He glanced at his watch. “Just coming up to nine-thirty. We might as well go straight in.”

He took a Walther from his breast pocket and checked the slider. “You want something, Martin?” he asked.

Brosnan nodded. “It’s a thought.”

Mordecai opened the glove compartment, took out a Browning and passed it over the seat. “That suit you, Professor?”

Mary said, “For God’s sake, anybody would think you were trying to start the Third World War.”

“Or prevent it starting,” Brosnan said. “Have you ever thought of that?”

“Let’s move,” Flood said. Brosnan followed him out and Mordecai emerged from the other side. As Mary tried to follow, Flood said, “Not this time, lover. I told Myra I’d be bringing my accountant, which takes care of Martin, and Mordecai goes everywhere with me. That’s all they’re expecting.”

“Now look here,” she said. “I’m the case officer on this, the official representative of the Ministry.”

“Well, bully for you. Take care of her, Charlie,” Flood told Salter and he turned to the entrance where Mordecai was already ringing the bell.

The porter who admitted them smiled obsequiously. “Morning, Mr. Flood. Mr. Harvey presents his compliments and wonders whether you’d mind stepping into the waiting room for a few moments. He’s only just arrived from Heathrow.”

“That’s fine,” Flood said and followed him through.

The waiting room was suitably subdued, with dark leather chairs, rust-colored walls and carpet. The lighting was mainly provided by fake candles, and music suitable to the establishment played softly over a speaker system.

“What do you think?” Brosnan asked.

“I think he’s just in from Heathrow,” Flood said. “Don’t worry.”

Mordecai peered out through the entrance and across to one of the Chapels of Rest. “Flowers, that’s what I find funny about these places. I always associate death with flowers.”

“I’ll remember that when your turn comes to go,” Flood said. “ ‘No flowers by request.’ ”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine, Sean.”

“We’ll stay here for as long as we can get away with it. Fifteen minutes would be ideal. If a traffic warden comes, just pull away and I’ll follow you. We’ll drive along the Embankment for half a mile, turn and come back.”

“Right, Sean.” Fahy’s teeth were chattering.

Dillon took out a packet of cigarettes, put two in his mouth, lit them and passed one to Fahy. “Just to show you what a romantic fool I am,” and he started to laugh.

“You look very businesslike, Myra,” Flood told her.

“So I should, Harry, the amount of work I do around here.” She kissed him on the cheek and nodded to Mordecai. “Hello, muscles.” Then she looked Brosnan over. “And this is?”

“My new accountant, Mr. Smith.”

“Really?” She nodded. “Jack’s waiting.” She opened the door and led the way into the office.

The fire burned brightly in the grate; it was warm and comfortable. Harvey sat behind the desk smoking his usual cigar. Billy was over to the left sitting on the arm of the sofa, his raincoat casually draped across his knee.

“Jack,” Harry Flood said. “Nice to see you.”

“Is that so?” Harvey looked Brosnan over. “Who’s this?”

“Harry’s new accountant, Uncle Jack.” Myra moved round the desk and stood beside him. “This is Mr. Smith.”

Harvey shook his head. “I’ve never seen an accountant that looked like Mr. Smith, have you, Myra?” He turned back to Flood. “My time’s valuable, Harry, what do you want?”

“Dillon,” Harry Flood said. “Sean Dillon.”

“Dillon?” Harvey looked totally mystified. “And who the Christ is Dillon?”

“Small man,” Brosnan said. “Irish, although he can pass as anything he wants. You sold him guns and explosives in nineteen eighty-one.”

“Very naughty of you, that, Jack,” Harry Flood said. “He blew up large parts of London and now we think he’s at it again.”

“And where else would he go for his equipment except his old chum, Jack Harvey?” Brosnan said. “I mean, that’s logical, isn’t it?”

Myra’s grip tightened on her uncle’s shoulder and Harvey, his face flushed, said, “Billy!”

Flood put up a hand. “I’d just like to say that if that’s a sawed-off he’s got under the coat, I hope it’s cocked.”

Billy fired instantly through the raincoat, catching Mordecai in the left thigh as the big man drew his pistol. Flood’s Walther came out of his pocket in one smooth motion and he hit Billy in the chest, sending him back over the sofa, the other barrel discharging, some of the shot catching Flood in the left arm.

Jack Harvey had the desk drawer open, his hand came up clutching a Smith & Wesson and Brosnan shot him very deliberately through the shoulder. There was chaos for a moment, the room full of smoke and the stench of cordite.

Myra leaned over her uncle, who sank back into the chair, moaning. Her face was set and angry. “You bastards!” she said.

Flood turned to Mordecai. “You okay?”

“I will be when Dr. Aziz has finished with me, Harry. The little bastard was quick.”

Flood, still holding the Walther, clutched his left arm, blood seeping between his fingers. He glanced at Brosnan. “Okay, let’s finish this.”

