Brendan Murphy leaned over the rail of the small coastal freighter, the Fortuna, and watched the distant lights of Syria. The ship was Italian-registered and had definitely seen better days, but under its battered exterior the essential bits, the engines, were in excellent condition. They'd left the Black Sea two days earlier and had made good time.
The man who approached him, wearing a seaman's reefer coat, held a cup of coffee in one hand, which he passed to him. His name was Dermot Kelly and he had unfashionably Irish blond hair and a hard, pocked face. He lit a cigarette.
'Jesus, Brendan, they're all fugging Arabs, this crew. If I light up in the saloon, they glare at me. Lucky I brought a bottle on board.'
'Fundamentalists,' Murphy said. 'Army of God, this lot. They're just waiting for death in the service of Allah, so they can go to Paradise and have eternal pleasure and all those women.'
'They must be crazy.'
'Why? You mean we're Catholics and we're right, and they're Muslims and they're wrong? Come off it, Dermot.'
An Arab, in a reefer coat the same as Kelly's, came down a ladder from the bridge. He was the captain and his name was Abdul Sawar.
'How's it going?' Brendan demanded.
'Excellent. We'll be on time.'
'Well, that's good.'
Sawar said, 'Any problems?'
'Well, I miss bacon and eggs for breakfast,' Kelly told him.
'We do our best, Mr Kelly, but some things are not possible.'
'Well, you'd probably have a problem in reverse in Dublin,' Kelly told him.
'Exactly.'
Sawar went back up the ladder, and Murphy said, 'Don't stir the pot, Dermot. You can't expect good Irish bacon on an Italian boat crewed by Arabic fundamentalists off the coast of Syria.'
'All right, so I'll just think of the money.'
'The gold, Dermot, the gold. Speaking of which, we'll check it out.'
He led the way to the stern of the ship, and went down a companionway to a rear saloon. There were two cargo boxes wrapped in sacking.
Dermot lit a cigarette. 'They look like shire to me.' 'Five million in gold, Brendan.'
'How do we know?'
'Because Saddam wants another cargo next month, so he won't screw around with this one.'
'Do you think it's all going to work?'
'Like a Swiss watch. Fox will be on a plane. We'll offload the gold, and take it to the airport at Beirut, where the right officials have been bribed. The plane is routed to Dublin, but it puts down at an old air force base in Louth on the way. We unload our half and Fox carries on, announcing a mid-air change of destination.'
'Where will he go?'
'Supposedly Heathrow, but on the way there, when the plane is in uncontrolled air space, he'll put down on this estate nearby in Cornwall, called Hellsmouth. There's an RAF aerodrome there from the Second World War. The runway's a bit rough, but it can take a plane like the Gulfstream.'
'Sounds good to me, Brendan.'
'And me, Dermot.'
The other man smiled, took a half bottle of Paddy whiskey from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and drank deeply. He passed it across.
'Well, here's to Irish bacon and eggs, soda bread and rain.' He smiled. 'I miss the rain, Brendan. The good Irish rain.'

Gideon Cohen, his sister and Moshe Levy had left a yachting marina on the coast near Haifa in a forty-foot boat of a kind regularly rented by tourists interested in diving. There were stocks of air bottles in the stern, bunks for seven people below, a good kitchen gallery, every convenience.
Cohen's passport was British, in the name of Julian Grant; his sister and Levy had become a Mr and Mrs Frobisher, also British. Their background being impeccable, and Lebanon desperate for tourist money, they'd had no trouble getting the necessary visas, and pushed towards Al Shariz through the late afternoon.
Cohen was at the wheel, Levy lounging beside him, Anya looking out of the half-open window.
'So, let's go over it,' her brother said. 'You and Moshe book into the Golden Palace, and do remember, Moshe, this is my sister you're sharing a suite with.'
'How could I forget, Colonel?'
'Fox is booked in with these two hoods, Falcone and Russo. You make yourself available in the bar, Anya, just in case there's information available.'
'Oh, dear,' she said. 'Here I go again. Stage Six at MGM, playing the whore.'
Her brother smiled, and hugged her with his spare arm as he steered. 'No, the good-looking whore.' He shook his head. 'This is a bad one, little sister. We can't make a mistake.'
'Well, at least we have Dillon.'
He laughed out loud. 'My God, yes, the poor old Fortuna doesn't know what's going to hit it.'

