“I intend a flying visit to Washington quite soon to see President Clinton. The Irish Prime Minister, Mr. Reynolds, will be joining us. This is all very hush-hush and you gentlemen will respect my confidence.”

“Of course, Prime Minister,” Carter said and they all nodded.

“One other matter. You may have heard of Mr. Liam Bell?”

“I know him,” Rupert Lang said. “Met him in Washington when he was a Senator before he gave up politics and became president of some huge electronics firm.”

“He’s also Irish American and was much involved with fund-raising for the IRA through NORAID, the Northern Ireland Aid Committee.”

“Yes, well he’s seen the error of his ways there. He’s genuinely committed himself to achieving peace. He’s coming over on a fact-finding mission on behalf of President Clinton on Thursday. He’ll spend one night in London at his house in Vance Square, then proceed to Belfast. He’ll be coming in by private jet.”

“Do you want us to look after him, Prime Minister?” Carter asked.

“No publicity, that’s essential. As it happens, there’s a Conservative Party fund-raiser on Thursday night at the Dorchester. Six o’clock for drinks, you know the sort of thing? I’ll have to show my face and I’ve seen that Mr. Bell has an invitation so that I can have a private word with him.” He turned to Ferguson. “I’d like you to keep an eye out for him, Brigadier.”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

John Major stood up. “Hard times, gentlemen, dangerous times.” He smiled. “But we shall come through. We must.”

Rupert Lang and Yuri Belov had lunch in the pub opposite Kensington Gardens. Shepherd’s Pie washed down with lager.

“So civilized, London,” Belov said. “You English are unique. The French say you can’t cook, but your pub grub is wonderful.”

“They’ve never forgiven us for Waterloo,” Lang said.

Belov sat back. “ Ferguson and Dillon are a rare combination.”

“You can say that again, and this Bernstein girl is pretty hot stuff too.”

Belov nodded. “So where do we stand? The Sons of Ulster destroyed, Daniel Quinn eliminated, the plutonium threat taken care of…”

“And Francis Callaghan singing like a bird.” Lang smiled. “So where does that leave us?”

“With the prospect of peace looming up in Ireland, and that doesn’t suit.”

“I see. You mean you and your people would prefer another Bosnia? A civil war?”

“I’ve told you before, Rupert, out of chaos comes order.”

“And the kind of Ireland you’d like to see, based on sound Marxist principles?”

“Something like that, but the most important factor in the equation will be how well the Protestants react to the peace proposals.”

“I think there’s a fair chance they might react violently,” Lang said.

“It’s essential,” Belov told him. “To provoke not so much the IRA, but the Catholics.”

“Yes, I see the logic in that, so what are you thinking of?”

“That perhaps we should do it for them. After all, January 30 have hit the IRA before this.”

“And the Prods.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s consequences that are important. For example, this Irish American, Liam Bell, here on behalf of Clinton. What if something unpleasant happened while he was here in London?”

“There’d be hell to pay.”

“Exactly. I mean, never mind President Clinton – I don’t think the great American public would be pleased.”

“So where is this leading to?”

“What’s Grace doing at the moment?”

“A Noel Coward thing, Private Lives, at the King’s Head. That’s a pub theatre. You know the sort of thing – fringe.”

“What time does she go on stage?”

“Eight-fifteen. I went last night.”

“Excellent. Speak to her and Tom. Get them invitations for this affair at the Dorchester on Thursday. Let’s see what we can come up with.”

When Dillon called at Ferguson ’s office at the Ministry of Defence just after lunch on Thursday, the Brigadier was busy, but Hannah came to the outer office to greet him. Dillon wore a bomber jacket, navy-blue sweater, and jeans.

He said, “How is he? Your message on my answer machine said urgent.”

“It is. He’ll speak to you in a moment.”

Dillon lit a cigarette and she sat down at her desk, her tan wrapover skirt opening. “I love that fashion,” he said. “Let’s a fella see what grand legs you’ve got.”

“Well get used to it,” she said, “because that’s all you’re going to see.”

“The hard woman you are. Have we got far with Francis Callaghan?”

“Oh yes, he’s behaved himself. The trouble is most of his hard-core information concerns the Sons of Ulster, so it’s out of date. The other stuff concerning the UVF, the UFF, and the Red Hand of Ulster is very generalized. He’s not told us much that we didn’t know.”

“What about January 30?”

She shook her head. “He seems as much in the dark as the rest of us.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Our interrogation team does and they haven’t left it to chance. They’ve used a pretty advanced lie detector test and it certainly shows he was telling the truth.”

“Another dead end there then.” He walked to the window. “Strange, that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It could simply indicate a terrorist group operating very privately on a cell system.”

“Good sound Marxist principles, that.”

She frowned. “That’s an interesting point. You could be right.”

The buzzer sounded. She got up and Dillon followed her into Ferguson ’s office, where they found him seated at his desk.

“Ah, there you are so we can get on,” he said as if Dillon had kept him waiting.

“ ’Tis sorry I am,” Dillon said, doing his stage Irishman. “Ten miles I’ve walked from the Castledown Bridge in my bare feet, my boots tied round my neck to save the leather, but an honor it is to serve a grand Englishman like yourself. In what way may I be of service?”

“There are times, Dillon, when I think you’re quite mad, but never mind that now. I see you’re dressed in your usual careless way. Well it won’t do. Decent suit, collar and tie, and be at the Dorchester ballroom for six.” He pushed an engraved card across his desk. “That gets you in. You as well, Chief Inspector. I’ll meet you there. I want you both armed, by the way.”

It was Hannah who said, “Do we get to know why, sir?”

“Of course. As you can see from the card, fund-raiser for the Conservative Party. The Prime Minister will be looking in. There will be one unexpected guest.”

“And who would that be, sir?”

He told them about Liam Bell. When he was finished he said, “He’ll just be a face in the crowd. Highly unlikely anyone would recognize him.” He pushed a photo across. “There he is. No press release. He’ll arrive at six-fifteen. I’ll greet him when he comes in and take him to a private room where he and the PM will have a little chat. He has a house in Vance Square. I presume he’ll return there afterwards. He has an onward journey by private jet in the morning at seven o’clock from Gatwick, so he’s hardly likely to go out on the town.”

“And what would you like us to do, sir?”

“Keep an eye on him, that’s all.”

“Fine, sir,” Hannah said. “We’ll see you there then.”

She and Dillon went out and Ferguson opened a file and started to go through some papers.

Dillon arrived at the Park Lane entrance to the Dorchester at ten minutes to six. There was quite a crowd pressing to get in and he pushed his way through, taking off his navy-blue Burberry trench coat to reveal a rather smart gray flannel suit by Yves St. Laurent, with blue silk shirt and dark blue tie. He saw Hannah Bernstein standing beside the uniformed security guards and she waved.

“Here, give me your coat. I’ll put it with mine. Don’t use the cloakroom. It would take an hour to get it back.” She turned to the head security guard. “He’s with me. Ministry of Defence.”