On dangerous ground

PROLOGUE

CHUNGKING AUGUST 1944

Thepilot, flight lieutenant Joe Caine of RAF Transport Command, was tired, frozen to the bone, his hands clamped to the control column. He eased it forward and took the plane down, emerging from low cloud at three thousand feet into driving rain.

The aircraft ploughing its way through heavy cloud and thunderstorm was a Douglas DC3, the famous Dakota, as much a workhorse for the American Air Force as the RAF, who together operated them out of the Assam Airfields of North India, flying supplies to Chiang Kai-shek's Chinese army. On their way, they negotiated the infamous Hump, as it was known to Allied aircrews, the Himalayan mountains, trying to survive in some of the worst flying conditions in the world.

"There she is, Skipper," the second pilot said. "Dead ahead. Three miles."

"And the usual lousy blackout," Caine said, which was true enough. The inhabitants of Chungking were notoriously lazy in that respect and there were lights all over the place.

"Well, here we go," he said.

"Message from control tower," the wireless operator called from behind.

Caine switched on to VHF and called the tower. "Sugar Nan here. Is there a problem?"

"Priority traffic coming in. Please go round," a neutral voice said.

"For God's sake," Caine replied angrily, "I've just clocked 1,000 miles over the Hump. We're tired, cold, and almost out of fuel."

"VIP traffic to starboard and below you. Go 'round. Please acknowledge." The voice was firm.

The second pilot looked out of the side, then turned. "About five hundred feet below, Skipper. Another Dakota. A Yank from the look of it."

"All right," Caine said wearily and banked to port.

The man who stood on the porch of the Station Commander's office staring up into the rain, listening to the sound of the first Dakota coming in, wore the uniform of a Vice-Admiral of the British Navy, a trenchcoat over his shoulders. His name was Lord Louis Mountbatten and he was cousin to the King of England. A highly decorated war hero, he was also Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia.

The burly American General in steel-rimmed spectacles who emerged behind him, pausing to light a cigarette, was General Vinegar Joe Stillwell, his deputy and also Chief of Staff to Chiang Kai-shek. The greatest expert on China of anyone in the Allied Forces, he was also fluent in Cantonese.

He perched on the rail. "Well, here he comes, the great Chairman Mao."

"What happened to Chiang Kai-shek?" Mountbatten asked.

"Found an excuse to go up-country. It's no use, Louis, Mao and Chiang will never get together. They both want the same thing."

"China?" Mountbatten said.

"Exactly."

"Yes, well I'd like to remind you this isn't the Pacific, Joe. Twenty-five Jap divisions in China, and since the start of their April offensive they've been winning. No one knows that better than you. We need Mao and his Communist Army. It's as simple as that."

They watched the Dakota land. Stillwell said, "The Washington viewpoint is simple. We've given enough lend-lease to Chiang."

"And what have we got for it?" Mountbatten asked. "He sits on his backside doing nothing, saving his ammunition and equipment for the civil war with the Communists when the Japs are beaten."

"A civil war he'll probably win," Stillwell said.

"Do you really think so?" Mountbatten shook his head. "You know, in the West Mao and his people are looked upon as agrarian revolutionaries, that all they want is land for the peasants."

"And you don't agree?"

"Frankly, I think they're more Communist than the Russians. I think they could well drive Chiang Kai-shek out of mainland China and take over after the war."

"An interesting thought," Stillwell told him, "but if you're talking about making friends and influencing people, that's up to you. Washington won't play. Fresh supplies of arms and ammunition must come from your people, not American sources. We'll have a big enough problem handling Japan after the war. China is your baby."

The Dakota came toward them and stopped. A couple of waiting-ground crew wheeled steps forward and waited for the door to open.

"So you don't think I'm asking dear old Chairman Mao too much?"

"Hell, no!" Stillwell laughed. "To be honest, Louis, if he agrees, I don't see how you'll be getting very much in return for all that aid you intend to give him."

"Better than nothing, old sport, especially if he agrees."

The door swung open, a young Chinese officer emerged. A moment later Mao Tse-tung appeared. He paused for a moment looking toward them, wearing only a simple uniform and cap with the red star, then he started down the steps.