On the plane on the way to Beirut, Dillon said to Blake, 'So, we're interested in establishing an electronics factory, a joint Anglo-American project, jobs for all. Three days in and out.'
'No problems?' Blake asked.
'Certainly not. They're still trying to build up the country again, while surrounded by people who want to cut each other's balls off.'
'So, we join Cohen's boat, look like recreational scuba divers.'
'And send the Fortuna to the bottom. Hammerheads, the lot,' Dillon said.
'And the crew?'
'Murdering fanatics. If they didn't want the risk, they shouldn't have joined.'
'But, Dillon, there's five million pounds in gold on board.'
'Yes, isn't that, as Ferguson would say, delicious? It also goes to the bottom. A fabulous expression of conspicuous consumption.' He waved to Flight Sergeant Madoc. 'Bring me another Bushmills, I'm celebrating imagining how Jack Fox will feel.'
Fox booked into the Golden House, with Falcone and Russo. He had a nice suite on the first floor – marble, scattered rugs, all very Moorish. He felt good. The Colosseum was a bad memory, and his lawyers seemed to think they might be able to fix things. Whether they did or not, the gold from the Fortuna was a certainty. Added to that, the cash Murphy owed him in Ireland from Irish-American arms orders would take the pressure right off.
'Everything okay, Signore?' Falcone asked.
'Couldn't be better. Tonight's the night, Aldo. Gold, there's nothing like it. It's still the one commodity you can rely on. You've checked with the harbourmaster?'
'Yes, Signore, the Fortuna is due in at ten. A crew of twelve, all Arab. It left the Black Sea the day before yesterday.' 'Where will they anchor, on the pier?'
'No, it's full. A few hundred yards out in the entrance to the bay.'
'Excellent. I'll have a shower, then dinner. I'll see you later.'

Their plane landed in early evening. Dillon and Johnson booked in as Russel and Gaunt and took a taxi to Al Shariz. On the way, Dillon called Cohen on his mobile.
'Lafayette, we are here. I'm saying that on behalf of Blake.'
'Well, we're here, too. Lower yacht basin. Pamir, Pier Three.'
'See you soon.' Dillon switched off his phone and relayed the information to the driver.
On the Pamir, Cohen looked through a pair of Nightstalker glasses and watched the Fortuna drop anchor. He said to Anya, 'Off you go. All I want to know is what he's up to. It could give us a clue to his movements.'
'Sure,' she said.
'Another thing.' He was strangely awkward. 'Duty is duty, but you're my beloved sister. Don't get close to this one. He's bad news.'
She kissed his cheek. 'Hey, little brother, don't worry.'
She booked into the hotel, changed, then went down to the bar, resplendent in a black mini dress, her dark hair to her shoulders, and looking terrific. She sat at the bar, and Fox, over by the window, Falcone and Russo at the next table, saw her at once. He nodded to Falcone, got up, went to the bar, and sat next to her.
'Hi, there.'
'An American!' She smiled. 'What are you doing here?' 'Investigating tourist prospects,' he said glibly. 'What about you?'
'Oh, I'm over from London with my husband, on the same errand.'
'Your husband?' Fox was disappointed.
'Yes, well, he's been called to Tel Aviv. Left me on my own for three days.'
Fox put his hand on hers. 'That's terrible, a nice-looking lady like you all on her own. But you've got me now. Have you eaten?'
'No.'
'Well, join me.'
Which she did, for a sumptuous meal, part Arab, part European, and lots of Cristal champagne. She endured his questing hand on her thigh and waited. Finally, Falcone, who had stood by the window, answered a mobile, came over and whispered.
Fox squeezed her thigh. 'Listen, I've got to go.' 'What a pity.'
It was ten o'clock. He said, 'I'll be a couple of hours. Will you still be here?'
'Of course. I'll see you.'
He went out with Falcone. She followed, and stood in the shadows of a palm tree and shrubbery while they talked on the terrace.
'The Fortuna is in, Signore.'
'Good. We offload the gold in two hours.'
'There's just one thing I don't understand,' Falcone said. 'These Hammerheads are short range?'
'Absolutely.'
'So if we're talking Iraq, I'm puzzled. I mean, we're off the coast of Syria, so they can't be fired from Iraq.'
'Aldo, you don't get the point. They're very easy to set up and fire. The Fortuna is going to be a gun platform. The entire crew, as you know, is Army of God. All they want to do is take out Tel Aviv. Jerusalem, they're funny about. After all, it's the second most important Muslim city.'
