mullin, and four more of your lads, all dead, Francis. Six at one blow just like the tailor in the fairy tale, only his were flies on a slice of jam and bread.”