Angel Of Death

SEVEN

It was perhaps an hour later that the light came on again above. Dillon glanced up and saw Walid Khasan peering over the wall.

“Are you there, Mr. Dillon?”

“Yes,” Dillon called. “And Callaghan’s with me.”

“I’m sorry, my friend. They picked me up when I returned to the cafe.”

“Are you joining us?” Dillon called.

“No. Omar, their leader, has decided he’ll ransom you for one hundred thousand English pounds. I’m being released to go back to the hotel to inform Chief Inspector Bernstein. I just wanted to assure myself you were alive and well.”

“I’m alive and in the well, as you can see,” Dillon told him. “I don’t know for how long. Double pneumonia coming up, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s rather cold down here.”

“Try and hang on. I’ll be back and don’t worry. I know this Omar. Whatever else, he’s a man of his word.”

“And Callaghan?”

“Out of our hands now. Omar has made it clear. Either he comes up with the information as to Quinn’s whereabouts by morning or he stays down there till he dies. Good-bye for the moment.”

The light went out and Callaghan said, “The bastards. All right for you, Dillon.”

“There’s always a choice, Francis. You can come clean and tell them what they want to know.”

“They’ll kill me anyway.”

“Maybe not. Quinn’s their business now, not mine, but you could still be of use to my boss, Brigadier Charles Ferguson, and you must know who he is.”

“Become an informer, you mean?”

“Absolutely. I’m sure you could tell him a great deal about all those friends of yours in the UFF and the UVF. You see, if a cease-fire comes with the IRA, it’s the Protestant Loyalists the British Government are going to have to worry about.”

“And so they should. We’ll give them hell for selling us out.”

“Not from the bottom of a well in Beirut. Tell me where Quinn can be found and I’ll see if we can do a deal with Omar. You’ll be of no further use to him, but to us… That’s a different story.”

“I’ll see you in hell first.”

“Suit yourself, son. You’ll be a long time dead.”

There was a swishing in the water. Callaghan said, “Oh, Christ, the rats are back.”

Hannah Bernstein had been worried for some time. It was taking too long. She sat in her room at the Al Bustan, gazing out to the bright lights of the city below.

“Damn you, Dillon, where are you?” she said softly.

Born into a wealthy upper-class Jewish family, her father a famous surgeon, her grandfather a rabbi, the best schools, then Cambridge, she had astounded everyone by joining the police, and her rise to Detective Chief Inspector in Special Branch had been meteoric. On two occasions she had shot people in the line of duty, so violence was not unknown to her, but her weakness was a rather rigid moral code that made it difficult for her to cope with the Dillon of the old days, the legendary IRA gunman. She could never see his slate as wiped clean no matter what he was doing now on the side of right. Having said that, the truth was she liked him too much.

The empty hotel room had begun to feel oppressive. She went downstairs to the bar, waved a waiter away, and went out on the terrace. Leaning on the balustrade, she looked down over the gardens to the brightly illuminated car park. At that moment, a taxi drove up and Walid Khasan got out.

He started up the steps to the terrace and she called, “Over here.”

He paused, glanced up, then hurried to join her. “We’ve got trouble, I’m afraid,” he said. “Serious trouble.”

Her stomach knotted. “Tell me.”

When he was finished, she said, “Can this Omar be trusted?”

“Oh yes, but judge for yourself.”

Walid turned and waved to the taxi. The rear door opened and Omar got out. He paused halfway up the steps to light a cigarette, then joined them, smiling pleasantly.

“Chief Inspector, what a pleasure.”

She became very formal, very much the police officer. “Can we rely on your good faith?”

“Absolutely. We of Dark Wind always keep our word.”

“See that you do.” She glanced at Walid Khasan. “I’ll speak to the Brigadier. Obviously you’ll act as our contact in this matter.”

“Of course.”

She turned to Omar. “We’ll be in touch then.”

“A pleasure meeting you, Chief Inspector,” he said, turned, and went down the steps.

Beirut at that time of the year being three hours ahead of London, it was just before eight at the Cavendish Square flat and Charles Ferguson was about to leave for dinner at the Garrick Club when the phone rang.

“Bernstein,” she said. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

Ferguson listened to what she had to say, then sighed. “Oh dear, what a bloody mess.”

“Can anything be done, sir?”

