It was late afternoon on Garrison Street, Brooklyn, as Daniel Holley sat at the wheel of an old Ford delivery truck, waiting for Dillon. There were parked vehicles, but little evidence of people.

Rain drove in across the East River, clouding his view of the coastal ships tied up to the pier that stretched ahead. A policeman emerged from an alley a few yards away, his uniform coat running with water, cap pulled down over his eyes. He banged on the truck with his nightstick.

Holley wound down the window. ‘Can I help you, Officer?’

‘I should imagine you could, you daft bastard,’ Sean Dillon told him. ‘Me being wet to the skin already.’

He scrambled in and Holley said, ‘Why the fancy dress? Are we going to a party?’

‘Of a sort. You see that decaying warehouse down there with the sign saying “Murphy & Son – Import-Export”?’

‘How could I miss it? What about it?’ Holley took out an old silver case, extracted two cigarettes, lit them with a Zippo, and passed one over. ‘Get your lips round that, you’re shaking like a leaf. What’s the gig?’

Dillon took a quick drag. ‘God help me, but that’s good. Ferguson called me from Washington and told me to check the place out, but not to do anything till I got a call from him.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Which I’m expecting just about now.’

‘How kind of him to think of us. Brooklyn in weather like this is such a joy,’ Holley told him, and at that moment, Dillon’s Codex sounded.

He switched to speaker and General Charles Ferguson’s voice boomed out. ‘You’ve looked the place over, Dillon?’

‘As much as I could. Two cars outside it, that’s all. No sign of life.’

‘Well, life there undoubtedly is. I made an appointment by telephone for you, Daniel, with Patrick Murphy. Your name is Daniel Grimshaw, and you’re representing a Kosovo Muslim religious group seeking arms for defence purposes.’

‘And who exactly is Murphy and what’s it all about?’ Holley asked.

‘As you two well know, several dissident groups, all IRA in one way or another, have raised their ugly heads once again. The security services have managed to foil a number of potentially nasty incidents, but luck won’t always be on their side. You’ll remember the incident in Belfast not long ago when a bomb badly injured three policemen, one of whom lost his left arm. Since then another policeman has been killed by a car bomb.’

‘I heard about that,’ Dillon said.

‘Police officers are having to check under their cars again, just like in the bad old days, and some of them are finding explosive devices. We can’t have that. And there’s more. Attempts have started again to smuggle arms into Ulster. Last week, a trawler called the Amity tried to land a cargo on the County Down coast and was sighted by a Royal Navy gunboat. The crew did a runner and haven’t been caught, but I’ve firm evidence that the cargo of assorted weaponry originated with Murphy & Son.’

‘Was your source MI5?’

‘Good Lord, no. You know how much the security services hate us. The Prime Minister’s private army, getting to do whatever we want, as long as we have the Prime Minister’s warrant. At least that’s what they think. They just don’t appreciate how necessary our services are in today’s world—’

Holley cut in. ‘Especially when we shoot people for them.’

‘You know my attitude on that,’ Ferguson said.

‘Getting back to Murphy & Son, why not get the FBI to handle them? We are in New York, after all.’

‘I’d rather not bother our American cousins. This comes from Northern Ireland, and that’s our patch. Part of the UK.’

‘I’ve always thought that was part of the problem,’ Dillon said with a certain irony. ‘But never mind. What do you want us to do?’

‘Find out who ordered the bloody weapons in the first place, and I don’t want to hear any crap about some Irish American with a romantic notion about the gallant struggle for Irish freedom.’

‘Lean on them hard?’ Holley asked.

‘Daniel, they’re out to make a buck selling weapons that kill people.’ He was impatient now. ‘I couldn’t care less what happens to them.’

‘Wonderful,’ Dillon told him. ‘You’ve appointed us to be public executioners.’

‘It’s a bit late in the day to complain about that,’ Ferguson told him. ‘For both of you. What do they say in the IRA? Once in, never out?’

‘Funny,’ Holley said. ‘We thought that was your motto. But never mind. We’ll probably do your dirty work for you again. We usually do. How do you want them? Alive or dead?’

‘We’re at war, Daniel. Remember the four bastards who raped your young cousin to death in Belfast? They were all members of a terrorist organization. You shot them dead yourself. Are you telling me you regret what you did?’

‘Not for a moment. That’s the trouble.’

Dillon said, ‘Leave him alone, Charles, he’ll do what has to be done. Have you seen the President yet?’