Mao Tse-tung, Chairman of the Chinese Communist Party, was at that time fifty-one, a brilliant politician, a master of guerilla warfare, and a soldier of genius. He was also the implacable foe of Chiang Kai-shek, and the two sides had been engaged in open warfare instead of taking on the Japanese together.

In the office, he sat behind the Station Commander's desk, the young officer behind him. To one side of Mountbatten and Stillwell stood a British Army Major. His left eye was covered by a black eye patch and the badge in his cap was that of the Highland Light Infantry. A Corporal wearing the bonnet of the same regiment stood against the wall behind him, a cardboard office file under his left arm.

Stillwell said in fluent Cantonese, "I'll be happy to translate for these proceedings, Chairman Mao."

Mao sat facing him, face enigmatic, then said in excellent English, an ability he seldom advertised, "General, my time is limited." Stillwell stared at him in astonishment and Mao said to Mountbatten, "Who is this officer and the man with him?"

Mountbatten said, "Major Ian Campbell, Chairman, one of my aides. The Corporal is his batman. Their regiment is the Highland Light Infantry."

"Batman?" Mao enquired.

"A soldier servant," Mountbatten explained.

"Ah, I see." Mao nodded enigmatically and turned to Campbell. "The Highlands of Scotland, am I right? A strange people. The English put you to the sword, turned your people off their land, and yet you go to war for them."

Ian Campbell said, "I am a Highlander, flesh and bone, a thousand years behind me, Laird of Loch Dhu Castle and all around like my father and his before me, and if the English need a helping hand now and then, why not?"

Mao actually smiled and turned to Mountbatten. "I like this man. You should lend him to me."

"Not possible, Chairman."

Mao shrugged. "Then to business. I have little time. I must make the return journey in no more than thirty minutes. What do you offer me?"

Mountbatten glanced at Stillwell, who shrugged, and the Admiral said to Mao, "Our American friends are not able to offer arms and ammunition to you and your forces."

"But everything the Generallisimo needs they will supply?" Mao asked.

He stayed surprisingly calm and Mountbatten said, "I believe I have a solution. What if the RAF flew in ten thousand tons a month over the Hump to Kunming, assorted weapons, ammunition, and so forth?"

Mao selected a cigarette from an old silver case and the young officer lit it for him. The Chairman blew out a long plume of smoke. "And what would I have to do for such munificence?"

"Something," Mountbatten said. "I mean, we have to have something. That's only fair."

"And what would you have in mind?"

Mountbatten lit a cigarette himself, walked to the open door, and looked out at the rain. He turned. "The Hong Kong Treaty, the lease to Britain. It expires July first, nineteen ninety-seven."

"So?"

"I'd like you to extend it by one hundred years."

There was a long silence. Mao leaned back and blew smoke to the ceiling. "My friend, I think the rains have driven you a little crazy. Generallisimo Chiang Kai-shek rules China, the Japanese permitting, of course."

"But the Japanese will go," Mountbatten said.

"And then?"

The room was very quiet. Mountbatten turned and nodded. The Corporal clicked his heels and passed the file to Major Campbell, who opened it and took out a document which he passed across the desk to the Chairman.

"This is not a treaty but a covenant," Mountbatten said. "The Chungking Covenant, I call it. If you will read it and approve it with your signature above mine, you will agree to extend, if you ever control China, the Hong Kong treaty by a hundred years. In exchange, His Majesty's Government will supply you with all your military needs."

Mao Tse-tung examined the document, then glanced up. "Have you a pen, Lord Mountbatten?"

It was the Corporal who supplied one, moving in quickly. Mao signed the document. Major Campbell produced three more copies and laid them on the table. Mao signed each one, Mountbatten countersigned.

He handed the pen back to the Corporal and stood up. "A good night's work," he said to Mountbatten, "but now I must go."

He started for the door and Mountbatten said, "A moment, Mr. Chairman, you're forgetting your copy of the covenant."

Mao turned. "Later," he said. "When it has been countersigned by Churchill."

Mountbatten stared at him. "Churchill?"

"But of course. Naturally this should not delay the flow of arms, but I do look forward to receiving my copy signed by the man himself. Is there a problem?"

"No." Mountbatten pulled himself together. "No, of course not."

"Good. And now I must go. There is work to do, gentlemen."