'My God, they're animals, these people.'
'Depends on your point of view. Now let's get moving.'
Anya called her brother on her mobile and relayed the information. Gideon said, 'Right, get out of there now. I'll expect you within the next half hour.'

On the Pamir, Dillon, Blake, Cohen and Levy were sitting under the stern awning having a look at the harbour chart when Anya arrived. She paid off the taxi and stepped over the rail.
'Jesus, woman,' Dillon told her. 'You look like page sixty-four in Vogue magazine. You should be a young Jewish mother having babies and making your husband's life miserable. Instead, you're still going around shooting bad guys.'
'It's my nature, Dillon. Who's your friend?'
'Blake Johnson. Former FBI and works for the President now, so let's have some respect here.'
She shook hands with Blake. 'Nice to meet you,' she said and turned to her brother. 'As I told you, I overheard Fox talking to one of his men on the terrace. The gold is definitely on board, as well as the Hammerheads. The worrying thing is that the boat is to be used as a gun platform, with Tel Aviv a possible target.'
'Not if we blow that thing out of the water.'
'I couldn't put it better myself,' told him.
'And sooner rather than later,' Blake put in. 'The boat's here, and Fox will want it offloaded as soon as possible. We know from Roper that he has a return slot booked for seven o'clock tomorrow.'
'Right, then let's get on with it.' Cohen turned to Dillon. 'How do we do this?'
'Well, you remember in ninety-four in Beirut, when we
blew up the Alexandrene with all that plutonium on board?' 'You mean, you blew up the Alexandrene,' Anya said. 'And how did you do that?' Blake asked.
'Took a shallow dive, went up the anchor chain, created a little mayhem, dropped a block of Semtex in the engine room, and that was that.'
Cohen said, 'Sounds good to me.'
'A one-man show?' Blake said. 'I don't like it.'
'Blake, Vietnam was a long time ago.'
'Stuff that kind of talk, Sean. We go in together.'
Dillon sighed. 'All right, it's your funeral.' He looked out as orange flickered on the horizon, and in the distance the security lights gleamed on the Fortuna. 'Let's get on with it. Time to save the free world again.'

Falcone, Russo and Fox went out to the Fortuna in a water taxi and pulled up to a steel stairway at the side of the ship. Fox told the boatman to wait and led the way up to where Brendan Murphy, Dermot Kelly and Captain Sawar waited. Fox and Brendan embraced.
'You're looking good,' Murphy said.
'And you, old buddy, and you'll have an even broader smile when you know what's on shore and on its way to my plane.'
'Come and have a look.'
Murphy led the way down to the stern saloon, where the two cargo boxes waited.
'Five million, Jack,' he said. 'It makes me feel God is on my side.'
'That's because you're Irish, you daft bastard,' Fox said. 'Let's go and have a drink and then we'll offload this lot. I've got a water taxi waiting.'
Beside the Pamir, an inflatable waited, Dillon and Blake aboard in black dive suits with a single air bottle each, weight belts around their waists. Each had a dive bag with a Browning Hi-Power with a Carswell silencer inside. Dillon also carried two three-pound blocks of Semtex, with three-minute timer pencils.
Gideon Cohen said to his sister and Levy, 'I'll take them out. You wait here and be ready for sea.'
Anya hesitated, then picked up an Uzi submachine gun and stepped in beside Dillon and Blake.
'Not this time. You might need back-up and Moshe is better with the boat than I am.'
Cohen sighed. 'You're a great trial to me. Okay, take the Nightstalker and monitor what happens.'
They moved out into the harbour and floated to a halt a hundred yards from the Fortuna.
Dillon said, 'Here we go,' and pulled down his diving mask and reached for his mouthpiece.
At only ten feet, there was enough illumination from the security lights to give the water a kind of glow. He paused beside the steel stairway, released his jacket and air tank, and took the Browning from his dive bag and cocked it. His face half-covered by his diving hood, he surfaced, Blake beside him, and an Arab seaman appeared at the top of the stairway. Dillon shot him instantly, the Browning near noiseless, tumbling him into the water, and started up. Blake, somewhere behind him, had another problem.
The Arab who crewed the water taxi had been shocked to see Dillon surface and kill the seaman. He tossed his cigarette into the water, stood up, and Blake, with no options, had to shoot him.
On deck, it was quiet only for a moment, then voices called. On the bridge, Captain Sawar moved out onto the flying bridge, a machine gun in his hands.