‘No, I’m sitting here in the Hay-Adams with Harry Miller, looking out over the terrace at the White House, waiting for the limousine to deliver us to the Oval Office. We’ve prepared to brief him on the security for his visit to London on Friday, all twenty-four hours of it. As far as I can tell, we’ve got everything locked down, including his visit to Parliament and the luncheon reception on the terrace.’

‘Westminster Bridge to the left, the Embankment on the far side,’ Dillon said.

‘Yes, you’ve got experience with the terrace, haven’t you?’ Ferguson said. ‘Anyway, the Gulfstream is standing by, ready and waiting, so the moment I’m free, it’s off to New York for this UN reception at the Pierre. I want you two there, too.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘I’ve got someone new joining the team from the Intelligence Corps.’

‘Really?’ Holley asked. ‘What have we got?’

‘Captain Sara Gideon, a brilliant linguist. Speaks fluent Pashtu, Arabic, and Iranian. Just what we’ve been needing.’

‘Is that all?’ Holley joked.

‘Ah, I was forgetting Hebrew.’

Dillon said, ‘You haven’t gone and recruited an Israeli, have you?’

‘That would be illegal, Dillon. No, she’s a Londoner. There have been Gideons around since the seventeenth century. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Gideon Bank. She inherited it. While she pursues her military agenda, her grandfather sits in for her as chairman of the board.’

‘You mean she’s one of those Gideons?’ Dillon said. ‘So why isn’t she married to some obliging millionaire, and what the hell is she doing in the army?’

‘Because at nineteen, she was at college in Jerusalem brushing up on her Hebrew before going up to Oxford when her parents visited her and were killed in a Hamas bus bombing.’

‘Ah-ha,’ Holley said. ‘So she chose Sandhurst instead of Oxford.’

‘Correct. And in the last nine years has served with the Intelligence Corps in Belfast, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and two tours in Afghanistan.’

‘Jesus, what in the hell is she after?’ Dillon said. ‘Is she seeking revenge, is she a war junkie, what?’

‘Roper’s just posted her full history, so you can read it for yourself.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything,’ Dillon said.

‘Yes, I’m sure you’ll find it instructive, particularly the account of the nasty ambush near Abusan, where she took a bullet in the right thigh which left her with a permanent limp.’

‘All right, General, I surrender,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll keep my big gob shut. I can’t wait to meet her in person.’

‘What do we do with her until you get to the Pierre?’ Holley asked.

‘Keep her happy. She was booking in at the Plaza after a flight from Arizona. There’s some secret base out there that the RAF are involved in, something to do with pilotless aircraft. She’ll be returning to London with us. She’s been on the staff of Colonel Hector Grant, our military attaché at the UN, and this will be her final appearance for him, so she’ll be in uniform.’

‘Does she know what she’s getting into with us?’

‘I’ve told Roper to brief her on everything – including you two and your rather murky pasts.’

‘You’re so kind,’ Holley said. ‘It’s a real privilege to know you.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Miller is very impressed with her, and I’m happy about the whole thing.’

‘Well, we’re happy if you’re happy,’ Dillon told him.

‘We’ve got to go now. Why don’t you two clear off and do something useful. I’ll see you tonight.’

Dillon walked away through the downpour, the nightstick in his right hand. He turned left into an alley and Holley waited for a few moments, then took from his pocket a crumpled Burberry rain hat in which a spring clip held a Colt .25. He eased it onto his head, got out of the truck, and walked quickly through the rain.

Dressed as he was as a beat cop, Dillon didn’t need to show any particular caution, tried a door, which opened to his touch, and passed into a decaying kitchen, a broken sink in one corner, cupboards on the peeling walls, and a half-open door that indicated a toilet.

‘Holy Mother of God,’ he said softly. ‘Whatever’s going on here, there can’t be money in it.’

He opened the far door, discovered a corridor dimly lit by a single lightbulb, and heard voices somewhere ahead. He started forward, still grasping the nightstick in his right hand, his left clutching a Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer in the capacious pocket of his storm coat.

The voices were raised now as if in argument and someone said, ‘Well, I think you’re a damn liar, so you’d better tell me the truth quickly, mister, or Ivan here will be breaking your right arm. You won’t be able to swim very far in the sewer after that, I’m afraid.’

There was no door, just an archway leading to a platform with iron stairs dropping down, and Dillon, peering out, saw a desk and two men confronting Holley, who was glancing wildly about him, or so it seemed. Dillon eased the Walther out of his pocket, stepped out, and started down the stairs.