He went out and down the steps followed by the young officer, crossed to the Dakota, and went in. The door was closed, the steps wheeled away, the plane started to taxi, and Stillwell burst into laughter.

"God help me, that's the weirdest thing I've seen in years. He certainly is a character. What are you going to do?"

"Send the damn thing to London for Churchill's signature, of course." Mountbatten turned back in the entrance and said to Major Campbell, "Ian, I'm going to give you a chance to have dinner at the Savoy. I want you on your way to London as soon as possible with a dispatch from me for the Prime Minister. Did I hear another plane land?"

"Yes, sir, a Dakota from Assam."

"Good. Give orders for it to be refueled and turned around." Mountbatten glanced at the Corporal. "You can take Tanner with you."

"Fine, sir."

Campbell shuffled the papers to put them in the file and Mountbatten said, "Three copies. One for Mao, another for the Prime Minister, and the third for President Roosevelt. Didn't I sign four?"

"I took the liberty of making an extra copy, sir, just in case of accidents," Campbell said.

"Good man, Ian," Mountbatten nodded. "On your way then. Only one night out at the Savoy, then straight back."

"Of course, sir."

Campbell saluted and went out followed by Tanner. Stillwell lit a cigarette. "He's a strange one, Campbell."

"Lost his eye at Dunkirk," Mountbatten said. "Got a well-earned Military Cross. Best aide I ever had."

"What's all this Laird of Loch Dhu crap?" Stillwell said. "You English are really crazy."

"Ah, but Campbell isn't English, he's Scots, and more than that, he's a Highlander. As Laird of Loch Dhu he heads a sect of Clan Campbell and that, Joe, is a tradition that existed before the Vikings sailed to America."

He walked to the door and stared out at the driving rain. Stillwell joined him. "Are we going to win, Louis?"

"Oh, yes," Mountbatten nodded. "It's what will come after that bothers me."

In Campbell's quarters, Tanner packed the Major's hold-all with military thoroughness while Campbell shaved. They had been together since boyhood, for Tanner's father had been a gamekeeper on the Loch Dhu estate, and together they endured the shattering experience of Dunkirk. When Campbell had first worked for Mountbatten at Combined Operations Headquarters in London he had taken the Corporal with him as his batman. The move to South East Asia Command had followed that. But to Jack Tanner, good soldier with a Military Medal for bravery in the field to prove it, Campbell would never be anything else but the Laird.

The Major came out of the bathroom drying his hands. He adjusted the black eye patch and smoothed his hair, then pulled on his tunic. "Got the briefcase, Jack?"

Tanner held it up. "The papers are inside, Laird."

He always gave Campbell the title when they were alone. Campbell said, "Open it. Take out the fourth copy, the extra copy."

Tanner did as he was told and passed it to him. The single sheet of paper was headed "Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia Command." Mao had signed it, not only in English but in Chinese, with Mountbatten countersigning.

"There you are, Jack," Campbell said as he folded it. "Piece of history here. If Mao wins, Hong Kong will stay British until July first, twenty ninety-seven."

"You think it will happen, Laird?"

"Who knows. We've got to win the war first. Pass me my Bible, will you?"

Tanner went to the dresser where the Major's toilet articles were laid out. The Bible was about six inches by four with a cover of embossed silver, a Celtic cross standing out clearly. It was very old. A Campbell had carried it to war for many centuries. It had been found in the pocket of the Major's ancestor who had died fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie at Culloden. It had been recovered from the body of his uncle, killed on the Somme in 1916. Campbell took it everywhere.

Tanner opened it. The inside of the Bible's cover was also silver. He felt carefully with his nail; it sprang open revealing a small hidden compartment. Campbell folded the sheet of paper to the appropriate size and fitted it in, closing the lid.

"Top secret, Jack, only you and I know it's there. Your Highland oath on it."

"You have it, Laird. Shall I put it in the hold-all, Laird?"

"No, I'll carry it in my map pocket." There was a knock at the door, Tanner went to open it and Flight Lieutenant Caine stepped in. He was carrying heavy flying jackets and sheepskin boots.

"You'll need these, sir. We'll probably have to go as high as twenty thousand over part of the Hump. Bloody freezing up there."

The young man looked tired, dark circles under his eyes. Campbell said, "I'm sorry about this. I know you've only just got in."