“Oh yes, plenty of cash in the contingency fund. Anticipating the need to perhaps get you out in a hurry, I ordered the RAF to respray one of our Lear jets in United Nations strip. That way it can land at Beirut International Airport. We’ll fly via Cyprus.”

“We, sir?”

“Yes, I’d better come myself. I’ll be with you to-morrow, Chief Inspector.”

“Thank God for that.”

“One thing you can do. You demand to see Dillon personally, to assure yourself he’s still in one piece. You also tell this chap Omar that I want Callaghan, too. This present job’s blown, of course, but he could be very useful to us. Fountain of knowledge as regards the Protestant movement.”

“Right, sir.”

“Be of good heart, Chief Inspector, I’ll be with you soon.”

When Walid Khasan and Hannah were led into the room, Omar stood up behind the desk. “A pleasure to see you again, Chief Inspector, and so soon.”

“Let’s make this brief.” She was as cold and formal as if charging someone at West End Central Police Station. “Brigadier Ferguson arrives tomorrow and your terms will be met.”

“Excellent.”

“Just one thing. You give us Callaghan too.”

“That could be arranged.” He shrugged. “ Depending on his willingness to give us the information we need.”

“Right, I’ll speak to Dillon now and I’ll make that point clear.”

The lights turned on and Dillon glanced up to see her peer down. “You all right, Dillon?”

“I’ve been better, girl dear, but you shouldn’t be here in such bad company.”

“We’ll have you out tomorrow. The Brigadier’s flying in.”

“Now isn’t he the grand man?”

“Are you there, Callaghan?” she called.

“And where else would I bloody be?”

“We’ve struck a deal. Tell them where to find Quinn and they’ll let you leave with us.”

“And then what?”

“You’ll fly back to London and sing your heart out.”

“Screw you.”

“Then they’ll leave you down there to rot. Your choice.” She leaned over further. “Bye for now, Dillon. See you soon.”

The lights went out and Callaghan said, “Lousy, stinking bitch.”

“Oh, she can be all of that.” Dillon laughed. “But I like her.”

It was unbelievably cold down there, and after a few hours Dillon found that he’d somehow got used to the stench, but not the cold – that was mind-numbing. Sitting on the ledge, leaning back, he actually dozed off and came awake in a split second to hear Callaghan.

“Get away from me, damn you!”

There was a splash in the water and Dillon felt a rat scurry across his arm. “Are you all right, Francis?”

“No, I’m bloody well not.”

Dillon checked his watch, which was a Rolex diver’s, the face phosphorescent. “Seven-thirty. Break of a new day. They’ll be starting to serve a traditional English breakfast at the Al Bustan. Fried eggs, bacon, sausage, toast and marmalade, nice hot pot of tea or coffee.”

“Shut your mouth,” Callaghan said.

“I can dream, can’t I? That’s exactly what I’m going to have when the Brigadier arrives and gets me out of here. Nice long hot shower to get rid of the stink, clean clothes, and then that breakfast. Doesn’t matter what time of day it is, I want the breakfast.”

“Screw you, Dillon. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“I’m not trying to do anything, Francis. Our operation to catch Quinn is blown. It’s Dark Wind’s business now. We’re out. You could have been useful back in London, but if you prefer to be a hero of the glorious revolution – if that’s how you see yourself – well that’s your problem.”

“Shut up, will you? Just shut up!”

Beirut International Airport was served only by the national carrier MEA, but when Ferguson arrived at nine o’clock in the morning after a night flight via Cyprus, the Lear jet in its United Nations colors was accepted without question, as were the papers the forgery department at the Ministry of Defence in London had supplied at such short notice. Hannah Bernstein and Walid Khasan met him as he came through into the terminal. He wore a linen suit and Panama hat and Guards tie and carried his Malacca cane. He handed his overnight bag to Walid Khasan and kissed Hannah on the cheek.

“You’re looking agitated, my dear.”

“I’ve a right to be.”

“Not at all.” He nodded to Walid Khasan. “It’s been a long time.”

They went out to the yellow taxi, where Walid’s man, Ali, sat behind the wheel. Walid sat in the front and Ferguson and Hannah in the rear.

“Shall we go straight there?” Walid asked.

“Good God, no,” Ferguson said. “I need a shower and some breakfast. Do this fellow Omar good to wait.”

“And what about Dillon, sir?” Hannah demanded.

