Dillon produced his ID card and the man nodded. “That’s fine, sir.”

They moved toward the entrance to the ballroom and found Ferguson standing, talking to Rupert Lang.

“Ah, there you are,” Ferguson said and turned to Lang. “Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon. This is Rupert Lang, an Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office.”

“A pleasure, Chief Inspector.” Lang took in her black silk trouser suit with obvious approval. “Mr. Dillon.” He didn’t hold out his hand. “Your fame precedes you.”

“What you really mean is ill-fame,” Dillon said cheerfully.

“For God’s sake, Dillon, I can’t take you anywhere,” Ferguson said. “Clear off and get yourself a drink while the going’s good and be back here in fifteen minutes.”

Dillon and Hannah pushed through the crowd to the champagne bar. “Not for me,” she said.

“Good God, girl, is it the Sabbath or something?” He reached for one of the glasses of champagne and drank it down. “Of course, I was forgetting. You only drink kosher wine.”

“I shall kick you very hard if you don’t behave yourself,” she told him.

At that moment there was a flurry of movement at the entrance and they turned to see the Prime Minister enter. The crowd parted and started to applaud. He smiled his acknowledgment, most of the cabinet behind him, and waved.

“The great and the good and the not so good,” Dillon said. “They’re all here.”

He turned to reach for another glass of champagne and saw Grace Browning and Tom Curry at the other end of the bar.

“Jesus!” he said. “Would you look who’s here?”

“Who?” Hannah asked.

“Grace Browning and that professor fella from the Europa. I told you I spoke to her after you’d gone to bed. I’ll have a word with her.”

“No you will not. It’s just on six-fifteen. We’re needed,” and she turned and moved toward the entrance.

As they arrived, Ferguson was greeting Liam Bell, a tall, gray-haired man with a fleshy face, who seemed to smile easily.

“That’s real kind of you, Brigadier,” he was saying as Ferguson took his coat.

Ferguson passed the coat to Dillon. “Sean Dillon, who is on my staff.”

“A good Irish name.” Liam Bell held out his hand and Dillon warmed to him.

“And Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein.”

Bell smiled. “I’ve always approved of women police officers, but never more than now.”

Before she could reply, Ferguson said, “The Prime Minister is waiting. I’ll take you to him.” He nodded to Dillon and Hannah. “Be available.”

They moved off through the crowd. Dillon said, “Did you come in your car?”

“Yes, I have priority parking right outside on the curb.”

“See what having great legs gets you?”

“You offensive little jerk.” She punched him in the side.

“Only some of the time. Now let’s one of us have another drink.”

Grace Browning, at the bar with Tom Curry, sipped a glass of Perrier.

“You’re sure you don’t want a glass of champagne?” he asked.

“Don’t be silly, Tom. I have to perform, don’t I? What about transport?”

“A black cab just for us. One of Yuri’s boys at the wheel. He knows what we look like. He’ll be straight across the road the moment we appear.”

“That seems all right.”

An arm went about her shoulder and Rupert Lang kissed her hair. “You’re looking rather delicious.”

“Rupert, darling.” She kissed him on the mouth.

“Stop trying to make Tom jealous,” he said. “ Bell has just arrived and Ferguson ’s taken him to see the PM in a side room. You know what he looks like.”

“Of course I do. I’ve been shown enough pictures.”

Yuri Belov moved out of the crowd, urbane and charming, a glass of champagne in one hand.

“Hello, Colonel, good to see you,” Rupert Lang said.

“Mr. Lang – Professor.” Belov took Grace’s hand and kissed it. “Miss Browning, you look as charming as ever. You’re looking forward to your performance this evening?”

“Of course.”

Rupert said softly, “By the way, Ferguson has Sean Dillon here and the Bernstein woman. Just your type, Tom. She went to Cambridge too.” He kissed Grace again. “See you later.”

“After the show at my place.”

He walked one way and Belov another, and Dillon, who had observed the whole scene, said to Hannah, “I’ll be back,” and pushed through the crowd.

“Miss Browning.” He gave her his best smile. “You won’t remember me.”

“But I do,” she said. “The Europa in Belfast. You’d been to see my show and were very charming about it.”

“You were wonderful.”

“You remember Professor Tom Curry?”

“Of course.” Dillon nodded.

“But you didn’t tell us your name.”

“Dillon – Sean Dillon.”

“And you were at RADA?”

“A long time ago. I worked at the National briefly. Played Lyngstrand in Lady from the Sea.”

“One of my most favorite plays. But I’ve never heard of you.”

“Oh, I gave it all up a long time ago.”

“Ah, I see, you found something better?”

“No, you might say the theatre of life called. Are you working at the moment?”

“I’m doing Private Lives at the King’s Head.”

“Not a bad play,” Dillon said. “He had a way with words, old Noel.”

At that moment he was tapped on the shoulder and turned to find Hannah Bernstein there. “Sorry to interrupt, but our friend’s ready to go.”

Dillon smiled, took Grace Browning’s hand, and kissed it. “I’ll try to get in to see the show. I’d hate to miss it.”

Curry said, “Actually, we’d better make a move too. Grace hasn’t a lot of time. Good night,” and he led her away through the crowd.

“Come on, Dillon,” Hannah said and pulled on his arm.

As Dillon and Hannah reached the foyer, Ferguson led Liam Bell through the crowd. “I hope everything went well,” the Brigadier said.

“Fine, just fine. The Prime Minister was most helpful. I hope things are as constructive in Belfast and Dublin, but you must excuse me now. I’m kind of jet-lagged and I’ve an early start. I’ll get a cab.”

“Good God, no,” Ferguson said. “My Daimler’s outside. My chauffeur can run you home. It’s Vance Square, isn’t it? Islington?”

“That’s right. I have this rather nice old house on the other side of the churchyard. Used to be the minister’s.”

“Good, we’ll take care of that.” As Bell walked to the door, Ferguson dropped back slightly. “Follow him, Chief Inspector, just to make sure, and you, Dillon.”

“Right, sir,” she said.

Ferguson and Bell paused in the doorway while the Brigadier waved to his driver. Grace Browning, in the back of the black cab Belov had provided, saw them.

“There he is,” she said. “Let’s go – I want to be there before him,” and the cab moved out into the Park Lane traffic.

As Liam Bell got into the Daimler, Dillon and Hannah turned to her Rover saloon. She got behind the wheel, Dillon scrambled in, and they were away.

“Hold the bag open,” Grace told Curry.

He did as he was told. She removed her high-heeled shoes, took out a pair of loose muslin trousers and pulled them on, tucking the short skirt of her dress inside. Next came a pair of slippers and a cheap, three-quarter-length raincoat. Then she found a long scarf and wrapped it round her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. Finally she took out a Harrod’s plastic bag with the Beretta inside. She checked the action, then put it in her shoulder bag.

“Ready to go. I didn’t tell you, Tom, but I’ve changed the plan. I went and had a look at this place Vance Square this afternoon. Bell lives in the old rectory, and the easiest way to get there is to walk through St. Mary’s churchyard. I’m banking that’s what he’ll do, so you drop me there and clear off.”

“Now look here,” he protested.

“It’s only a quarter of a mile to the King’s Head. I’ll walk. No problem.”