"That's all right, sir. I carry a co-pilot, Pilot Officer Giffard. We can spell each other. We also have a navigator and wireless operator. We'll make out." He smiled. "One can hardly say no to Lord Mountbatten. All the way to Delhi on this one, I see."

"That's right. Then onwards to London."

"Wish I was doing that leg of the trip." Caine opened the door and looked out at the rain. "Never stops, does it? What a bloody country. I'll see you at the plane, sir."

He went out. Campbell said, "Right, Jack, let's get moving."

They pulled on the flying boots, the heavy sheepskin jackets. Finally ready, Tanner picked up his hold-all and the Major's.

"On your way, Jack."

Tanner moved out. Campbell glanced around the room, reached for his cap and put it on, then he picked up the Bible, put it in the map pocket of his flying jacket, and fastened the flap. Strange, but he felt more than tired. It was as if he had reached the end of something. His Highland blood speaking again. He shrugged the feeling off, turned, and went out into the rain, following Tanner to the Dakota.

To Kunming from Chungking was four hundred and fifty miles. They took the opportunity to refuel and then pressed on to the most hazardous section of the trip, the five hundred and fifty miles over the Hump to the Assam airfields.

Conditions were appalling, heavy rain and thunderstorms, and the kind of turbulence that threatened to break the plane up. Several hundred aircrew had died making this run over the past couple of years, Campbell knew that. It was probably the most hazardous flying duty in the RAF or the USAF. He wondered what persuaded men to volunteer for such work and while thinking about it, actually managed some sleep, only surfacing as they came into their Assam destination to refuel.

The onward trip to Delhi was another eleven hundred miles and a completely different proposition. Blue skies, considerable heat, and no wind to speak of. The Dakota coasted along at ten thousand feet and Caine, leaving the flying to Giffard, came back and tried to get a couple of hours' sleep.

Campbell dozed again and came awake to find the wireless operator shaking Caine by the shoulder. "Delhi in fifteen minutes, Skipper."

Caine got up, yawning. He grinned at Campbell. "Piece of cake this leg, isn't it?"

As he turned away there was an explosion. Pieces of metal flew off the port engine, there was thick black smoke, and as the propeller stopped turning, the Dakota banked and dived steeply, throwing Caine off his feet.

Campbell was hurled against the bulkhead behind with such force that he was almost knocked senseless. The result was that he couldn't really take in what was happening. There was a kind of nightmare as if the world was breaking up around him, the impact of the crash, the smell of burning and someone screaming.

He was aware of being in water, managed to focus his eyes, and found himself being dragged through a paddy field by a wild-eyed Tanner, blood on his face. The Corporal heaved him onto a dyke, then turned and hurried back, knee-deep in water, to the Dakota which was burning fiercely now. When he was halfway there, it blew up with a tremendous explosion.

Debris cascaded everywhere and Tanner turned and came back wearily. He eased the Major higher on the dyke and found a tin of cigarettes. His hand shook as he lit one.

"Are we hit?" Campbell managed to croak.

"So it would appear, Laird."

"Dear God." Campbell's hands moved over his chest. "The Bible," he whispered.

"Dinna fash yourself, Laird, I'll hold it safe for you."

Tanner took it from the map pocket and then all sounds faded for Campbell, all color, nothing now but quiet darkness.

In Chungking, Mountbatten and Stillwell were examining on the map the relentless progress of the advancing Japanese, who had already overrun most of the Allied airfields in eastern China.

"I thought we were supposed to be winning the war," Stillwell said.

Mountbatten smiled ruefully. "So did I."

Behind him, the door opened and an aide entered with a signal flimsy. "Sorry to bother you, sir, but this is from Delhi-marked urgent."

Mountbatten read it then swore softly. "All right, you can go."

"The aide went out. Stillwell said, "Bad news."

"The Dakota Campbell was traveling in lost an engine and crashed just outside Delhi. It fireballed after landing. By all accounts, the documents and my dispatches went with it."

"Is Campbell dead?"

"No, that Corporal of his managed to get him out. All the crew were killed. It seems Campbell received a serious head injury. He's in a coma."

"Let's hope he hangs in there," Stillwell said. "Anyway, something of a setback for you, your Chungking Covenant going up in flames. What will you do? Try to get Mao to sign another one?"