He took two paces to the desk and raised the Walther directly at Harvey. “I’ll give it to you right between the eyes if you don’t tell us what we want to know. What about Sean Dillon?”

“Screw you!” Jack Harvey said.

Flood lowered the Walther for a moment and then took deliberate aim and Myra screamed. “No, for God’s sake, leave him alone. The man you want calls himself Peter Hilton. He was the one Uncle Jack dealt with in eighty-one. He used another name then. Michael Coogan.”

“And more recently?”

“He bought fifty pounds of Semtex. Picked it up last night and paid cash. I had Billy follow him home on his BMW.”

“And where would that be?”

“Here.” She picked a sheet of paper up from the desk. “I’d written it all down for Jack.”

Flood looked it over and passed it to Brosnan, managing a smile in spite of the pain. “Cadge End Farm, Martin. Sounds promising. Let’s get out of here.”

He walked to the door and Mordecai limped out ahead of him, dripping blood. Myra had crossed to Billy, who started to groan loudly. She turned and said harshly, “I’ll get you for this, the lot of you.”

“No, you won’t, Myra,” Harry Flood told her. “If you’re sensible you’ll put it all down to experience and give your personal doctor a call,” and he turned and went out followed by Brosnan.

“Just drive, Charlie, you know where to go.”

Mary looked grim. “What happened in there?”

“This happened.” Brosnan held up the sheet of paper with the directions to Cadge End Farm.

“My God,” Mary said as she read it. “I’d better call the Brigadier.”

“No, you don’t,” Flood said. “I figure this is our baby, considering the trouble we’ve gone to and the wear and tear; wouldn’t you agree, Martin?”

“Definitely.”

“So, the first thing we do is call at the quiet little nursing home in Wapping run by my good friend Dr. Aziz so he can take care of Mordecai and see to my arm. After that, Cadge End.”

He pulled in at the junction of Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall on the angle he’d worked out. On the other side of the road at Horse Guards Parade there were two troopers of the Household Cavalry, mounted as usual, with drawn sabres.

Some distance away, a policeman turned and saw the van. Fahy turned off the engine, switched on the timers and pulled on his crash helmet. As he got out and locked the door the policeman called to him and hurried forward. Dillon swerved in on the BSA, Fahy swung a leg over the pillion seat and they were away, sliding past the astonished policeman in a half-circle and moving fast up toward Trafalgar Square. As Dillon joined the traffic around the square, the first explosion sounded. There was another, perhaps two, and then it all seemed to become one with the greater explosion of the Ford Transit self-destructing.

Dillon kept on going, not too fast, through Admiralty Arch and along the Mall. He was at Marble Arch and turning along the Bayswater Road within ten minutes and rode into the car park of the supermarket soon after. As soon as she saw them, Angel was out of the van. She got the doors open and put the duckboard in place. Dillon and Fahy shoved the bike inside and slammed the doors.

“Did it work?” Angel demanded. “Did everything go all right?”

“Just leave it for now. Get in and drive,” Dillon told her. She did as she was told and he and Fahy got in beside her. A minute later and they were turning into the Bayswater Road. “Just go back the way we came and not too fast,” Dillon said.

Fahy switched on the radio, fiddling his way through the various BBC stations. “Nothing,” he said. “Bloody music and chat.”

“Leave it on,” Dillon told him. “And just be patient. You’ll hear all about it soon enough.”

He lit a cigarette and sat back, whistling softly.

“Harry, my friend, I thought you’d given this kind of thing up,” he said. “But here we are again like a bad Saturday night in Bombay.”

Flood was sitting in a chair, jacket off, while a young Indian nurse attended to his arm. She had cut the shirt sleeve off and was swabbing the wound. Brosnan and Mary stood watching.

Flood said to Aziz, “How is he?”

“He’ll have to stay in for two or three days. I can only get some of this shot out under anaesthetic, and an artery is severed. Now let’s look at you.”

He held Flood’s arm and probed gently with a pair of small pincers. The nurse held an enamel bowl. Aziz dropped one piece of shot in it, then two. Flood winced with pain. The Indian found another. “That could be it, Harry, but we’ll need an X ray.”

“Just bandage it up for now and give me a sling,” Flood said. “I’ll be back later.”

“If that’s what you want.”

He bandaged the arm skillfully, assisted by the nurse, then opened a cupboard and found a pack of morphine ampules. He jabbed one in Flood’s arm.

“Just like Vietnam, Harry,” Brosnan said.

“It will help with the pain,” Aziz told Flood, as the nurse eased him into his jacket. “I’d advise you to be back no later than this evening, though.”

The nurse fastened a sling behind Flood’s neck. As she put his overcoat across his shoulders, the door burst open and Charlie Salter came in. “All hell’s broken loose, just heard it on the radio. Mortar attack on Ten Downing Street.”