When Holley had entered the warehouse he had found it dark and gloomy, a sad sort of place and crammed with a lot of rusting machinery. The roof seemed to be leaking, there were chain hoists here and there, and two old vans that had obviously seen better days were parked to one side. There was a light on further ahead, suspended from the ceiling over a desk with a couple of chairs, no sign of people, iron stairs descending from the platform above.

He called out, ‘Hello, is anyone there? I’ve got an appointment with Patrick Murphy.’

‘Would that be Mr Grimshaw?’ a voice called – Irish, not American.

The man who stepped into the light was middle-aged, with silver hair, and wore a dark suit over a turtleneck sweater. He produced a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit it with an old lighter.

‘Yes, I’m Daniel Grimshaw,’ Holley said.

‘Then come away in.’

‘Thank you.’ Holley took a step forward, the rear door of the van on his right opened, and a man stepped out, a Makarov in his hand. He was badly in need of a shave, his dark unruly hair was at almost shoulder length, and he wore a bomber jacket. He moved in behind Holley and rammed the Makarov into his back.

‘Do you want me to kill him now?’ he asked in Russian, a language Holley understood.

‘Let’s hear what his game is first,’ Murphy told him in the same language.

‘Now, that’s what I like to hear,’ Holley said in Russian. ‘A sensible man.’

‘So you speak the lingo?’ Murphy was suddenly wary. ‘Arms for the Kosovans? Are the Serbs turning nasty again this year? Ivan here’s on their side, being Russian, but I’ll hear what you’ve got to say.’ This was said in English, but now he added in Russian, ‘Make sure he’s clean.’

Ivan’s hands explored Holley thoroughly, particularly between the legs, and Holley said, ‘It must be a big one you’re looking for.’

Ivan gave him a shove so violent that Holley went staggering, and his Burberry rain hat fell to the floor, disclosing the Colt, which the Russian picked up at once, throwing the hat across to the desk.

‘Now can I shoot him?’

Murphy pulled the Colt from the clip in the rain hat and examined it. ‘Very nice. I like it.’ He left the cap on the desk and slipped the Colt into his pocket.

Ivan said, ‘Only a pro would use a shooter like that.’

‘I know that, I’m not a fool. Show him where he’s going to end up if he doesn’t answer a few questions.’

Ivan leaned down, grasped a ring in the floor, and heaved back a trapdoor. There was the sound of running water, the smell of sewage.

Where the hell are you, Dillon? That was the only thought running through Holley’s mind. He glanced about him wildly, trying to act like a man in panic.

He said to Murphy, ‘What is this? What are you doing? I told you my name is Daniel Grimshaw.’

‘Well, I think you’re a damn liar, so you’d better tell me the truth quickly, mister, or Ivan here will be breaking your right arm. You won’t be able to swim very far in the sewer after that, I’m afraid.’

‘You’re making a big mistake.’

‘It’s not my mistake, my friend.’ Murphy shook his head and said to Ivan in Russian, ‘Break his arm.’

Dillon called in the same language, ‘I don’t think so,’ and shot Ivan in his gun hand. Ivan cried out, dropped the Makarov, and slumped to one knee beside the open sewer.

Murphy took the whole thing surprisingly calmly. Remembering that he’d slipped the Colt .25 into his pocket, he watched Holley pick up the Makarov and realized there was still a chance things might go his way.

‘I assume I’d be right in supposing that your fortunate arrival isn’t coincidental, Officer. I congratulate you on your performance – the NYPD would be proud of you.’

‘I used to be an actor,’ Dillon said. ‘But then I discovered the theatre of the street had more appeal. Audience guaranteed, you see, especially in Belfast.’

Murphy was immediately wary. ‘Ah, that theatre of the street? So which side did you play for? You couldn’t be IRA, not the both of you.’

‘Why not?’ Dillon asked.

‘Well, admittedly you’ve got an Ulster accent, but your friend here is English.’

‘Well, I’d say you’re a Dublin man myself,’ Dillon told him. ‘And admittedly there’s some strange people calling themselves IRA these days, and a world of difference between them. We, for example, are the Provo variety, and Mr Holley’s sainted mother being from Crossmaglen, the heart of what the British Army described as bandit country, his Yorkshire half doesn’t count.’

Murphy was beginning to look distinctly worried. ‘What do you want?’