"I doubt if I'll ever get close enough to him again. It was always an anything-is-better-than-nothing situation. I didn't really expect much to come out of it. Anyway, in my experience, Chinese seldom give you a second bite at the cherry."

"I agree," Stillwell said. "In any case, the wily old bastard is probably already regretting putting his signature to that thing. But what about his supplies?"

"Oh, we'll see he gets those because I want him actively on our side taking on the Japanese. The Hong Kong business was never serious, Joe. I thought we ought to get something out of the deal if we could, and the Hong Kong thing was all that the Prime Minister and I could come up with. Not that it matters now, we've got far more serious things to consider." He walked back to the wall map. "Now show me exactly where those Japanese forward units are."

1993 LONDON

Norah Bell got out of the taxi close to St. James's Stairs on Wapping High Street. She paid off the cab driver and walked away, a small, hippy, dark-haired girl in leather jacket, tight black mini skirt, and high-heeled ankle boots. She walked well with a sort of total movement of the whole body. The cab driver watched her put up her umbrella against the heavy rain, sighed deeply, and drove away.

She paused on the first corner and bought an Evening Standard. The front page was concerned with only one thing, the arrival of the American President in London that day to meet with both the Israeli and British Prime Ministers, to discuss developments in the Palestinian situation. She folded the newspaper, put it under her left arm, and turned the corner of the next street, walking down toward the Thames.

The youth standing in a doorway opposite was perhaps eighteen and wore lace-up boots, jeans, and shabby bomber jacket. With the ring in his left nostril and the swastika tattooed on his forehead, he was typical of a certain type of gang animal that roamed the city streets in search of prey. She looked easy meat and he went after her quickly, only running in at the last minute to grab her from behind, one hand over her mouth. She didn't struggle, went completely still which should have told him something, but by then he was beyond reason, charged with the wrong kind of sexual excitement.

"Just do as you're told," he said, "and I won't hurt you."

He urged her into the porch of a long-disused warehouse, pushing against her. She said, "No need to be rough."

To his amazement she kissed him, her tongue flickering in his mouth. He couldn't believe his luck and, still clutching her umbrella, she moved her other hand down between them, brushing against his hardness.

"Jesus," he moaned and kissed her again, aware that her hand seemed to be easing up her skirt.

She found what she was looking for, the flick knife tucked into the top of her right stocking. It came up, the blade jumped, and she sliced open the left side of his face from the corner of the eye to the chin.

He screamed, falling back. She said calmly, putting the point under his chin, "Do you want some more?"

He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. "No, for God's sake, no!"

She wiped the blade on his jacket. "Then go away."

He moved out into the rain, then turned, holding a handkerchief to his face. "Bitch! I'll get you for this."

"No you won't." Her accent was unmistakably Ulster Irish. "You'll find the nearest casualty department as fast as you can, get yourself stitched up, and put the whole thing down to experience."

She watched him go, closed the knife, slipping it back in the top of the stocking, then she turned and continued down toward the Thames, moving along the waterfront, finally pausing at an old warehouse.

There was a Judas gate in the main entrance, she opened it and went in. It was a place of shadows, but at the far end there was a glass office with a light in it. It was reached by a flight of wooden stairs. As she moved toward it, a young, dark-skinned man moved out of the darkness, a Browning Hi-Power in one hand.

"And who might you be?" she asked.

The door of the office was opened and a small man with dark tousled hair wearing a reefer jacket appeared. "Is that you, Norah?"

"And who else?" she replied. "Who's your friend?"

"Ali Halabi, meet Norah Bell. Come away up."

"I'm sorry," the Arab said.

She ignored him and went up the stairs and he followed, noting with approval the way her skirt tightened over her hips.

When she went into the office the man in the reefer coat put his hands on her shoulders. "God help me, but you look good enough to eat," and he kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Save the blarney." She put her umbrella on the desk, opened her handbag, and took out a packet of cigarettes. "Anything in a skirt, Michael Ahern. I've known you too long."

She put a cigarette in her mouth and the Arab hurriedly took out a lighter and lit it for her. He turned to Ahern. "The lady is part of your organization?"

"Well I'm not with the bloody IRA," she said. "We're Prods, mister, if you know what that means."

"Norah and I were in the Ulster Volunteer Force together and then the Red Hand of Ulster," Ahern said. "Until we had to move on."