“And since when did you get worked up about his welfare, Chief Inspector? He’ll survive.” He opened his briefcase and took out some colored faxes, which he passed to Walid Khasan. “Is this them?”

Walid nodded. “That’s Selim Rassi, and the other is the Russian, Bikov.”

“Good.” Ferguson took them back and put them in the briefcase.

Hannah Bernstein said, “But does that matter, sir? I don’t understand.”

“You will, my dear,” Ferguson told her. “You will.”

It was still very dark down there in spite of the fact that it was eleven o’clock in the morning when Dillon checked his watch. He hadn’t heard a sound from Callaghan for a while.

“Are you still with us, Francis?”

There was a splashing sound, then Callaghan said warily, “Only just.” He sounded terrible. “I can’t take much more, Dillon.”

At that moment the light was turned on up above and Omar leaned over. “Your friends are here, Mr. Dillon. Our business has been concluded satisfactorily, so we’ll bring you up now. We’ll drop the rope.”

“What about Callaghan?”

“Has he spoken?”

“No.”

“Then he stays. Here comes the rope now.”

As it dropped down, Callaghan surged through the water and grabbed at Dillon. “Don’t leave me. I’ve had enough, Dillon. Can’t take any more, not on my own.”

“Steady, son.” Dillon put one arm around him and reached for the rope. “Just tell me about Quinn.”

“He’s on a freighter called Alexandrine, Algerian registration. It’s anchored about a mile out of the harbor. There was a meeting arranged on board for seven o’clock tonight with Selim Rassi and Bikov. The Russian’s delivering the plutonium then.”

“The truth, is it?” Dillon said. “If you’re lying, these lads up above will skin you.”

“I swear it.” Callaghan sounded desperate. “Just get me out, Dillon. Take me to London with you. I’ve had enough.”

“Sensible lad.” Dillon pulled the loop over him and under his armpits. “Haul away,” he called.

He waited as Callaghan rose above him and was pulled over the edge of the well. The rope came down again. Dillon pulled it over his head.

“Here we go.”

He went up quite quickly, pushing his feet against the side, and hands reached to pull him over the round wall. They were all there, Omar and his two men, Anya, Walid Khasan, Hannah, Ferguson, and Callaghan draped in a blanket.

“Good God, Dillon, you stink like a sewer,” Ferguson said.

“I think it was a sewer,” Dillon told him.

Hannah passed him a blanket, concern on her face. “You look terrible.”

Ferguson said, “So, our friend here decided to speak up, did he?”

“Freighter called the Alexandrine about a mile out of the harbor. Algerian flag. Quinn’s out there now. There’s a meeting with Rassi and Bikov at seven when the plutonium passes over.”

Ferguson smiled fiercely. “Excellent. Everything comes to he who waits.” He turned to Walid Khasan. “Don’t you agree, Major?”

“I certainly do.” Khasan’s English had lost its accent.

“Major?” Hannah Bernstein said, looking bewildered.

“Yes, allow me to introduce Major Gideon Cohen of Mossad.”

“Israeli Intelligence?” she said. “You didn’t tell me.”

“What’s more to the point, he didn’t tell me,” Dillon said.

“Yes, well I didn’t want to spoil your performance, dear boy. I mean, we all know what a brilliant actor you were at RADA.”

“And still am, you old bastard.”

“Yes, well I thought the real thing would give you an edge and I knew you would cope. You always do, Dillon.”

“And what about me, Brigadier?” Hannah demanded. “You didn’t trust me, that’s what it came down to.”

“Not at all. Thought you’d give a better performance if you thought it was for real, just like Dillon.”

They were all laughing and Omar lit a cigarette and put it in Dillon’s mouth. “Captain Moshe Levy.”

“All Mossad?” Dillon asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Even Anya.”

She laughed. “And still Anya. Lieutenant Anya Shamir.”

“You’re mad, the lot of you,” Dillon said. “ Operating here in Beirut like this. Israelis. They’d hang you in the marketplace.”

“Oh, we manage,” Gideon Cohen said.

“Will somebody tell me what’s going on here?” Francis Callaghan asked and turned to Dillon. “This whole thing was a fucking setup, is that what they’re saying?”

“So it would appear, Francis.”

“You rotten, lousy bunch of bowsers.” Callaghan jumped up, the blanket slipping down, revealing the filth that covered his clothes. He was almost in tears.