Dillon smiled amiably. ‘For a start, let’s get that piece of shit on his feet. He’s a disgrace to the Russian Federation. Putin wouldn’t approve of him at all.’

Holley pulled Ivan up to stand on the edge of the sewage pit. Following Dillon’s lead, he said, ‘Is this where you want him, Dillon? He might fall in, you know.’

Dillon ignored him and said to Murphy, ‘I’m going to put a question to you. If you tell me the truth, I’ll let you live. Of course, if you turn out to have lied, I’ll have all the fuss of coming back and killing you, and that will annoy me very much, because I’m a busy man.’

Murphy laughed uneasily. ‘That’s a problem, I can see that, but how will you know?’

‘By proving to you I mean business.’ He turned to where Ivan stood swaying on the edge of the pit, pulled Holley out of the way, and kicked the Russian’s feet out from under him, sending him down with a cry into the fast-flowing sewage, to be swept away.

‘There he goes,’ Dillon said. ‘With any luck, he could end up in the river, but I doubt it.’

Murphy looked horrified. ‘What kind of a man are you?’

‘The stuff of nightmares, so don’t fug with me, Patrick,’ Dillon told him. ‘Last week a trawler named Amity was surprised by the Royal Navy as it attempted to land arms on the County Down coast. Our sources tell us the cargo originated with you. I’m not interested in Irish clubs or whoever raised funds over here. I want to know who ordered the cargo in Northern Ireland. Tell me that and you’re home free.’

For a moment, Murphy seemed unable to speak, and Holley said, ‘Are you trying to tell us you don’t know?’

Murphy seemed to swallow hard. ‘No. I know who it is. We do a lot of this kind of work, putting deals together for small African countries, people from the Eastern European bloc. None of the players are big fish. Lots of small agencies put things our way, stuff the big arms dealers won’t touch.’

‘So cut to the chase,’ Dillon told him.

‘I got a call from one of them. He said an Irish party was in town looking for assistance.’

‘And he turned up here?’

‘That’s right. Ulster accent, just like you. A quiet sort of man, around sixty-five, strong-looking, good face, greying hair. Used to being in charge, I’d say.’

Dillon said, ‘What was his name?’

‘I can only tell you what he called himself. Michael Flynn. Had a handling agent in Marseilles. The money was all paid into a holding company who provided the Amity with false papers, paid half a dozen thugs off the waterfront to crew it. Nothing you could trace, I promise you. My end came from Marseille by bank draft. It all came to nothing. I never heard from Flynn again, but from what I saw in the newspaper accounts, the Royal Navy only came on the Amity by chance. A bit unfortunate, that.’

Holley turned to Dillon. ‘Okay?’

‘It’ll have to be, won’t it?’

‘You mean I’m in the clear?’ Murphy asked.

‘So it would appear,’ Dillon told him. ‘Just try to cultivate a different class of friend in the future. That bastard Ivan was doing you no good at all.’

‘That’s bloody marvellous.’ Murphy hammered a fist on the desk and came round it. ‘You kept your word, Mr Dillon, and I’m not used to that, so I’ll tell you something else.’

Dillon smiled beautifully and turned to Holley. ‘See, Daniel, Patrick wants to unburden himself. Isn’t that nice?’

But even he couldn’t have expected what came next.

‘I was holding out on you on one thing. I actually did find out who Flynn really was. He wasn’t particularly nice to me, so I’ll tell you.’

Dillon wasn’t smiling now. ‘And how did you find that out?’

‘He called round to see me one evening and discovered his mobile hadn’t charged up properly. He was upset about it, because he had a fixed time to call somebody in Northern Ireland. He was agitated, so it was obviously important. He asked if he could use my landline.’

Dillon shook his head. ‘And you listened in on an extension.’

Murphy nodded. ‘He said it was Jack Kelly from New York, confirming that Operation Amity is a go. Arriving on the night of the eighth, landfall north beach at Dundrum Bay, close to St John’s Point.’

‘That’s County Down,’ Dillon said. ‘Anything else?’

‘I put the phone down. I didn’t want to get caught. I had the number checked on my phone bill and found it was to a phonebox in Belfast on the Falls Road.’

Holley said, ‘Whoever they are, they’re being very careful. That would have been untraceable.’ He paused. ‘Could Jack Kelly be who I think it is? It’s a common enough name in Ireland, God knows.’

‘You mean the Jack Kelly we ran up against, working for our old friend Jean Talbot?’

‘I know it doesn’t seem likely,’ Holley began, and Dillon cut in.

