selling weapons that kill people.’ He was impatient now. ‘I couldn’t care less what happens to them.’
‘Wonderful,’ Dillon told him. ‘You’ve appointed us to be public executioners.’
‘It’s a bit late in the day to complain about that,’ Ferguson told him. ‘For both of you. What do they say in the IRA? Once in, never out?’
‘Funny,’ Holley said. ‘We thought that was your motto. But never mind. We’ll probably do your dirty work for you again. We usually do. How do you want them? Alive or dead?’
‘We’re at war, Daniel. Remember the four bastards who raped your young cousin to death in Belfast? They were all members of a terrorist organization. You shot them dead yourself. Are you telling me you regret what you did?’
‘Not for a moment. That’s the trouble.’
Dillon said, ‘Leave him alone, Charles, he’ll do what has to be done. Have you seen the President yet?’
‘No, I’m sitting here in the Hay-Adams with Harry Miller, looking out over the terrace at the White House, waiting for the limousine to deliver us to the Oval Office. We’ve prepared to brief him on the security for his visit to London on Friday, all twenty-four hours of it. As far as I can tell, we’ve got everything locked down, including his visit to Parliament and the luncheon reception on the terrace.’
‘Westminster Bridge to the left, the Embankment on the far side,’ Dillon said.
‘Yes, you’ve got experience with the terrace, haven’t you?’ Ferguson said. ‘Anyway, the Gulfstream is standing by, ready and waiting, so the moment I’m free, it’s off to New York for this UN reception at the Pierre. I want you two there, too.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘I’ve got someone new joining the team from the Intelligence Corps.’
‘Really?’ Holley asked. ‘What have we got?’
‘Captain Sara Gideon, a brilliant linguist. Speaks fluent Pashtu, Arabic, and Iranian. Just what we’ve been needing.’
‘Is that all?’ Holley joked.
‘Ah, I was forgetting Hebrew.’
Dillon said, ‘You haven’t gone and recruited an Israeli, have you?’
‘That would be illegal, Dillon. No, she’s a Londoner. There have been Gideons around since the seventeenth century. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Gideon Bank. She inherited it. While she pursues her military agenda, her grandfather sits in for her as chairman of the board.’
‘You mean she’s one of those Gideons?’ Dillon said. ‘So why isn’t she married to some obliging millionaire, and what the hell is she doing in the army?’
‘Because at nineteen, she was at college in Jerusalem brushing up on her Hebrew before going up to Oxford when her parents visited her and were killed in a Hamas bus bombing.’
‘Ah-ha,’ Holley said. ‘So she chose Sandhurst instead of Oxford.’
‘Correct. And in the last nine years has served with the Intelligence Corps in Belfast, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and two tours in Afghanistan.’
‘Jesus, what in the hell is she after?’ Dillon said. ‘Is she seeking revenge, is she a war junkie, what?’
‘Roper’s just posted her full history, so you can read it for yourself.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything,’ Dillon said.
‘Yes, I’m sure you’ll find it instructive, particularly the account of the nasty ambush near Abusan, where she took a bullet in the right thigh which left her with a permanent limp.’
‘All right, General, I surrender,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll keep my big gob shut. I can’t wait to meet her in person.’
‘What do we do with her until you get to the Pierre?’ Holley asked.
‘Keep her happy. She was booking in at the Plaza after a flight from Arizona. There’s some secret base out there that the RAF are involved in, something to do with pilotless aircraft. She’ll be returning to London with us. She’s been on the staff of Colonel Hector Grant, our military attaché at the UN, and this will be her final appearance for him, so she’ll be in uniform.’
‘Does she know what she’s getting into with us?’
‘I’ve told Roper to brief her on everything – including you two and your rather murky pasts.’
‘You’re so kind,’ Holley said. ‘It’s a real privilege to know you.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Miller is very impressed with her, and I’m happy about the whole thing.’
‘Well, we’re happy if you’re happy,’ Dillon told him.
‘We’ve got to go now. Why don’t you two clear off and do something useful. I’ll see you tonight.’
Dillon walked away through the downpour, the nightstick in his right hand. He turned left into an alley and Holley waited for a few moments, then took from his pocket a crumpled Burberry rain hat in which a spring clip held a Colt .25. He eased it onto his head, got out of the truck, and walked quickly through the rain.
Dressed as he was as a beat cop, Dillon didn’t need to show any particular caution, tried a door, which opened to his touch, and passed into a decaying kitchen, a broken sink in one corner, cupboards on the peeling walls, and a half-open door that indicated a toilet.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ he said softly. ‘Whatever’s going on here, there can’t be money in it.’
He opened the far door, discovered a corridor dimly lit by a single lightbulb, and heard voices somewhere ahead. He started forward, still grasping the nightstick in his right hand, his left clutching a Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer in the capacious pocket of his storm coat.
The voices were raised now as if in argument and someone said, ‘Well, I think you’re a damn liar, so you’d better tell me the truth quickly, mister, or Ivan here will be breaking your right arm. You won’t be able to swim very far in the sewer after that, I’m afraid.’
There was no door, just an archway leading to a platform with iron stairs dropping down, and Dillon, peering out, saw a desk and two men confronting Holley, who was glancing wildly about him, or so it seemed. Dillon eased the Walther out of his pocket, stepped out, and started down the stairs.
When Holley had entered the warehouse he had found it dark and gloomy, a sad sort of place and crammed with a lot of rusting machinery. The roof seemed to be leaking, there were chain hoists here and there, and two old vans that had obviously seen better days were parked to one side. There was a light on further ahead, suspended from the ceiling over a desk with a couple of chairs, no sign of people, iron stairs descending from the platform above.
He called out, ‘Hello, is anyone there? I’ve got an appointment with Patrick Murphy.’
‘Would that be Mr Grimshaw?’ a voice called – Irish, not American.
The man who stepped into the light was middle-aged, with silver hair, and wore a dark suit over a turtleneck sweater. He produced a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit it with an old lighter.
‘Yes, I’m Daniel Grimshaw,’ Holley said.
‘Then come away in.’
‘Thank you.’ Holley took a step forward, the rear door of the van on his right opened, and a man stepped out, a Makarov in his hand. He was badly in need of a shave, his dark unruly hair was at almost shoulder length, and he wore a bomber jacket. He moved in behind Holley and rammed the Makarov into his back.
‘Do you want me to kill him now?’ he asked in Russian, a language Holley understood.
‘Let’s