Ferguson said, “Don’t be a silly boy. You’ve really done rather well. You’ll fly back to London and answer every question the Chief Inspector here asks you.”

“And what if I tell her to stuff it?”

“Ah, well in that event you’ll just have to stand trial at the Old Bailey as a participant in numerous bombings and murders. Plenty unsolved on the files that we can hang on you. I’d say you could draw about four life sentences.”

Callaghan slumped in the chair, mouth open, staring at him. It was Dillon who said with surprising gentleness, “It’s coming to an end, Francis, twenty-five years of slaughter. Be sensible and help that end to come about. You do what the Brigadier wants and you won’t end up in a cell for the rest of your life.”

Callaghan nodded, looking dazed. “But I should have met Daniel last night. How do you know how he’s reacting to my disappearance? Maybe he’s changed the meet?”

“Leave that to us, boy.” Ferguson nodded to Moshe Levy and he and his two men lifted Callaghan up and Anya followed.

“Now what?” Dillon demanded.

“Well, I think it would be useful if Major Cohen arranged for a little reconnaissance, just to check that the Alexandrine is still at anchor out there. Once we know that position, we’ll decide on what to do tonight.”

“I’ll go out myself in a speedboat,” Cohen told him and wrinkled his nose. “You really do stink, Dillon.”

“You realize there were rats down there?” Dillon said. “One bite and you could get Weil’s disease. I mean, forty percent of people who get that die.”

“Not you, Dillon,” Hannah Bernstein said. “You’ve so much Bushmills Irish Whiskey in your blood, it’s the rat who would die. Now for God’s sake, let’s get you back to the Al Bustan and a bath.”

Dillon stood in a hot shower for a solid thirty minutes, lathering his body with shower gel, shampooing his hair several times. Finally, he turned the bath taps on, padded to his suite to find the ice box. There was a half bottle of Bollinger champagne. He opened it, found a glass, went and climbed into the bath and just lay there, stewing in the hot water and luxuriating in the ice-cold champagne.

After a while, the wall phone rang and he picked it up. “Dillon.”

“It’s me,” Hannah said. “Are you decent?”

“How dare you suggest such a terrible thing.”

“Very funny. Major Cohen’s turned up. The Brigadier’s meeting him on the terrace. He wants both of us there.”

“Ten minutes,” Dillon said. “I’ll see you down there.” He replaced the phone, finished the champagne, climbed out of the bath, and reached for a towel.

The terrace was bright in the afternoon sunshine, the awnings billowing in the breeze. When Dillon arrived, Ferguson, Hannah, and Cohen were sitting at a table under an umbrella by the balustrade.

“Well I must say you smell better,” Ferguson observed.

“I’ll ignore that.” Dillon turned to Cohen. “All right, Major, what’s the situation?”

“The Alexandrine is there all right. There are quite a few ocean-going ships at anchor that far out, so it was easy to have a run round in a speedboat and check the situation.”

“Anything unusual?”

“Definitely. Security lights rigged all the way round the entire ship. I’d say it’s going to be very difficult to get anywhere near in darkness, and it will be dark at seven.”

Hannah said, “Look, what if we forget about the Alexandrine? What if we concentrate on intercepting Bikov and Rassi before they actually get out there?”

“Not possible,” Cohen said. He took a map from his pocket and unfolded it. “This is Beirut. Now out there is the Alexandrine, and here” – he tapped a finger – “here are three yacht basins and two areas of high density for small craft. If Quinn has been alerted to Callaghan’s disappearance, the last thing he will do is take a speedboat from the area I first saw them.”

There was silence. Hannah said, “Then what do we do? If the ship is protected by security lights, we couldn’t make an approach.”

“Oh yes we could,” Ferguson said. “We could go in underwater.”

Dillon groaned. “You mean I could.”

“He’s really too modest, Major,” Ferguson said. “He actually blew up some PLO boats the other year in this very harbor and on behalf of your people.”

“Yes, I’m very well aware of that fact,” Cohen said. “I’ve studied the file.” He smiled at the Irishman. “I’ll be honest, Dillon, none of my people are underwater specialists. You’d be on your own.”

“Jesus!” Dillon said. “Tell me something new.”

“I can get you anything you want as regards scuba equipment. Anything.”

“How kind,” Dillon said. “I’ll call again. Could you also get me a little Semtex and a few timer pencils?”

“Yes, that would be no problem.”

