“Now look, I’m not sure about this…” Newton said.

“I am. Look, Newton, I can finish you. Or I can give you a nice fat fee. Which is it? In or out?”

Greed, and fear, of course, won the day. “In.”

Dillon turned up at the Ministry of Defence and found Hannah in the main office at her computer. She stopped and leaned back to look at him.

“What’s up?”

“Why should anything be up?”

“I know my Sean.”

“Oh, I suppose I was a bit stupid last night.”

“Tell me.”

Which he did, lighting a cigarette and looking out the window. When he finished, she said, “You fool.”

“I know. It’s Rossi and what he did. I can’t get Sara Hesser out of my mind.”

“Sean, I’ve a psychology degree, so here’s a free reading. Oh, Rossi did the murder, but you feel as guilty as hell because you gave that woman a promise. What was it? ‘No harm will come to you on this earth, I swear it’?”

Dillon, never so emotional in his life, said, “And remember what happened? She touched my face and said, ‘I believe you. You’re a good man in spite of yourself.’” She had never seen him so haggard and drawn.

“Me, the great Sean Dillon and you know what happened and who was responsible, and I’ll see Rossi in hell for it.”

He turned and found the door to Ferguson ’s office open, and the general standing in the doorway. “Then you’ll go straight down the same road to hell yourself, Dillon. What on earth did you think you were doing? Confrontation, direct threats? It’s not the way to handle things at the moment. You were totally out of order.”

“I usually am.”

“Right, you’re suspended. Leave the office now. I’ll speak to you again at what I consider to be an appropriate time. You will surrender all your weapons.”

Dillon managed a gentle smile. “Ah, well, Charles, I always thought the day would come, but you’ve been a decent ould stick, and in spite of Serbia in the old days, when you sold me out, you’ve treated me well.” He turned to Hannah.

“Oh, Sean,” she said.

“I know. I always take the hard approach and I know that doesn’t hold with your fine Jewish morality, but revenge is a concept not unknown in the Old Testament. I’ll be on my way, and God bless all here.”

He disappeared and Ferguson said, “Damn him. Why did he do it? It unscrambles things in the wrong way.”

“It’s simple, sir. He can be more emotional than you think. He’s put himself on the line for me in the past, for you. All he could think of was an old lady who trusted him and ended up in the river. In spite of everything Dillon’s done, if you want a psychopath here, it’s not him, it’s Marco Rossi.”

“To hell with it. I’m going home. Order the Daimler.”

“It’s not available, General. Out for maintenance today, remember?”

“Then get me a bloody taxi,” and he stormed back into his office.

Dillon sat in his Mini Cooper, thinking about things. Well, everything had to come to an end, that was life. Still and all, there’d been a lot of water under the bridge. He reached for a cigarette, lit it, looked out and saw Ferguson walk to a waiting black taxi and get in. It moved off, and Dillon switched on the Mini Cooper and went after him. There was no logical reason that he should, except perhaps for some instinct, an Irish thing, but he did, eased out into the traffic and followed the cab.

In Cavendish Place, Newton and Cook had taken up a manhole to explain their presence. Derry Gibson, also wearing a yellow Telecom jacket, sat inside the van reading a newspaper. Newton moved to the passenger window.

“Come on, it’s been nearly four hours. Are we getting anywhere?”

At that moment, a black cab drew up. Derry said, “I think we might be,” and then Ferguson got out and paid the driver, who drove away.

“Now,” Gibson said and opened the small leather case on the seat beside him and took out a small plastic ampoule. “Get him.”

He got out, and as Ferguson turned away, they grabbed him by each arm and Gibson moved in. “A real pleasure, General,” and he jabbed Ferguson in the neck. The effect was almost instantaneous. Ferguson sagged, they walked him to the back of the van, Gibson opened the door and they put him inside, Gibson following. “Get going,” he said.

Dillon, turning in at the entrance to Cavendish Place, saw everything and put his foot down. A delivery van drove in front of him. Dillon braked and swerved. Beyond him, the Telecom van swung out into the traffic. He joined in, well behind. The usual London traffic made things difficult, but he always managed to stay focused on the Telecom van.

He got out his Codex Four and checked into Hannah, who answered at once. “I followed Ferguson home. He was jumped by Derry Gibson, Newton and Cook, and dumped in a fake British Telecom van. I’m following.”

“Where, for God’s sake?”

“ North London. I don’t know. Essex way. Get in touch with Roper. He can invoke the Omega thing. That should tell you where we’re going. Tell him to keep me informed.”

Derry Gibson called Marco Rossi. “We’ve bagged the bird.”

“I’m on my way. I’ll see you at Fotley.”

“Well, let’s hope you’re there before we are. Kidnapping draws at least ten years in this country.”

Roper cut into Dillon. “I’ve heard the story, I’m on the case. Omega is working fine. I’ll track and keep you informed. No reason to worry if you lose him. I’ll put you back on track.”

Dillon had a thought. “These three goons are working for Rossi, so where are they going?”

“Maybe it’s where are they flying? I’ll check.”

Emerging from London, the traffic thinned a little, not all that much, but enough to keep Dillon well back. Roper came on.

“The Baron just left Northolt, destination Munich. I’ve checked there. He’s got a helicopter booked for Neustadt.”

“Has he now?”

“Even more interesting: Rossi had a plane delivered to a place called Fotley in Essex this morning. It’s an old RAF airbase, now disused, with a long runway. I think that’s where you’re going. I hope you make it, Sean. Are you carrying?”

“I damn well am. But what if I fail? Where are they going?”

“Well, Omega will confirm, but I think we both know. Schloss Adler.”

“Right, then I suggest you get on to this Max Kubel. He can alert the Klein man at Neustadt. Tell Kubel to put in place whatever plan we’d need to mount a rescue operation. It’ll be a huge payday for him. I’ll press on and hope to catch them at Fotley.”

In the end, he failed, mainly because of a farm tractor on a narrow country road. He finally made the old airfield only to see the abandoned van and the Gulfstream already moving. As it lifted and roared past, Newton looked out.

“Jesus,” he said. “That’s Dillon’s Mini Cooper.”

“Is that a fact?” Derry Gibson laughed. Ferguson, unconscious, was strapped in one of the seats. Derry patted his cheek. “I’ll go and tell Rossi. He’ll be so pleased.”

At Arnheim, Max Kubel was working on the Storch prior to a foray into Poland. He’d always remembered the adage from the Second World War: Half the airmen who die aren’t shot down by the enemy. They die of engine failure. It was why he’d always taken care of his own maintenance. He closed the engine cowling and slapped the fuselage, which had a fresh coat of dull black paint.

“Good girl,” he said, and his mobile went.

He listened to Roper for a long five minutes and was immediately interested and full of energy. “I’ll talk to Klein.”

“This meadow outside the Schloss, can it accommodate Rossi’s plane, especially at night?”

“It’s huge, and the Schloss is floodlit. There’s plenty of light.”

“So what would we do? Could you fly in while Dillon attempts a recovery?”