“Oh, my God!” Mary Tanner said.

Flood showed her through the door and she turned to Brosnan. “Come on, Martin, at least we know where the bastard’s gone.”

“Christ!” Ferguson said, and like most people in the Ministry, rushed to the nearest window.

At Downing Street in the Cabinet Room the specially strengthened windows cracked, but most of the blast was absorbed by the special blast-proof net curtains. The first bomb left a crater in the garden, uprooting a cherry tree. The other two landed further off-target in Mountbatten Green, where some outside broadcast vehicles were parked. Only one of those exploded, but at the same moment, the van blew up as Fahy’s self-destruct device went into action. There was surprisingly little panic in the Cabinet Room. Everyone crouched, some seeking the protection of the table. There was a draught of cold air from shattered windows, voices in the distance.

The Prime Minister stood up and actually managed a smile. With incredible calm he said, “Gentlemen, I think we had better start again somewhere else,” and he led the way out of the room.

Mary said, “Look, I need to speak to Brigadier Ferguson. It’s essential.”

They were crossing Putney Bridge. Flood turned and looked at Brosnan, who nodded. “Okay,” Flood said. “Do what you like.”

She used her car phone, ringing the Ministry of Defence, but Ferguson wasn’t there. There was some confusion as to his whereabouts. She left the car phone number with the control room and put the phone down.

“He’ll be running round half-demented like everyone else,” Brosnan said and lit a cigarette.

Flood said to Salter, “Okay, Charlie, Epsom, then Dorking and the Horsham Road beyond that, and step on it.”

The van swerved as Angel sobbed. “Oh, God, no!”

Dillon put a hand on the wheel. “Steady girl,” he said calmly. “Just stick to your driving.”

Fahy looked as if he was going to be sick. “If I’d had time to put those fins on the cylinders it would have made all the difference. You were in too much of a hurry, Sean. You let Brosnan rattle you and that was fatal.”

“Maybe it was,” Dillon said, “but at the end of the day all that matters is we missed.”

He took out a cigarette, lit it and suddenly started to laugh helplessly.

The controller gave him his clearance and then said, “We’ve just had a newsflash. Bomb attack on the British Cabinet at Downing Street in London.”

“What happened?” Aroun demanded.

“That’s all they’re saying at the moment.”

Aroun smiled excitedly at Rashid, who’d also heard the message. “Take over and handle the landing.” He scrambled back to the cabin and sat opposite Makeev. “Newsflash just in. Bomb attack on Ten Downing Street.”

Makeev threw down his paper. “What happened?”

“That’s all for the moment.” Aroun looked up to heaven, spreading his hands. “Praise be to God.”

“A bad business, sir,” Lane said. “To use an old-fashioned phrase, right at the heart of Empire. I mean, how can they get away with this kind of thing?”

“Because we’re a democracy, Inspector, because people have to get on with their lives, and that means we can’t turn London into some Eastern-European style armed fortress.”

A young constable came across with a mobile phone and whispered to Mackie. The sergeant said, “Excuse me, Brigadier, it’s urgent. Your office has been trying to contact you. Captain Tanner’s been on the line.”

“Give it to me.” Ferguson took the phone. “Ferguson here. I see. Give me the number.” He gestured to Mackie who took out pad and pencil and wrote it down as Ferguson dictated it.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

“The mortar attack on Number Ten. It has to be Dillon. We found out he picked up fifty pounds of Semtex in London last night, supplied by Jack Harvey.”

“Where are you now?”

“Just leaving Dorking, sir, taking the Horsham Road, Martin and me and Harry Flood. We’ve got an address for Dillon.”

“Give it to me.” He nodded to Mackie again and repeated it aloud so the sergeant could write it down.

Mary said, “The road’s not good, sir, with the snow, but we should be at this Cadge End place in half an hour.”

“Fine. Nothing rash, Mary, my love, but don’t let the bastard get away. We’ll get backup to you as soon as possible. I’ll be in my car, so you’ve got the phone number.”

“All right, sir.”

She put the phone down and Flood turned. “Okay?”

“Backup on the way, but we’re not to let him get away.”

Brosnan took the Browning from his pocket and checked it. “He won’t,” he said grimly. “Not this time.”

“Receiving treatment from some bent doctor in a nice little private nursing home somewhere, sir.”

“Right, have that checked out and if it’s as you say, don’t interfere. Just have them watched, but this Cadge End place is where we go and fast. Now go and organize the cars.”

Lane and Mackie hurried away and as Ferguson made to follow them the Prime Minister appeared round the corner of the building. He was wearing a dark overcoat, the Home Secretary and several aides with him. He saw Ferguson and came over.

“Dillon’s work, Brigadier?”

“I believe so, Prime Minister.”

“Rather close.” He smiled. “Too close for comfort. A remarkable man, this Dillon.”