‘The same Jack Kelly who became an IRA volunteer at eighteen, was involved for over thirty years in the Troubles, and served on the Army Council?’

‘And never too happy about the peace process,’ Holley said. ‘So if it is him … I wonder what he’s up to.’

‘That’s for Ferguson and Roper to decide.’

‘Strange, us having a foot in both camps,’ Holley said. ‘How do you think that happened?’

‘Daniel, me boy, if I was of a religious turn of mind, I’d say God must have a purpose in mind for us, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine what it would be.’

‘Well, I’m damned if I can,’ Holley said. ‘Although I should imagine that the general will pay Kelly a call sooner rather than later.’

Dillon turned to Murphy. ‘Happy, are you, Patrick, now that you’ve come clean? I mean, as you did turn out to have lied, you must have thought I might take it the wrong way?’

‘Of course not, Mr Dillon,’ Murphy said, but there was a gathering alarm on his face.

‘Don’t worry,’ Dillon carried on. ‘You’ve done us a good turn. Although it would help the situation, restore mutual trust, you might say, if you produced my friend’s Colt .25. It doesn’t seem to be on the spring clip, which I can see quite clearly inside the rain hat on the desk there.’

Murphy managed to look astonished. ‘But that’s nonsense,’ he said, and then moved with lightning speed behind Holley, grabbed him by the collar, and produced the Colt.

‘I don’t want trouble, I just want out, but if I have to, I’ll kill your friend. So just drop that Walther into the sewage, and then we’ll walk to the door and I’ll get into my car and vanish. Otherwise, your friend’s a dead man.’

‘Now, we can’t have that, can we? Here we go, a perfectly good Walther down the toilet, in a manner of speaking.’ Dillon dropped it in.

Murphy pushed Holley towards the entrance, the Colt against his skull, and as Dillon trailed them, cried, ‘Stay back or I’ll drop him.’

Holley said to Murphy, ‘Hey, take it easy. Just be careful, all right? I hope you’re familiar with the Colt .25. If you don’t have the plus button on, those hollow-point cartridges’ll blow up in your face.’

They were just reaching the door. Murphy loosened his grip, a look of panic on his face, and fumbled at the weapon. Holley kicked out at him, caught him off guard, then ran away and ducked behind one of the old vans. Murphy fired after him reflexively and then, seeing that the Colt worked perfectly well, he realized he’d been had. He turned and ran out through the heavy rain into the courtyard.

Dillon had a replica of Holley’s Colt in a holder on his right ankle. He drew it now, ran to the entrance and fired at Murphy, who was trying to open the door of a green Lincoln. Murphy fired back wildly, then turned, ran across the road and up the stone steps leading to the walkway, the East River lapping below it. At the top, he hesitated, unsure of which way to go, turned, and found Dillon closing in, Holley behind.

‘No way out, Patrick. So have you told me the truth or not?’

‘Damn you,’ Murphy called, half-blinded by the heavy rain, and tried to take aim.

Dillon shot him twice in the heart, twisting him around, his third shot driving him over the low rail into the river. He reached the rail in time to see Murphy surface once, then roll over and disappear in the fast-running current.

Holley moved up to join him. ‘What was all that about? Sometimes you play games too much, Sean.’

‘Sure, and all I wanted was to make sure he was telling the truth. He’d lied at first – isn’t that a fact?’

‘So is the name really Jack Kelly?’

‘We’ll see, but for now, it’s time for the joys of the Plaza and our first meeting with the intriguing Captain Sara Gideon.’

‘Definitely something to look forward to,’ Holley said, and followed him down the steps.

At the same time they were driving away in their delivery truck, Patrick Murphy, choking and gasping, was swept under a pier two hundred yards away downstream. He drifted through the pilings, banged into stone steps with a railing, hauled himself out, and paused at the top, where there was a roofed shelter with a bench.

He sat down, shivering with cold, pulled off his soaking jacket, then his shirt. The bullet-proof vest he’d been wearing was the best on the market, even against hollow points. He ripped open the Velcro tabs, tossed the rest down into the river with his shirt, struggled back into his jacket, and walked through the rain to the warehouse.

He expected Dillon and Holley to be long gone and went straight inside and up to his office. He peeled off his jacket, pulled on an old sweater that was hanging behind the door, then lifted the carpet in the corner, revealing a floor safe, opened it, and removed a linen bag containing his mad money, twenty grand in large bills. He got a suitcase from the cupboard, put the money into it, and sat there thinking about the situation.