“What on earth is this, Dillon?” Ferguson put in. “Semtex? We don’t need to blow the damn ship up.”

“Maybe we do,” Dillon said. “Maybe we do.” He turned to Cohen. “Now let’s see how we’re going to do this.”

It was already dark by six-fifteen, when Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah Bernstein, on a small private dock next to a yachting marina, watched Cohen and Moshe Levy check the diving equipment. There were two air tanks, an inflatable jacket, a pair of nylon fins, an underwater torch, and a dive bag.

Dillon was already wearing a black nylon diving suit and cowl. He opened the dive bag and took out a Browning Hi-Power. There was a Carswell silencer, which he screwed on the end, and a twenty-round clip.

“You’re going to war again,” Hannah said.

“That’s right.” He took a block of Semtex from the bag and two pencil timers. “Three minutes?” he asked Cohen.

“Yes,” the Major said. “That’s what you asked for and that’s what I’ve done, but I think you’re crazy.”

“I usually am.”

“You’re sure you’ll recognize them?” Hannah demanded.

“Jesus, girl, I saw those fax pictures the Brigadier brought, didn’t I?”

Ferguson, who had been a silent observer, said, “Let him get on with it, Chief Inspector.”

“And save the free world?” Dillon laughed. “Isn’t it interesting that it’s always sods like me that have to do it, Brigadier?” He turned to Cohen, who had finished loading the large inflatable tied to the dock, helped by Levy.

“You and me, Major,” Dillon said and climbed down.

Levy untied the line securing them to the dock and at that moment, Hannah stepped down.

“Chief Inspector,” Ferguson said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going along for the ride, sir, just for once. I’m tired of being a bystander.”

Dillon laughed out loud and she nodded to Cohen, who started the twin outboard motors, and they slipped away from the dock into the darkness.

All the security lights were on view as they coasted in toward the Alexandrine. Cohen cut the engines about a hundred yards out and they came to a halt and just floated, virtually motionless. The Israeli produced a night sight and had a look toward the general harbor.

“Something coming. A motor boat.”

It appeared from the shadows into the pool of light surrounding the Alexandrine and coasted in to the ship’s ladder. Two men clambered over and started up.

“That’s them, Bikov and Rassi.” He passed the sight to Dillon. “See for yourself.”

Dillon had only seconds to catch them before they reached the deck. He nodded. “Looks like them to me. Let’s do it.”

He passed the sight to Cohen, went and put on a weight belt, then clamped a tank to his inflatable and pulled it on, fastening the Velcro tabs across his chest. He hooked the diving bag at his waist. He took out the Hi-Power and slipped the weapon inside his jacket.

“I don’t like it, this diving,” Hannah whispered. “It’s not natural.”

“The only danger is from going deep,” he said. “The air we breathe is part oxygen and nitrogen. The deeper I go, the more nitrogen is absorbed, and that’s when the trouble starts, only I’m not going deep. I’ll cross to the Alexandrine at fifteen or twenty feet. No sweat.” He pulled on his mask. “Do you still love me?”

“Go to hell, Dillon!” she said.

“I’ve been doing that for a long time now, dear girl,” he said and fell back into the water.

Dillon's approach took only a few moments. He surfaced by the platform at the bottom of the steel stairway at the side of the ship. He eased out of the inflatable and tank and clipped them to the rail beside the platform, then clambered up onto the platform. He opened his jacket and took out the Browning and cocked it. At that very moment, an Arab seaman holding an AK-47 appeared at the top of the stairs and started down. He saw Dillon and tried to bring the gun to bear, but Dillon shot him instantly, the silenced weapon making a dull thud as it hit the Arab in the chest and knocked him over the rail into the water.

Dillon started up the stairway and a voice called in Arabic, “Achmed, where are you?”

Dillon paused. Another Arab appeared, also armed with an AK-47. He stood there, quite unconcerned, and Dillon took careful aim and shot him in the head. The man dropped his rifle and went over the rail into the water.

A hundred yards away in the darkness Hannah Bernstein, looking through the night sight, shuddered. “My God, there were guards, two of them.”

“What did he do?” Cohen asked.

“He shot them both.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” and he took the night sight from her gently.

Dillon moved along the deck, keeping to the shadows. He heard laughter, peered through a porthole, and found half a dozen sailors playing cards, smoking and drinking.

“And merciful Allah wouldn’t be too pleased about that,” he said softly and moved on.

