“I’m afraid you’re right,” Rupert Lang said.

The Prime Minister nodded. “Another thing. As you know, President Clinton appointed Mrs. Jean Kennedy Smith American Ambassador in Dublin last year. I understand from reports from your people, Mr. Carter, that there have been threats to her life from Loyalist terrorists.”

“A lunatic fringe only, Prime Minister.”

“Perhaps,” John Major nodded. “But I need hardly point out the disastrous consequences of anything happening to the sister of the most revered American President of the century.”

At the Cavendish Square flat, Kim provided sandwiches and tea while Ferguson went over the proceedings at Downing Street with Dillon and Hannah Bernstein.

“So what does he want us to do?” Dillon asked. “We’ve already eradicated one of the worst Protestant factions and saved Ireland from nuclear threat. Do we work our way through the leadership of the UFF and UVF, one-by-one?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Ferguson told him. “But coming up with an answer on January 30 would be more than helpful. I want you and the Chief Inspector to get straight on with it tomorrow. Go back in all the old files since they first struck. Check everything again. Ask the computer for answers.” He stood up. “Good God, two o’clock. I’m for bed,” and he walked out.

“All right for him,” Dillon said as they went downstairs. “Ten paces to his bedroom, that’s all.”

“Come off it, Dillon, it’s only five minutes’ walk to your place in Stable Mews,” Hannah said.

“True, but a lot further for you. I was thinking, how about a glass of something to warm you up on this cold night, and as you say, my place is just around the corner.”

“Well you can think again.” She got in her car and switched on the engine. “Night, Dillon, sleep tight.”

She drove off without waiting for his response.

They were waiting for Rupert Lang when he got back to Cheyne Walk. Grace opened the door for him and led the way into the drawing room, where the others were sitting by the fire.

“Foul night,” Lang said. “Any coffee?”

“Tea.” She nodded at the table. “Freshly made. Much better for you at this time of night.”

“So, my friend, what happened?” Yuri demanded.

“Considerable agitation, as you may imagine. The Prime Minister went through the roof. Carter got stuck into Ferguson – Dillon and Bernstein being supposed to keep an eye on Liam Bell on his way home. He felt they’d fallen down on the job.”

“And?”

“The PM pointed out that as Grace was waiting ahead of Bell in the cemetery to ambush him, it was rather unfair to blame Dillon. The thing is, Carter hates his guts.”

“Well he would,” Belov said. “What was Ferguson ’s reaction?”

“Oh, he agreed with the Prime Minister that Dillon couldn’t be blamed, especially as Dillon had actually forecast that January 30 would claim credit for the killing.”

“He what?” Tom Curry said. “But how could he know?”

Lang turned to Grace. “You, I’m afraid, my sweet. That Sons of Ulster thing. He said that before riding away you raised your arm in a kind of salute.”

“So?” Grace Browning said calmly.

“It seems you spoke to him tonight.”

“Quite deliberately in a very Pakistani accent,” she said. “To use your favorite phrase, Rupert, it muddies the waters.”

“Fine, but you could have shot him and didn’t.”

“But if he was dead, darling, nobody would know that the Muslim even existed, never mind had a Pakistani accent. Bernstein was too far away to see anything.”

“But according to the report, the old priest at the church saw you run past.”

“That was chance, Rupert. I didn’t know I’d be seeing the priest when I confronted Dillon.”

“I follow your logic,” Belov told her. “But the arm raised in salute. A trifle theatrical.”

“But then I am,” she said simply.

“Anyway,” Lang said. “The Prime Minister has ordered Ferguson to mount a special investigation into January 30. Go right through the files. See what the computer comes up with. He’s asked Carter to get his people to come up with something similar.”

“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” Belov said. “An old story. They’ve tried before and gotten nowhere.”

“I agree,” Tom Curry said.

Lang shrugged. “If you say so.”

Belov said, “Anything more?”

“Yes, actually.” Lang smiled. “I was saving the best till last. The Prime Minister is flying out tomorrow in secret to Washington. The Irish Prime Minister will join him there.”

“And the purpose of the meeting?”

“To discuss the final negotiations leading to Sinn Fein persuading the IRA to call a truce of some sort. You know how it goes. Come to the peace table. All is forgiven. He’ll be back in twenty-four hours.”

“Now that is interesting,” Belov said. “You really must keep me informed on that one, Rupert.” He stood up. “We’d better let you get to bed, Grace.”

She nodded. “Yes, I could do with it. It’s been a heavy night.”

She took them to the door and got their coats. Rupert kissed her on the cheek. “How about lunch tomorrow? The Caprice suit you?”

“Marvelous.”

“Not me, I’m afraid,” Belov said. “Too conspicuous.”

“I’ll be there,” Curry told her. “You can count on it.”

They stood for a moment on the pavement, waiting for Belov to adjust his collapsible umbrella. “I’ll get a taxi at the Albert Bridge,” Belov said. “And you?”

“Going the other way. We could always walk, only a mile and a half to Dean Close.”

Belov hesitated. “A pity she did what she did. I mean, alerting Dillon like that. Why on earth this business of the arm raised in salute?”

“One brave acknowledging another,” Curry said.

“Well it worries me,” Belov said. “Smacks of unbalance.”

“She never guaranteed you sanity, old sport,” Rupert Lang said, “only a performance. It’s theatre to Grace, an exciting game, that’s all, and you’ll just have to put up with that.”

“I take your point. Still…” Belov shrugged. “I’d better get off.”

They parted and Grace Browning watched them go from the parted curtains of her bedroom. She turned and moved through the quiet dark and got into bed. When she closed her eyes, the shadow man was there again, the gun raised, but only for a split second, then he disappeared. She smiled and drifted into sleep.

“But why didn’t she shoot you?” Hannah asked.

It was the following morning and she and Dillon worked in one of the side offices of Ferguson ’s suite at the Ministry of Defence.

“Try this for size,” Ferguson said from the doorway. “Many assassins stick to the target and don’t deviate. Many psychological profiles agree on that.”

“He’s right,” Dillon told her. “If you take underworld killings, a professional hit man only goes for his target because that’s all he’s paid for.”

“Unless you happen to get in his way,” Hannah said.

“Of course.”

Ferguson said, “I’ll leave you two to sort it out, I’ve got other fish to fry. Check the letter file on my desk, Chief Inspector, and send them out. I’m due at the Home Office.”

The door closed and Hannah said, “The fact is, she could have killed you and didn’t.”

“Even more interesting, she could have let me die in Belfast and saved my life instead. That’s the real puzzle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, wrap your fine police brain around this. There is only one possible explanation for Belfast. She was protecting me.”

“So?”

“But there’s more than one possible explanation for her action last night.”

“We’ve just agreed you weren’t the target. What else do you suggest?”

“To start with, I don’t buy the Muslim woman act. Too up front, but let’s say she wanted me to see her in that guise. And calling to me in that Pakistani voice, just to reinforce the whole idea. Without me we wouldn’t have known that the assassin was apparently a Muslim.”