He had to get away for a while, the kind of place where he’d be swallowed up by the crowds. Vegas would be good, but he needed to cover his back, just in case he wanted to return to New York. He rang a number and, when a man replied, said, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got a problem, Mr Cagney.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘You sent me a nice piece of business. The man from Ulster, Michael Flynn.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I had a client calling himself Grimshaw. He said he was seeking a consignment of weaponry, but the truth was he wanted information about the Amity and who’d been behind it.’

‘And did you tell him about Michael Flynn?’

‘Of course I did. He and another man with him killed Ivan and threatened to do the same to me if I didn’t tell them. Anyway, your client’s name isn’t Flynn, it’s Jack Kelly. He got careless using my phone one night.’

‘How unfortunate. Have you any idea who these people are?’

‘One posed as an NYPD officer, had an Ulster accent, and was called Dillon. The other was English, named Holley.’

‘They seem to have been rather careless with their names.’

‘That’s because I was supposed to end up dead, which I nearly was. Look, they claimed to be members of the Provisional IRA. I thought your client, Flynn or Kelly or whatever his name is, should know about that.’

Cagney said, ‘I appreciate your warning, Patrick. What do you intend to do now?’

‘Get the hell out of New York.’

‘Where can I contact you?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

Murphy replaced the phone, grabbed the suitcase, and went out. Within minutes, he was driving the undamaged car, a Ford sedan, out of the courtyard.

Shortly afterwards, Liam Cagney, a prosperous 60-year-old stockbroker by profession and Irish American to the core, was phoning Jack Kelly in Kilmartin, County Down, in Northern Ireland.

‘It’s Liam, Jack,’ he said when the receiver was picked up. ‘You’ve got a problem.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Somebody’s asked Murphy about the Amity. Do the names Dillon and Holley mean anything to you?’

‘By God, they do. They’re both Provisional IRA renegades now working for Charles Ferguson and British Intelligence. What did Murphy tell them?’

‘He told me they killed his man Ivan and almost got him. He also heard you using your real name in a phone call.’

Kelly swore. ‘I knew that was dangerous, but I had no choice. So he’s on the run? I don’t like that. You never know what he might do.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s taken care of. He won’t be going anywhere.’

‘That’s good to know. You’ve served our cause well, Liam, and thanks for the information about Dillon and Holley. If they turn up here, we’ll be ready for them. It’s time someone sorted those two out. Take care, old friend.’

He was seated behind his desk in his office at Talbot Place, the great country house in County Down, where he was estate manager. He sat there thinking about it, then opened a drawer, took out an encrypted mobile phone, and punched in a number.

There was a delay, and he was about to ring off when a voice said, ‘Owen Rashid.’

‘This is Kelly, Owen. Sorry to bother you.’

In London, Rashid’s flat was huge and luxurious, and as he got rid of his tie, he walked to the windows overlooking Park Lane. ‘Is there a problem? Tell me.’

Which Kelly did. When he was finished, he said, ‘Sorry about this.’

‘Not your fault.’ Rashid poured himself a brandy. ‘Dillon and Holley. They’re bad news, but nothing I can’t deal with. My sources will tell me if they try anything.’

‘I’m always amazed by what you know, Owen.’

‘Not me, Jack, Al Qaeda. In spite of bin Laden’s death, it’s still a worldwide organization. We have people at every level, from a waiter serving lunch to a talkative senator in New York, to a disgruntled police chief in Pakistan, to a disenchanted government minister in some Arab state who hates corruption – or a humble gardener right here in London’s Hyde Park, watching me take my early-morning run and seeing who I’m with. In this wonderful age of the mobile phone, all they have to do is call in.’

‘And I’m not sure I like that,’ Kelly said.

‘No sane person would. Is Mrs Talbot still with you?’

‘She flew to London yesterday in the Beach Baron.’

‘I’ll look her up. As to Dillon, Holley, and Murphy, don’t worry, we’ll sort it. But it’d be a good idea if you called Abu and reported in.’

‘Where is he?’ Kelly demanded.

‘Waziristan, for all I know. He’s a mouthpiece, Jack, passing us our orders and receiving information in return. He could be living in London, but I doubt it.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He knows too much. They wouldn’t want to take the chance of him falling into the wrong hands. He’ll be sitting there, nice and safe in a mud hut with no running water or flush toilet, but the encrypted phone is all he needs. I would definitely give him a call, if I were you.’

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A Devil is Waiting

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