He came to some sort of salon, glanced in through a square window, and found Selim Rassi and Daniel Quinn sitting on either side of a table. There was a small briefcase between them. There was no sign of the Russian.

Dillon opened the salon door and stepped inside. Quinn had his back to him, but the Arab saw him at once and reached inside his jacket. Dillon shot him twice in the heart, sending him backwards in his chair.

Quinn turned, his own chair going over, and Dillon said, “Easy, Danny boy, easy.”

“Who in the hell are you?” Quinn demanded.

“Oh, we go back a long way, you and me – Derry in the old days. Sean Dillon, Danny, your worst nightmare.”

“Dillon.” Quinn’s face was pale. “You fucking bastard. Working for the Brits now.”

“But I thought that was your side, Danny? Make your mind up. Now open the case.”

“You go to hell.”

Dillon’s hand came up, he fired, and part of Quinn’s right ear disintegrated. He lurched against the table, a hand to his ear.

Dillon said, “Open it!”

Quinn unclipped the briefcase. Inside were two objects resembling thermos flasks. Dillon picked one up and slipped it in his dive bag. He did the same with the other.

“What have I got here?”

“Plutonium 239. Three hundred grams.”

Dillon said, “That could take out half of Dublin.”

“For God’s sake, Dillon, you’re not with the IRA anymore. We can show the fucking Fenians we mean business.”

“It’s finished, Danny,” Dillon said. “Peace coming whether you like it or not. We’ve got Callaghan. He’ll sing like a bird. I killed Daley in Belfast and five of your foot soldiers. You’re finished, me ould son.”

The door opened behind him, he turned, dropping to one knee, and found Bikov there. Dillon fired twice, knocking him out to the deck, and behind him Quinn dropped behind the desk, drew a pistol, and fired at the same time, shouting at the top of his voice.

Dillon went out, crouching low in time to catch the seamen emerging onto the deck farther along. Several of them were armed, and when they saw him they fired.

He darted to the other side of the ship, paused beside the engine room, and took out the Semtex block. He activated both three-minute timers, raised the engine room hatch and dropped them in, then he went up a ladder to the top deck.

Cohen had been watching through the night sight. As gunfire cracked, Hannah said, “What is it?”

“He’s in trouble.” Cohen dropped the night sight, picked up an Uzi, cocked it and gave it to her. “I hope you can pull a trigger, because we’re going in to get him.”

As the first seaman emerged at the top of the ladder behind him, Dillon turned and fired twice, knocking him down, then he simply vaulted over the stern rail into the water. As he surfaced, the inflatable surged forward, Cohen at the tiller, Hannah Bernstein spraying the deck above with the Uzi.

“Hang on!” Cohen cried and threw a line.

They sped away into the darkness, the odd, angry shot pursuing them, and finally slowed. Cohen leaned over. “Did you get it?”

“Oh yes, it’s here in the dive bag.”

Cohen gave him a hand on board, and at that moment, the Alexandrine blew up in a great eruption of orange flames, the sound echoing toward the land.

“Oh, my God!” Hannah Bernstein said.

“They must have had trouble in the engine room.” Dillon shook his head. “And the Sons of Ulster are going to need a new leader. Just shows you can’t depend on anything in this wicked old life.”

It was exactly two hours later that the Lear lifted off the runway at Beirut International Airport and started a steady climb to thirty thousand feet. Callaghan, dressed in slacks and a polo neck sweater, sat by himself looking decidedly unhappy. Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon were grouped together.

“You did well, Chief Inspector,” the Brigadier told her.

“Better than well,” Dillon said. “When Cohen came in to get me, she stood up in that boat and gave us covering fire with an Uzi. Annie Oakley come back to haunt us. Time you made her Superintendent, Brigadier.”

“Out of my hands, a Scotland Yard matter.”

“And you with no influence,” Dillon mocked.

“And what about Dillon, sir?” Hannah demanded. “If anyone did well, it was he.”

“Yes, well I had every confidence in him as usual, which was why I brought this.” Ferguson opened the small ice box in one of the cupboards and produced a bottle of Krug. “You open it, dear boy.”

“You old sod,” Dillon said and eased off the cork while Hannah got out the glasses. He turned to Callaghan. “Will you join us in a glass, Francis?”

“Go stuff yourselves, the lot of you,” Callaghan said.