“I believe you, sir,” Ferguson said.

“Thank you and please believe Senator Keogh also. There is no personal advantage for him in this business. He’s putting himself on the firing line here because he believes it’s worth doing. As I said, I’ve talked to Senator Keogh and he seems satisfied with your plan of campaign. I’d appreciate it if you’d go over it with me now, Brigadier.”

When Ferguson was finished, Clinton nodded. “It makes sense to me.” He turned. “Mr. Dillon?”

“It could all be beautifully simple,” Dillon said, “but surprise is everything, the Senator arriving out of the blue and so on. Secrecy is essential to the whole thing.”

“Yes, I agree.” Clinton checked his wristwatch. “Midnight in London, gentlemen, which means it’s now Friday there. I’m expecting news of the timing of the IRA meeting at Ardmore House quite soon now. I’d go to your hotel and catch a little sleep now while the going’s good, Brigadier. I’ll be in touch on the instant.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

Clinton pressed the buzzer on his desk and stood. “Once again, I can’t impress on you enough the importance of this mission.”

An aide came in and held the door open for them.

It was in fact only four hours later that Dillon came awake with a start in his hotel room and reached for the telephone.

“ Ferguson here. I’ve got the good word, so stir yourself, Dillon, and let’s get out of here. I’ve phoned Andrews and the Lear will be ready to leave by the time we get there. I’ll see you downstairs.”

The phone went dead and Dillon hauled himself out of bed. “Wonderful,” he said. “Bloody marvelous. There must be a better way of making a living,” and he stood up and went to the shower.

As the Lear lifted and turned out over the Atlantic, Dillon unbuckled his seat belt and altered his watch. “Five-thirty in the morning London time.”

“Yes, with luck we should hit Gatwick by noon. Flight Lieutenant Jones tells me we’ll have tailwind all the way across.”

“So, what about the Ardmore House meeting? When is it?”

“Sunday afternoon at two.”

“That’s all right then. Is it okay if I sleep now?” And Dillon dropped his seat back and closed his eyes.

Hannah Bernstein was working in her office when Dillon went in. She took off her glasses and rubbed her forehead.

“Where’s the Brigadier?”

“Dropped off at Cavendish Square to change clothes. He’ll be here directly, then he wants to see the Prime Minister again.”

“Has anything been finalized?”

“You could say that. The IRA meeting is at Ardmore House on Sunday afternoon at two. Keogh will arrive at Shannon in a private Gulfstream. He’ll proceed by helicopter at once to Drumgoole.”

“And security?”

“The good Senator will be quite content with you, me, and the Brigadier.”

She smiled in delight. “So he hasn’t left me out? I thought he might.”

“Now why would he do a thing like that to you?” Dillon grinned and lit a cigarette.

“How do you get on with Keogh?”

“Fine. A decent enough stick and not at all the way some of these reporters write him up. He’s got plenty of guts to take this thing on.” Dillon nodded. “I liked him. How have we got on with the January 30 investigation?”

“I’ve pulled the printouts for you. I think it’s all done. Here, I’ll show you.” She got up and walked into the office Dillon had been using. The printouts were neatly stacked by the computer. “That lot there is the Russian inquiry you asked for, details of personnel at the Soviet Embassy.”

“Good, I’ll have a quick look.”

“A long look, Dillon, there’s a lot of it. Of course, senior personnel are at the top.” She smiled. “I’ll make some tea,” and she went back to her office.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, there was a step behind her and she turned. Dillon stood in the doorway, his face pale and excited. There was a computer printout in his hand. He laid it on her desk.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“A nicely colored photo and full details on a man called Colonel Yuri Belov, Senior Cultural Attaché at the Soviet Embassy.”

“So?” She carried on making the tea.

“It’s been suggested he’s Head of London Station for the GRU, that’s the Russian Military Intelligence.”

“I know what it is, Dillon.” She came and stood at his shoulder. Belov, in the photo, smiled up at her.

“Does he look familiar to you?” Dillon asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “I can’t say that he does.”

“Well he does to me.”

At that moment the outer door opened and Ferguson entered. “Ah, is that tea on the go? Jolly good. I’ll have a quick cup, then I’ll get off to Downing Street.”

Hannah Bernstein handed him a cup of tea. “Dillon thinks he’s come up with something to do with the January 30 inquiry, sir.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Colonel Yuri Belov.” Dillon indicated the printout. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Senior Cultural Attaché at their Embassy. I’ve seen him around on the Embassy party circuit.”

“It says here he may be Head of Station, GRU.”

“That suggestion has been mooted, but never proved, and we’ve never been involved with the GRU over here in any kind of a conflict of interest. Our dealings with the KGB, of course, have been very different.” Ferguson sipped some of his tea. “But what is this, anyway?”

“I’ve only seen him once, but it was an important once.” He turned to Hannah. “Remember when we were at the Europa? I told you I spoke to Grace Browning, the actress, and a Professor Curry?”

“So?”

“I saw them at the Dorchester the night Liam Bell was killed. She and Curry were at the champagne bar. Rupert Lang appeared, all very affectionate. Old friends kissing, that sort of thing.”

“Good heavens, man, so Rupert Lang is a friend of hers, so what?” Ferguson demanded.

Dillon held up the printout. “This man joined them, Colonel Yuri Belov, possibly Head of Station GRU. Now you must admit that would make a grand scandalous plot for the Sunday papers, a Minister of the Crown and a Russian agent.”

“But I’ve told you I’ve seen the man myself on the Embassy party circuit. These people are always around.” Ferguson put down his cup. “Politicians are constantly invited to such affairs. They meet everybody, Dillon.”

Dillon said, “Just hear me out, then you can give me the sack if you want.” He turned to Hannah. “And you use your fine policewoman’s mind on it, too.”

“All right,” Ferguson said. “Come into my office and get on with it.”

He sat behind the desk. Dillon said, “I was talking to Hannah about coincidences the other night. It got a little academic, what with Carl Jung being mentioned, but what I was really getting at was that I don’t believe in them.”

Ferguson was interested now. “Go on.”

“As I said to Hannah, all those hits with the Beretta in the January 30 murders, that’s no coincidence. Four IRA men stiffed and that’s no coincidence. Two Heads of Station KGB London knocked off. Was that chance? I think not, and that’s why I asked for a computer printout on all staff at the Soviet Embassy.” He smiled. “Which brings us to Yuri Belov at the champagne bar at the Dorchester.” Dillon turned to Hannah. “I’ve always heard a good copper develops a nose for crime that has nothing to do with facts. Are you beginning to smell something unusual here, Chief Inspector?”

She turned to Ferguson. “I’d like to hear more, sir.”

“There is more,” Ferguson said. “I too can smell it. Carry on, Dillon.”

“My meeting with Daley that night in Belfast, the Sons of Ulster business. My supposed meeting with Daniel Quinn when they set me up. Who knew about it? Hannah, though she didn’t know where I was to meet them. You, Brigadier, the Prime Minister, Simon Carter, and Rupert Lang.” He turned to Hannah. “Let’s hear what a brilliant detective has to offer on this one.”