“Except for Father Tom.”

“And he was an accident.”

“Exactly.”

She sighed. “I’ll have to go and see to the Brigadier’s mail.” She went to the door. “What about you?”

“I’m going to start with that first hit in Wapping, the Arab. Go through the others step-by-step. See if there’s a pattern.”

“They did all that at Scotland Yard. They even allowed the FBI to go through the files after that CIA man was killed. None of them came up with a thing.”

“When ordinary men have failed, the great Dillon may achieve much. On your way, woman.”

She started to laugh helplessly and went out.

It was just before lunch that she returned. Dillon was surrounded by files and working away at the computer keyboard.

“How are you getting on?”

“I’m treating the whole thing as if nothing’s been done, punching in the facts from each case as I see them, picking out items which seem strange or unnatural to me and asking the computer to comment.”

“And?”

“Oh, nothing yet. I’ll wait until everything is there before putting it into the search pattern.”

“Anything strike you particularly?”

“Well, in a general way the randomness of it all. No apparent pattern.” He reached for a cigarette. “The first hit on the waterfront here was Wapping. That was when the Beretta was first used. The victim, Hamid, a known Arab terrorist. The following day, Colonel Boris Ashimov, who our people knew was Head of Station, KGB London.”

“I can’t see any connection there.”

“I think there must have been. I think the two hits were too close together not to be related. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“I see what you mean.”

“Then there were two Provisional IRA men, not important, just foot soldiers, killed in Belfast and with the same Beretta. Now I find that particularly strange.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons. First of all, the fact that they weren’t important. I mean, if January 30 wanted to make a statement, why not do somebody of significance in the IRA framework? Secondly, how come the gun turns up in Belfast when last used in London?”

Hannah sat on the window seat. “What are you getting at exactly?”

“To get from London to Belfast you either fly or go by ferry. In either case, there’s strict security to pass through. No way of carrying a gun. Every alarm in the place would go off. No terrorist I can think of, whether IRA or anything else, would try it.”

“If we’re talking about our woman of mystery, maybe she just decided to take a chance.”

“Not this woman. It would be like committing suicide.”

“So what’s the answer?”

“Maybe whoever took the Beretta through had a right to. Lots of people are licensed to carry in Northern Ireland. Prominent civil servants, members of the Judiciary, Members of Parliament.”

“Plus serving members of the armed forces.” She hooked her head. “That’s a large assumption. Someone like Carter might think it just a little crazy.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Think of that Greek outfit, November 17. It’s an open secret in Athens that the members are doctors, lawyers, politicians. They’ve killed as ruthlessly as January 30 in the last few years and never been caught.”

“An interesting idea.”

“Well never mind that now. The fact that January 30 means Bloody Sunday has no significance. We know from information the IRA have passed over that they’re not a known Irish Republican group. They not only killed those two Provos in Belfast, they did the two bombers released on a technicality by the courts here in London.”

“Yes, their operations do appear to be totally random.”

“You can say that again. They’ve killed Arabs, Prods, a CIA man, two KGB men here in London and a well-known East End gangster, and now an ex-American Senator.”

“Yes, random it certainly is.”

Dillon nodded. “But only in the sense that they’ll do anybody.”

“It’s almost as if they don’t take sides,” Hannah said.

“No, I don’t buy that.” Dillon shook his head. “I don’t think it’s as random as it looks. I think there’s a purpose.”

“It beats me.” She stood up. “Do you feel like some lunch?”

“Give me ten minutes. I just want to tap a few more facts in.”

She went back to her desk and busied herself with some papers. After a while he came in. “How do you fancy some pub food in Wapping?”

She sat back. “What are you up to?”

“The gangster who was shot in Highgate Cemetery, Sharp, along with that KGB man, Silsev?”

“What about him?”

“According to the file his chauffeur found him, a man named Bert Gordon.”

“So?”

“He said he didn’t see or hear a thing, said he sat in the car at the cemetery gates reading the paper until so much time had gone by he got worried.”

“So he went and found them,” Hannah said. “I read that file too.”

“Yes. He said his boss had a meet, but he didn’t know who with or what it was about.”

“So?”

“Oh, I’ve a suspicious nature. I’d imagine he knows more than he’s said. I mean, an East End hood meets the Head of Station KGB for London in Highgate Cemetery in the rain and they both get wasted. Come on, girl dear, there’s got to be a good reason.”

She nodded. “You think you can get this Bert Gordon to tell you what he wouldn’t tell Scotland Yard?”

“I can be very persuasive.”

“All right.” She stood up. “Where do we find him?”

“Runs a pub in Wapping called the Prince Albert.”

She picked up her shoulder bag. “We’ll take the car. Come on,” and she led the way out.

As they went downstairs she said, “Knowing how you operate, I think police presence very sensible. You drive while I talk to Central Records Office at Scotland Yard. I might as well find out all there is to know about Mr. Bert Gordon.”

The Prince Albert was at the end of a wharf in Wapping, overlooking the river. It looked in good order, brightly painted in green and gold. They got out of the car and Hannah looked across the cobbled street.

“It’ll be like a grave at lunchtime and shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar tonight.”

“And how would you be knowing that?” he asked.

“I did my time on the pavement as a constable in Tower Bridge Division. Lots of pubs like this down there. One fight a night and two on Fridays, we used to say.”

“Shocking,” he said. “A nice Jewish girl like you and Friday night, the start of the Sabbath.”

“Very funny,” she said and led the way in.

There was a long mahogany bar, mirrors on the wall behind, fronted by bottles. Tables were scattered here and there and there were three booths by the window. The only customers were two very old men sitting on high stools, pints of beer in front of them while they stared up at a television set suspended from the ceiling in a corner.

The barmaid was reading a newspaper and looked up. She was middle-aged with hair that had obviously been dyed black and a careworn face.

“What can I get you?”

“Mr. Bert Gordon,” Dillon said.

There was something in her eyes as if she sensed trouble. “He isn’t here. Who wants him anyway?”

Hannah produced her ID and held it up. “Detective Chief Inspector Bernstein.”

“So tell him to come out like a good boy,” Dillon told her.

He’d been aware of the door slightly ajar at the end of the bar. Now it opened and Gordon stepped out. Dillon recognized him from his photo in the file.

“It’s okay, Myra, I’ll handle it.” He took Hannah’s ID card and examined it, then passed it back. “Nice Jewish girl in a job like that. Disgraceful. You should be married with two kids. I’m Jewish myself.”

“I know, Mr. Gordon. You changed your name from Goldberg years ago.”

“Anti-Semitism used to be a problem when I was a kid.”

“Yes, well a change of name didn’t keep a nice Jewish boy out of prison. I calculate you’ve done fifteen years when you add it together.”