Dillon started up the stairway and a voice called in Arabic, “Achmed, where are you?”

Dillon paused. Another Arab appeared, also armed with an AK-47. He stood there, quite unconcerned, and Dillon took careful aim and shot him in the head. The man dropped his rifle and went over the rail into the water.

A hundred yards away in the darkness Hannah Bernstein, looking through the night sight, shuddered. “My God, there were guards, two of them.”

“What did he do?” Cohen asked.

“He shot them both.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” and he took the night sight from her gently.

Dillon moved along the deck, keeping to the shadows. He heard laughter, peered through a porthole, and found half a dozen sailors playing cards, smoking and drinking.

“And merciful Allah wouldn’t be too pleased about that,” he said softly and moved on.

He came to some sort of salon, glanced in through a square window, and found Selim Rassi and Daniel Quinn sitting on either side of a table. There was a small briefcase between them. There was no sign of the Russian.

Dillon opened the salon door and stepped inside. Quinn had his back to him, but the Arab saw him at once and reached inside his jacket. Dillon shot him twice in the heart, sending him backwards in his chair.

Quinn turned, his own chair going over, and Dillon said, “Easy, Danny boy, easy.”

“Who in the hell are you?” Quinn demanded.

“Oh, we go back a long way, you and me – Derry in the old days. Sean Dillon, Danny, your worst nightmare.”

“Dillon.” Quinn’s face was pale. “You fucking bastard. Working for the Brits now.”

“But I thought that was your side, Danny? Make your mind up. Now open the case.”

“You go to hell.”

Dillon’s hand came up, he fired, and part of Quinn’s right ear disintegrated. He lurched against the table, a hand to his ear.

Dillon said, “Open it!”

Quinn unclipped the briefcase. Inside were two objects resembling thermos flasks. Dillon picked one up and slipped it in his dive bag. He did the same with the other.

“What have I got here?”

“Plutonium 239. Three hundred grams.”

Dillon said, “That could take out half of Dublin.”

“For God’s sake, Dillon, you’re not with the IRA anymore. We can show the fucking Fenians we mean business.”

“It’s finished, Danny,” Dillon said. “Peace coming whether you like it or not. We’ve got Callaghan. He’ll sing like a bird. I killed Daley in Belfast and five of your foot soldiers. You’re finished, me ould son.”

The door opened behind him, he turned, dropping to one knee, and found Bikov there. Dillon fired twice, knocking him out to the deck, and behind him Quinn dropped behind the desk, drew a pistol, and fired at the same time, shouting at the top of his voice.

Dillon went out, crouching low in time to catch the seamen emerging onto the deck farther along. Several of them were armed, and when they saw him they fired.

He darted to the other side of the ship, paused beside the engine room, and took out the Semtex block. He activated both three-minute timers, raised the engine room hatch and dropped them in, then he went up a ladder to the top deck.

Cohen had been watching through the night sight. As gunfire cracked, Hannah said, “What is it?”

“He’s in trouble.” Cohen dropped the night sight, picked up an Uzi, cocked it and gave it to her. “I hope you can pull a trigger, because we’re going in to get him.”

As the first seaman emerged at the top of the ladder behind him, Dillon turned and fired twice, knocking him down, then he simply vaulted over the stern rail into the water. As he surfaced, the inflatable surged forward, Cohen at the tiller, Hannah Bernstein spraying the deck above with the Uzi.

“Hang on!” Cohen cried and threw a line.

They sped away into the darkness, the odd, angry shot pursuing them, and finally slowed. Cohen leaned over. “Did you get it?”

“Oh yes, it’s here in the dive bag.”

Cohen gave him a hand on board, and at that moment, the Alexandrine blew up in a great eruption of orange flames, the sound echoing toward the land.

“Oh, my God!” Hannah Bernstein said.

“They must have had trouble in the engine room.” Dillon shook his head. “And the Sons of Ulster are going to need a new leader. Just shows you can’t depend on anything in this wicked old life.”

It was exactly two hours later that the Lear lifted off the runway at Beirut International Airport and started a steady climb to thirty thousand feet. Callaghan, dressed in slacks and a polo neck sweater, sat by himself looking decidedly unhappy. Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon were grouped together.

“You did well, Chief Inspector,” the Brigadier told her.

“Better than well,” Dillon said. “When Cohen came in to get me, she stood up in that boat and gave us covering fire with an Uzi. Annie Oakley come back to haunt us. Time you made her Superintendent, Brigadier.”

“Out of my hands, a Scotland Yard matter.”

“And you with no influence,” Dillon mocked.

“And what about Dillon, sir?” Hannah demanded. “If anyone did well, it was he.”

“Yes, well I had every confidence in him as usual, which was why I brought this.” Ferguson opened the small ice box in one of the cupboards and produced a bottle of Krug. “You open it, dear boy.”

“You old sod,” Dillon said and eased off the cork while Hannah got out the glasses. He turned to Callaghan. “Will you join us in a glass, Francis?”

“Go stuff yourselves, the lot of you,” Callaghan said.

The Prime Minister at the debriefing the following morning was absolutely delighted. “So Dillon’s done it again.” He turned to Carter. “I know you don’t like him, but you must admit he gets results.”

“Yes, the little swine manages that all right.”

“Oh, come on, Simon,” Rupert Lang told him. “It’s results that count. The Protestant terrorist movements have been dealt a crippling blow. Ferguson ’s unit has not only foiled the worst bomb threat possible, a threat that would have added an entirely new dimension to the Irish problem, they’ve also got rid of one of the most dangerous leaders there was.”

“And that is of crucial importance,” the Prime Minister told them. “President Clinton is giving us all his support in an effort to produce a final and lasting peace in Ireland. Senator Edward Kennedy has brought his considerable influence to bear in Congress, and several other prominent Irish Americans, such as Senator Patrick Keogh and former Congressman Bruce Morrison, have been working behind the scenes for months to persuade the IRA to come to the peace table.”

“I’ll believe it when it happens,” Carter snorted. “I mean, how can we deal with people who’ve bombed the hell out of us for twenty-five years?”

“We dealt with Kenyata in Kenya after the Mau Mau rebellion and gave them independence,” Ferguson told him. “Same thing in Cyprus with Archbishop Makarios.”

“I think Ferguson ’s right,” Rupert Lang said. “We have to travel hopefully.”

“Quite right,” the Prime Minister said. “Look, gentlemen, I’m the last person to look favorably on the IRA. I don’t forget the Brighton Bombing when they almost got the entire Government, but twenty-five years is long enough. The chance for peace is overwhelming and we must seize it, but it does mean keeping the lid on the Protestant hard men. It’s the most volatile of situations. Let me put it this way. I don’t want us on the very brink of peace to see it all destroyed by the wrong kind of incident.”

“I think we’re all agreed on that,” Ferguson told him.