'Selim, are you there? What is it?'
Dillon called in Arabic, 'It's Mossad, you dog. We've come for you.'
Sawar fired his machine gun blindly down into the darkness of the deck, and Blake, scrambling up beside Dillon, fired back, shattering a window up there. Fox and Falcone and Russo, who were on the bridge, ducked down.
Fox said, 'What the hell gives?'
'Israelis. Someone down there said Mossad.'
'Cover me,' Dillon said to Blake, and ran crouching through the dark to the engine room hatch, pulled it back, took out the two blocks of Semtex from his dive bag, activated the timing pencils, then dropped them down and closed the hatch.
As Dillon ran back to rejoin Blake, who was firing up at the bridge, Sawar made a bad mistake. He switched on more security lights. Dillon and Blake ducked behind a lifeboat, as Sawar fired his machine gun again, and there were cries from members of his crew as they surged onto the aft deck from below, all armed.
Sawar fired repeatedly, Falcone and Russo joining in, and Anya, crouched in the inflatable, sprayed the deck and bridge with fire from her Uzi. Sawar took a bullet in the head and went down. Fox and his two men crouched, Falcone with blood on his face from a glass splinter.
'Now get out of it, Blake,' Dillon said. 'They're three-minute timers, remember. Take the port side. There's another lifeboat there that will give us some protection.'
Anya looked through the Nightstalker. 'I can see them. They're sliding to the port rail,' she said to Moshe Levy.
'Well, they would. Dillon will have planted the Semtex. There's maybe two minutes left.'
'Then get moving.'
He pushed the engine up to top speed, and went round the prow, Anya still firing up on the side deck and bridge, and Dillon and Blake jumped. Fox, peering out of a side window, saw them go, saw the inflatable surge on. Anya tossed a line, Dillon and Blake grabbed it, and the inflatable vanished into the darkness.
'They've jumped ship, Signore,' Falcone said. 'They didn't stay long.'
And Fox, his senses sharpened by years of hard living, jumped to an immediate conclusion.
'That's because they accomplished what they came here to do. Let's get out of here now!'
He scrambled down the ladder and they followed, running into Murphy and Kelly on the side deck.
'What the hell is going on?' Murphy demanded. 'Mossad. They've planted explosives. Move it!'
'Christ.'
They went down the steel stairway fast and crowded into the water taxi. Fox started the engine, Falcone and Russo threw the dead Arab into the water, and Fox took the boat away fast.

They were perhaps a hundred yards away when the explosion took place. The deck lifted, the bridge buckled, flames shot up into the night. Two or three men jumped from the stern, then the Fortuna seemed to break in half and went down very fast indeed. There was burning oil, faint screams.
'Shall we go back, Signore?' Falcone asked.
'What for? All I want to do is get back to the airport and get out of this fucking place. Take over.'
He lit a cigarette as they moved towards the pier. Murphy
said, 'It's all gone, not just the missiles but the gold.'
'I know. Isn't life hell?' Fox had an insane desire to laugh. 'But how did they know?'
'This is the Middle East, Brendan. The Israelis have had considerable experience at giving the Arabs a hard time. You think they can't find out what Saddam is up to? You think their friends everywhere from London to Washington can't find out?' He tossed his cigarette into the water. 'On top of that, the bastards can fight.'
'All that gold. I can't believe it.'
'Well, better get used to it.'
'Back to Heathrow now?'
'No point sticking around here. Do you and Kelly want a lift?'
'No, we're going to Paris, then Dublin.'
They crashed onto the pier. Fox had left a limousine with an Arab driver waiting. He said, 'I'm going back to the Golden House to pack and move on. Do you want a lift there, at least?'
'No, we'll get a taxi and go right to the airport.'
'No luggage – you lost it all on the boat. They'll think that's funny.'
'I know this place. There's a late-night bazaar. We'll pick up some stuff. No problem.'
'Good.'
They moved away from the others to the end of the pier. Murphy said, 'Christ, I needed that gold.'
'So did I,' Fox said.
'So what will you do?'
'I've something laid on in London that should take care of things.'
'Jesus, do you need a hand?'
'Not this time. What about you?'
'Back to Kilbeg to reflect. I'm not broke.'
'You still owe me on a lot of that equipment in the bunker. I know you've got at least a million on hold there.'
'I know, I know. A few bank raids will take care of the expenses, and the war will start again soon anyway.'