Norah laughed harshly. "Until they threw us out. A bunch of old women, that lot. We were killing too many Catholics for their liking."

"I see," Ali Halabi said. "Is it Catholics who are your target or the IRA?"

"The same difference," she said. "I'm from Belfast, Mr. Halabi. My father was an Army sergeant, killed in the Falklands War. My mother, my kid sister, my old granddad, all the family I had in the world, were killed in a street bomb planted by the IRA back in eighty-six. You might say I've been taking my revenge ever since."

"But we are open to offers," Ahern said amiably. "Any revolutionary organization needs money."

The door banged below. Ali took the gun from his pocket and Ahern moved to the door. "Is that you, Billy?"

"As ever was."

"Would that be Billy Quigley?" Norah asked.

"Who else?" Ahern turned to Ali. "Another one the Red Hand threw out. Billy and I did some time together in the Maze prison."

Quigley was a small, wiry man in an old raincoat. He had faded blond hair and a careworn face that was old beyond his years.

"Jesus, is that you, Norah?"

"Hello, Billy."

"You got my message?" Ahern said.

"Yes, I drop in to the William of Orange in Kilburn most nights."

Ahern said to Ali, "Kilburn is what you might call the Irish quarter of London. Plenty of good Irish pubs there, Catholic and Protestant. This, by the way, is Ali Halabi from Iran."

"So what's it all about?" Quigley demanded.

"This." Ahern held up the Evening Standard with the headline about the American President. "Ali, here, represents a group of fundamentalists in Iran called the Army of God. They, shall we say, deeply deplore Arafat's deal with Israel over the new status of Palestine. They are even more unhappy with the American President presiding over that meeting at the White House and giving it his blessing."

"So?" Quigley said.

"They'd like me to blow him up for them while he's in London, me having a certain reputation in that field."

"For five million pounds," Ali Halabi said, "don't let us forget that."

"Half of which is already on deposit in Geneva." Ahern smiled. "By God, Billy, couldn't we give the IRA a run for their money with a million pounds to spend on arms?"

Quigley's face was pale. "The American President? You wouldn't dare, not even you."

Norah laughed that distinctive harsh laugh, "Oh, yes he would."

Ahern turned to her. "Are you with me, girl?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"And you, Billy?" Quigley licked dry lips and hesitated. Ahern put a hand on his shoulder. "In or out, Billy?"

Quigley smiled suddenly. "Why not. A man can only die once. How do we do it?"

"Come down below and I'll show you."

Ahern led the way down the steps and switched on a light at the bottom. There was a vehicle parked in a corner covered by a dust sheet which he pulled away revealing a British Telecom truck.

"Where in the hell did you get that?" Quigley demanded.

"Someone knocked it off for me months ago. I was going to leave it outside one of those Catholic pubs in Kilburn with five hundred pounds of Semtex inside and blow the hell out of some Sinn Fein bastards, but I decided to hang on to it until something really important turned up." Ahern smiled cheerfully. "And now it has."

"But how do you intend to pull it off?" Ali demanded.

"Hundreds of these things all over London. They can park anywhere without being interfered with because they usually have a manhole cover up while the engineers do what they have to do."

"So?" Quigley said.

"Don't ask me how, but I have access through sources to the President's schedule. Tomorrow he leaves the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square at ten o'clock in the morning to go to Number Ten Downing Street. They take the Park Lane route turning into Constitution Hill beside Green Park."

"Can you be sure of that?" Norah asked.

"They always do, love, believe me." He turned to Quigley and Ali. "You two, dressed in Telecom overalls which are inside the van, will park halfway along Constitution Hill. There's a huge beech tree. You can't miss it. As I say, you park, lift the manhole cover, put up your signs and so on. You'll be there at nine-thirty. At nine-forty-five you walk away through Green Park to Piccadilly. There are some men's toilets. You can get rid of your overalls there."

"And then what?" Ali demanded.

"I'll be in a car waiting with Norah for the golden moment. As the President's cavalcade reaches the Telecom truck, I'll detonate by remote control." He smiled. "It'll work, I promise you. We'll probably kill everyone in the cavalcade."

There was silence, a kind of awe on Quigley's face, and Norah was excited, face pale. "You bastard," she said.

"You think it will work?"

