“Terrorist groups habitually claim credit for someone else’s hit,” Ferguson said. “And there is the business of the gunman on the motorcycle.”

“Yes, strange, that,” Carter said. “And yet you had no backup whatsoever, did you?”

“Absolutely not,” Ferguson told him.

“None of which is relevant now,” the Prime Minister said. “The really important thing that Dillon has come up with is this possibility of the Sons of Ulster getting their hands on plutonium.”

“With the greatest respect, Prime Minister,” Simon Carter said, “having plutonium is one thing, producing some sort of nuclear device from it is quite another.”

“Perhaps, but if you have the money and the right kind of connections, anything is possible.” Ferguson shrugged. “You know as well as I that terrorist groups on the international circuit help each other out, and since the breakdown of things in Russia there’s plenty of the right kind of technical assistance available on the world market.”

There was another silence, the Prime Minister drumming on the desk with his fingers. Finally he said, “The Anglo-Irish Agreement and the Downing Street Declaration are achieving results, and President Clinton is behind us fully. Twenty-five years of bloodshed, gentlemen. It’s time to stop.”

“If I may be a devil’s advocate,” Rupert Lang said, “that’s all very well for Sinn Fein and the IRA, but the Protestant Loyalist factions will feel they’ve been sold out.”

“I know that, but they’ll have to make some sort of accommodation like everyone else.”

“They’ll continue the fight, Prime Minister,” Carter said gravely.

“I accept that. We’ll just have to do our best to handle it. Machine guns by night are one thing, even the Semtex bomb, but not plutonium. That would add a totally new dimension.”

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

The Prime Minister turned to Ferguson. “So it would appear to be Beirut next stop for Dillon, Brigadier.”

“So it would.”

“If I recall the details on his file, Arabic was one of the numerous languages he speaks. He should feel quite at home there.” He stood up. “That’s all for now, gentlemen. Keep me posted, Brigadier.”

When Ferguson reached his Cavendish Square flat, the door was opened by his manservant Kim, an ex-Ghurka Corporal who had been with him for years.

“Mr. Dillon and the Chief Inspector have just arrived, Brigadier.”

Ferguson went into the elegant drawing room and found Hannah Bernstein sitting by the fire drinking coffee. Dillon was helping himself to a Bushmills from the drinks tray on the sideboard.

“Feel free with my whisky by all means,” Ferguson told him.

“Oh I will, Brigadier, and me knowing you to be the decent old stick that you are.”

“Drop the stage Irishman act, boy, we’ve got work to do. Now go over everything in detail again.”

“I suppose the strangest thing was the mystery motorcyclist,” Dillon said as he finished.

“No mystery there,” Ferguson told him. “January 30 have claimed responsibility for the whole thing. Someone phoned the Belfast Telegraph. It’s already on all the TV news programs.”

“The dogs,” Dillon said. “But how would they have known about the meet?”

“Never mind that now, we’ve more important things to consider. It’s Beirut for you, my lad, and you, Chief Inspector.”

“Not the easiest of places to operate in,” Dillon said.

“As I recall, you managed it with perfect ease during the more unsavory part of your career.”

“True. I also sank some PLO boats in the harbor for the Israelis, and the PLO have long memories. Anyway, what would our excuse be for being there?”

“The United Nations Humanitarian Division will do nicely. Irish and English delegates. You’ll have to use aliases, naturally.”

“And where will we stay?” Hannah asked.

“Me darling, there is only one decent hotel to stay these days in Beirut,” Dillon told her. “Especially if you’re a foreigner and want a drink at the bar. It’s the place Daley told me Francis Callaghan was staying. The Al Bustan. It overlooks the city near Deirelkalaa and the Roman ruins. You’ll find it very cultural.”

“Do you think Quinn will be there too?” she asked.

“Very convenient if he is.” He turned to Ferguson. “You’ll be able to arrange hardware for me?”

“No problem. I’ve got an excellent contact. Man called Walid Khasan.”

“Arab, I presume, not Christian.” Dillon turned to Hannah Bernstein. “Lots of Christians in Beirut.”

“Yes, Walid Khasan is a Muslim. His mother was French. The kind of man I like to deal with, Dillon. He’s only interested in the money.”

“Aren’t we all, Brigadier, aren’t we all.” Dillon smiled. “So let’s get down to it and work out how we’re going to handle this thing.”

It was just after eleven at the Europa Hotel when Grace Browning and Tom Curry finished late supper in the dining room and went into the bar. It was quite deserted, and the barman, watching television, came round to serve them.

“What can I get you, Miss Browning?”

“Brandy, I think, two brandies.”

He went away and Tom Curry said, “You were splendid tonight.”

She took out a cigarette and he lit it for her. “To which performance are you alluding?”

He shook his head. “That’s all it is to you, isn’t it? Another performance.” He nodded. “I’ve never really seen it before, but I think I do now. On stage or before the camera, it’s fantasy, but roaring up to Garth Dock on that bike – that was real.”

“And in those few moments of action, I live more, feel more, and with an intensity that just can’t be imagined.”

“You really are an extraordinary person,” he said.

The barman, pouring the drinks, called, “I’ve just seen the late-night news flash. A real bloodbath. Three men shot dead at Garth Dock and three more not far away at some warehouse. January 30 has claimed. That’s Bloody Sunday, so the dead men must be Loyalists. The Prods will want to retaliate for that.”

Grace said, “Dillon certainly doesn’t take prisoners.”

“You can say that again.”

The barman brought the brandies and served them with a flourish. “There you go.” He shook his head. “Terrible, all this killing. I mean, what kind of people want to do that kind of thing?” and he walked away.

Grace Browning turned to Curry, a slight smile on her face, and toasted him. “Well?” she said.

If it began anywhere, it began with Tom Curry, who was professor of Political Philosophy at London University, a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, and had in his time been a visiting professor at both Yale and Harvard. He was also a major in the GRU, Russian Military Intelligence.

Born in 1949 in Dublin into a Protestant Anglo-Irish family, his father, a surgeon, had died of cancer when Curry was five, leaving the boy and his mother in comfortable circumstances. A fierce, proud, arrogant woman whose father had fought under Michael Collins in the original Irish Troubles, she had been raised to blame everyone for the mess Ireland had been left in after the English had partitioned the country and left. She blamed the Free State Government as much as the IRA.

Like many wealthy young women of intellect at that period, she saw Communism as the only answer, and as part of her brilliant son’s education taught him that there was only one true faith, the doctrine according to Karl Marx.

In 1966 at seventeen, Curry went to Trinity College, Cambridge, to study Political Philosophy, where he met Rupert Lang, an apparently effete aristocrat who never took anything seriously, except Tom Curry, for the bond was instant and for a lifetime and they enjoyed a homosexual relationship which lasted throughout their period at university.