Fox held out his hand. 'Good luck. Stay in touch.'
'I will.'
They went back to the limousine, Fox, Falcone and Russo got in, and it drove away.
Murphy smelled the warm air, the aroma of spices. 'Disgusting, this place, Dermot. Let's go home to some civilization.'
Blake had a bullet crease on his right shoulder. Anya gave him first aid. On the Pamir, there was a certain jubilation.
Dillon and he changed, then went into the saloon. Moshe Levy was pouring wine into glasses, and Anya came in from a shower in a towelling robe, drying her hair.
'Where's Gideon?' Dillon asked.
'Making a phone call.'
Gideon was talking to his uncle at his apartment in Tel Aviv. General Cohen listened and slapped his thigh. 'Marvellous. What a coup.'
'Dillon and Blake Johnson are returning to London soon.' 'Well, tell them they go with my blessing. And Anya, she is well?'
'She should get a medal. She was wonderful.'
'Mossad doesn't give medals, you know that. But I will give you all a nice dinner.'

In Beirut, Fox, Falcone and Russo boarded their plane, discreetly observed by Lacey and Parry, who had been supplied with photos. The plane rose steadily to fifty thousand feet and turned into the Mediterranean. Russo sat at the back and a woman flight attendant offered drinks and a menu. Fox waved her away.
Falcone sat opposite him. 'Now what, Signore?'
'I don't know, Aldo. I've just lost a fortune. Murphy's lost a lot, and he owes me God knows how much for those arms in that bunker in County Louth. The Colosseum is closed down.' He took a deep breath. 'We've only got the Jagos left and that White Diamond Company job. Ten million. Four to them leaves me with six.'
The attendant handed Falcone a vodka martini. He savoured it and said, 'Why not the full ten, Signore? Why not all the proceeds? Russo and I could handle it. It'd go a long way to making up what you just lost.'
Fox tasted his glass of champagne. 'You really are a very bad man, Aldo. But I like it.'
Falcone smiled, recalling his conversation in the washroom at the airport with Don Marco on his mobile. He'd recounted the whole sorry affair.
Don Marco had said, 'It just gets worse. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was Dillon and Johnson again. But you say it was the Israelis ?'
'No doubt about it. They identified themselves.'
'It's like he was snakebit. All right, Aldo, watch out for him, okay?'
Remembering, Falcone said, 'The Jagos. They're animali, Signore. As I say, let Russo and me take care of them.'
'It's certainly an interesting thought.' Fox smiled. 'We'll see.'

In London, Ferguson listened to Dillon on his Codex and nodded. 'What an absolutely marvellous result. Our friends at Mossad have performed magnificently, but you and Blake haven't done too badly, either.'
'Why, Brigadier, praise from you is praise indeed.' 'Don't let it go to your head, Dillon. We'll see you soon.' He sat there by the fire in his flat, thinking about it, then
called for his Daimler, got a coat on, and told his driver to take him to Pine Grove, where he knew Hannah Bernstein was working on Sean Regan. Helen Black greeted him and took him to Roper's suite, where the Major sat at one of his screens, Regan on one side, Hannah on the other.
'Well, children, you'll be delighted to know that Al Shariz has resounded to a most satisfactory explosion. The SS Fortuna, crewed by Army of God fanatics, is no more. Not only the Hammerheads, but the five million in gold, which was supposed to have been split between Murphy and Fox, has gone down, thanks to Czechoslovakia's gift to the world, Semtex, in one hundred fathoms of water.'
'Holy Mary,' Regan said.
A moment, Brigadier.' Roper punched at the keys and checked his screen. 'Two hundred fathoms, actually. There's a trench in that harbour. Be a little difficult to retrieve, anyway.'
'What next, sir?' Hannah asked. 'Kilbeg?'
'How far have we got?'
'Oh, Sean's being very cooperative. I'm assembling a ground plan,' Roper said. 'Would you like to see?'
'No, let's wait for Dillon and Blake.' He turned to Hannah. Any word from Salter?'
'No, sir.'
'I think I'll go and see him.'
'Do you want me to come, sir?'
Ferguson shook his head. 'No, you continue here with Regan and the Major.' He turned to Helen Black. 'How would you fancy an excursion into the London underworld, Sergeant Major?'
'Why, I can't think of anything I'd like more, Brigadier.' 'Good, let's be on our way, then,' and Ferguson led the way out.