"Oh, yes."

He turned to Ali. "And you? You're willing to take part?"

"An honor, Mr. Ahern."

"And you, Billy?" Ahern turned to him.

"They'll be singing about us for years," Quigley said.

"Good man yourself, Billy." Ahern looked at his watch. "Seven o'clock. I could do with a bite to eat. How about you, Norah?"

"Fine," she said.

"Good. I'm taking the Telecom van away now. I shan't be returning to this place. I'll pick you two up in the Mall at nine o'clock in the morning. You'll arrive separately and wait at the park gates across from Marlborough Road. Norah will be behind me in a car. You two will take over and we'll follow. Any questions?"

Ali Halabi was incredibly excited. "I can't wait."

"Good, off you go now. We'll leave separately." The Arab went out and Ahern turned to Quigley and held out his hand. "A big one this, eh, Billy?"

"The biggest, Michael."

"Right, Norah and I will go now. Come and open the main gate for us. I'll leave you to put out the lights and follow on."

They went downstairs. Norah climbed into the passenger seat, but Ahern shook his head. "Move into the rear out of sight and pass me one of those orange jackets. We've got to look right. If a copper sees you he might get curious."

It said "British Telecom" across the back of the jacket. "It'll never catch on," she told him.

He laughed and drove out into the street, waving at Quigley, who closed the gate behind them. He traveled only a few yards, then swung into a yard and switched off the engine.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"You'll see. Follow me and keep your mouth shut."

He opened the Judas gate gently and stepped in. Quigley was in the office, they could hear his voice and when they reached the bottom of the stairs, they could even hear what he was saying.

"Yes, Brigadier Ferguson. Most urgent." There was a pause. "Then patch me through, you silly bugger, this is life or death."

Ahern took a Walther from his pocket and screwed on a silencer as he went up, Norah behind him. The door was open and Quigley sat on the edge of the desk.

"Brigadier Ferguson?" he said suddenly. "It's Billy Quigley. You said only to call you when it was big. Well this couldn't be bigger. Michael Ahern and that bitch Norah Bell and some Iranian named Ali Halabi are going to try to blow up the American President tomorrow." There was a pause. "Yes, I'm supposed to be in on it. Well this is the way of it."

"Billy boy," Ahern said, "that's really naughty of you." As Quigley turned he shot him between the eyes.

Quigley went back over the desk and Ahern picked up the phone. "Are you there, Brigadier? Michael Ahern here. You'll need a new man." He replaced the receiver, turned off the office light, and turned to Norah. "Let's go, my love."

"You knew he was an informer?" she said.

"Oh, yes, I think that's why they let him out of the Maze prison early. He was serving life, remember. They must have offered him a deal."

"The dirty bastard," she said. "And now he's screwed everything up."

"Not at all," Ahern said. "You see, Norah, it's all worked out exactly as I planned." He opened the van door and handed her in. "We'll go and get a bite to eat and then I'll tell you how we're really going to hit the President."

In 1972, aware of the growing problem of terrorism, the British Prime Minister of the day ordered the setting up of a small elite intelligence unit which became known rather bitterly in intelligence circles as the Prime Minister's private army, as it owed allegiance only to that office.

Brigadier Charles Ferguson had headed the unit since its inception, had served many Prime Ministers, but had no political allegiance whatsoever. His office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence overlooking Horse Guards Avenue. He had been working late when Quigley's call was patched through. He was a rather untidy-looking man in a Guards tie and tweed suit and was standing looking out of his window when there was a knock at the door.

The woman who entered was in her late twenties and wore a fawn trouser suit of excellent cut and black horn-rimmed glasses that contrasted with close-cropped red hair. She could have been a top secretary or P.A. She was, in fact, a Detective Chief Inspector of Police from Special Branch at Scotland Yard borrowed by Ferguson as his assistant after the untimely death in the line of duty of her predecessor. Her name was Hannah Bernstein.

"Was there something, Brigadier?"

"You could say so. When you worked with antiterrorism at Scotland Yard, did you ever come across a Michael Ahern?"

"Irish terrorist, Orange Protestant variety. Wasn't he Red Hand of Ulster?"

"And Norah Bell?"

"Oh, yes," Hannah Bernstein said. "A very bleak prospect, that one."

