know that, sir. Halabi was just an amateur. I’ve looked at his file in depth. He had an accountancy degree from the London School of Economics.”
“Yes, it all makes sense — at least to me.”
“But not to Dillon. Where is he?”
“Out and about. Nosing around.”
“He wouldn’t trust his own grandmother, that one.”
“I suppose that’s why he’s still alive,” Ferguson told her. “Help yourself to coffee, Chief Inspector.”
At the studio flat in Camden, Ahern stood in front of the bathroom mirror and rubbed brilliantine into his hair. He combed it back leaving a center parting, then carefully glued a dark moustache and fixed it in place. He picked up a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and put them on, then compared himself with the face on the security pass. As he turned, Norah came in the room. She wore a neat, black skirt and white blouse. Her hair was drawn back in a tight bun. Like him she wore spectacles, rather large ones with black rims. She looked totally different.
“How do I look?” she said.
“Bloody marvelous,” he told her. “What about me?”
“Great, Michael. First class.”
“Good.” He led the way out of the bathroom and crossed to a drinks cabinet. He produced a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses. “It’s not champagne, Norah Bell, but it’s good Irish whiskey.” He poured and raised his glass. “Our country too.”
“Our country too,” she replied, giving him that most ancient of loyalist toasts.
He emptied his glass. “Good. All I need is our box of cutlery and we’ll be on our way.”
It was around six-thirty when Ferguson left the Ministry of Defence with Hannah Bernstein and told his driver to take him to his flat in Cavendish Square. The door was opened by Kim, the ex-Ghurka Corporal who had been his manservant for years.
“Mr. Dillon has been waiting for you, Brigadier.”
“Thanks,” Ferguson said.
When they went into the living room Dillon was standing by the open French window, a glass in his hand. He turned. “Helped myself. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Where have you been?” Ferguson demanded.
“Checking my usual sources. You can discount the IRA on this one. It really is Ahern, and that’s what bothers me.”
“Can I ask why?” Hannah Bernstein said.
Dillon said, “Michael Ahern is one of the most brilliant organizers I ever knew. Very clever, very subtle, and very, very devious. As I told you, he doesn’t let his left hand know what his right is doing.”
“So you don’t think he’s simply shot his bolt on this one?” Ferguson said.
“Too easy. It may sound complicated to you, but I think everything from Quigley’s betrayal and death to the so-called accidental explosion of the Telecom van on the President’s route was meant to happen.”
“Are you serious?” Hannah demanded.
“Oh, yes. The attempt failed so we can all take it easy. Let me look at the President’s schedule.”
Hannah passed a copy across and Ferguson poured himself a drink. “For once I really do hope you’re wrong, Dillon.”
“Here it is,” Dillon said. “Cocktail party on the Thames riverboat Jersey Lily . The Prime Minister, the President and the Prime Minister of Israel. That’s where he’ll strike, that’s where he always intended; the rest was a smokescreen.”
“You’re mad, Dillon,” Ferguson said. “You must be,” and then he turned and saw Hannah Bernstein’s face. “Oh, my God,” he said.
She glanced at her watch. “Six-thirty, sir.”
“Right,” he said, “let’s get moving. We don’t have much time.”
At the same moment, Ahern and Norah were parking the Toyota in a side street off Cheyne Walk. They got out and walked down toward Cadogan Pier. There were police cars by the dozen, uniformed men all over the place, and at the boarding point a portable electronic arch that everyone had to pass through. Beside it were two large young men in blue suits.
Ahern said, “Secret Service, the