“Not for much longer, Prime Minister, I’ve just had an address for him at last.”

“Then don’t let me detain you, Brigadier. Carry on, by all means.”

Ferguson turned and hurried away.

Fahy said, “Now what?”

“A nice cup of tea, I think.” Dillon got out, went round and opened the van doors and pulled out the duckboard. “Help me, Danny.” They got the BSA out, and he lifted it up on its stand. “Performed brilliantly. You did a good job there, Danny.”

Angel had gone ahead and as they followed her, Fahy said, “You haven’t a nerve in your body, have you, Sean?”

“I could never see the point.”

“Well, I have, Sean, and what I need isn’t bloody tea, it’s whisky.”

He went in the living room and Dillon went up to his bedroom. He found an old holdall and packed it quickly with his suit, trenchcoat, shirts, shoes and general bits and pieces. He checked his wallet. About four hundred pounds left in there. He opened his briefcase, which held the five thousand dollars remaining from his expense money and the Walther with the Carswell silencer on the end. He cocked the gun, leaving it ready for action, put it back in the briefcase together with the Jersey driving license and the pilot’s license. He unzipped his jacket, took out the Beretta and checked it, then he slipped it into the waistband of his leather trousers at the rear, tucking the butt under the jacket.

“They just had the Prime Minister on inspecting the damage. Looked as if he didn’t have a worry in the world.”

“Yes, his luck is good,” Dillon said.

Angel came in and handed him a cup of tea. “What happens now, Mr. Dillon?”

“You know very well what happens, Angel. I fly off into the wild blue yonder.”

“To that Saint-Denis place?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay for you, Sean, and us left here to carry the can,” Fahy said.

“And what can would that be?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Nobody has any kind of a line on you, Danny. You’re safe till Doomsday. I’m the one the buggers are after. Brosnan and his girlfriend, and Brigadier Ferguson, I’m the one they’ll put this down to.”

Fahy turned away and Angel said, “Can’t we go with you, Mr. Dillon?”

He put down his cup and put his hands on her shoulders. “There’s no need, Angel. I’m the one running, not you or Danny. They don’t even know you exist.”

He went across to the phone, picked it up and rang Grimethorpe airfield. Grant answered straight away. “Yes, who is it?”

“Peter Hilton, old boy.” Dillon reverted to his public-school persona. “Okay for my flight? Not too much snow?”

“It’s clear down at the other end in the West Country,” Grant said. “Might be tricky taking off here, though. When were you thinking of going?”

“I’ll be round in half an hour. That all right?” Dillon asked.

“I’ll expect you.”

As Dillon put the phone down, Angel cried, “No, Uncle Danny.”

Dillon turned and found Fahy standing in the doorway with a shotgun in both hands. “But it’s not all right with me, Sean,” and he thumbed back the hammers.

“Danny boy,” Dillon spread his hands. “Don’t do this.”

“We’re going with you, Sean, and that’s an end to it.”

“Is it your money you’re worried about, Danny? Didn’t I tell you the man I’m working for can arrange payments anywhere?”

Fahy was trembling now, the shotgun shaking in his hand. “No, it’s not the money.” He broke a little then. “I’m frightened, Sean. Jesus, when I saw that on the television. If I’m caught, I’ll spend the rest of my life in jail. I’m too old, Sean.”

“Then why did you come in with me in the first place?”

“I wish I knew. Sitting here, all these years, bored out of my mind. The van, the mortars, it was just something to do, a fantasy, and then you turned up and made it real.”

“I see,” Dillon said.

Fahy raised the shotgun. “So that’s it, Sean. If we don’t go, you don’t go.”

Dillon’s hand at his back found the butt of the Beretta, his arm swung and he shot Fahy twice in the heart sending him staggering out into the hall. He hit the wall on the other side and slid down.

Angel screamed, ran out and knelt beside him. She stood up slowly, staring at Dillon. “You’ve killed him.”

“He didn’t give me any choice.”

She turned, grabbed at the front door, and Dillon went after her. She dashed across the yard into one of the barns and disappeared. Dillon moved inside the entrance and stood there listening. There was a rustling somewhere in the loft and straw dust floated down.

“Angel, listen to me. I’ll take you with me.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll kill me like me Uncle Danny. You’re a bloody murderer.” Her voice was muffled.

For a moment, he extended his left arm pointing the Beretta up to the loft. “And what did you expect? What did you think it was all about?”

There was silence. He turned, hurried across to the house, stepped over Fahy’s body. He put the Beretta back in his waistband at the rear, picked up his briefcase and the holdall containing his clothes, went back to the barn and put them on the passenger seat of the Morris.

He tried once more. “Come with me, Angel. I’d never harm you, I swear it.” There was no reply. “To hell with you, then,” he said, got behind the wheel and drove away along the track.