"I had an informer, Billy Quigley, in deep cover. He just phoned me to say that Ahern was masterminding a plot to blow up the American President tomorrow. He'd recruited Quigley. Bell is involved and an Iranian named Ali Halabi."

"Excuse me, sir, but I know who Halabi is. He belongs to the Army of God. That's an extreme fundamentalist group very much opposed to the Israeli-Palestine accord."

"Really?" Ferguson said. "That is interesting. Even more interesting is that Quigley was shot dead while filling me in. Ahern actually had the cheek to pick up the phone and speak to me. Told me it was him. Said I'd need a new man."

"A cool bastard, sir."

"Oh, he's that all right. Anyway, notify everyone. Scotland Yard antiterrorist unit, MI Five, and security at the American Embassy. Obviously the Secret Servicemen guarding the President will have a keen interest."

"Right, sir."

She turned to the door and he said, "One more thing. I need Dillon on this."

She turned. "Dillon, sir?"

"Sean Dillon. Don't pretend you don't know who I mean."

"The only Sean Dillon I know, sir, was the most feared enforcer the IRA ever had, and if I'm right, he tried to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet in February, nineteen ninety-one during the Gulf War."

"And nearly succeeded," Ferguson said, "but he works for this Department now, Chief Inspector, so get used to it. He only recently completed a most difficult assignment on the Prime Minister's orders that saved the Royal Family considerable grief. I need Dillon, so find him. Now on your way."

Ahern had a studio flat in what had been a warehouse beside the canal in Camden. He parked the Telecom van in the garage, then took Norah up in what had been the old freight hoist. The studio was simply furnished, the wooden floor sanded and varnished, a rug here and there, two or three large sofas. The paintings on the wall were very modern.

"Nice," she said, "but it doesn't seem you."

"It isn't. I'm on a six months' lease."

He opened the drinks cabinet, found a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey, and poured some into two glasses. He offered her one, then opened a window and stepped out onto a small platform overlooking the canal.

"What's going on, Michael?" she said. "I mean, we don't really stand much of a chance of blowing up the President on Constitution Hill, not now."

"I never thought for a moment that I could. You should remember, Norah, that I never let my left hand know what my right is doing."

"Explain," she said.

"Because of Quigley's phone call, wherever the President goes tomorrow they'll be on tenterhooks. Now follow my reasoning. If there is an abortive explosion on his intended route to Number Ten Downing Street, everyone heaves a sigh of relief, especially if they find what's left of Halabi there."

"Go on."

"They won't expect another attempt the same day in an entirely different context."

"My God," she said. "You planned this all along, you used Quigley."

"Poor sod." Ahern brushed past her and helped himself to more whiskey. "Once they have their explosion, they'll think that's it, but it won't be. You see, tomorrow night at seven-thirty, the American President, the Prime Minister, and selected guests board the riverboat Jersey Lily at Cadogan Pier on the Chelsea Embankment for an evening of frivolity and cocktails, cruising the Thames past the Houses of Parliament, ending up at Westminster Pier. The catering is in the hands of Orsini and Co. of whom you and I are employed as waiters." He opened a drawer and took out two security cards. "My name is Harry Smith, nice and innocuous. You'll note the false moustache and horn-rimmed glasses. I'll add those later."

"Mary Hunt," Norah said. "That does sound prim. Where did you get my photo?"

"An old one I had. I got a photographer friend to touch it up and add the spectacles. They intend a cocktail party on the forward deck, weather permitting."

"What about weapons? How would we get through security?"

"Taken care of. An associate of mine was working as a crew member until yesterday. He's left two silenced Walthers wrapped in cling film at the bottom of the sand in a fire bucket in one of the men's restrooms, and that was after the security people did their checks."

"Very clever."

"I'm no kamikaze, Norah, I intend to survive this. We hit from the upper decks. With silenced weapons, he'll go down as if he's having a heart attack."

"And what happens to us?"

"The ship has an inflatable tender on a line at the stern. My associate checked it out. It has an outboard motor. In the confusion, we'll drop in and head for the other side of the river."

"As long as the confusion is confusion enough."

"Nothing's perfect in this life. Are you with me?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "To the final end, Michael, whatever comes."

"Good girl." He put an arm round her and squeezed. "Now could we go and get something to eat? I'm starving."