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small, no more than five feet five, with the kind of fair hair that was almost white. He wore dark cords and an old black leather flying jacket, a white scarf at his throat. His eyes seemed to lack any kind of color and were very clear and he was handsome enough, a restless, animal vitality to him. Theleft corner of his mouth was permanently lifted into the kind of smile that said he didn’t take life too seriously, perhaps never had.
    “God save the good work, Brigadier,” he said cheerfully in the distinctive accent that was Ulster Irish.
    Ferguson laid down his pen and removed his reading glasses. “Dermot Riley. He ring a bell for you, Dillon?”
    Dillon took out an old silver case, selected a cigarette, and lit it with a Zippo lighter. “You could say that. We were not much more than boys fighting together in the hard days in the seventies in the Derry Brigade of the Provisional IRA.”
    “Shooting British soldiers,” Hannah Bernstein said.
    “Well, they shouldn’t have joined,” Dillon told her cheerfully and turned back to Ferguson. “He was lifted last year by Scotland Yard’s Antiterrorist Squad right here in London. Supposed to have been a member of one of the Active Service Units.”
    “As I recall, they found Semtex at his lodgings and assorted weaponry.”
    “True,” Dillon said, “but when they stood him up at the Old Bailey, he wouldn’t cough. They sent him down for fifteen years.”
    “And good riddance,” Hannah said.
    “Ah, well, now, everyone has their own point of view,” Dillon told her. “To you he’s a terrorist, whereas Dermot sees himself as a gallant soldier fighting a just cause.”
    “Not anymore he doesn’t,” Ferguson said. “I’ve just had a call from the Governor at Wandsworth Prison. Riley wants to do a deal.”
    “Really?” Dillon had stopped smiling, a slight frown on his face. “Now why would he want to do that?”
    “Have you ever been inside Wandsworth, Dillon? Ifyou had, you’d know why. Hell on earth, and Riley’s had six months to sample it and another fourteen and a half years to go, so let’s see what he’s got to say.”
    “And you want me?” Dillon said.
    “Of course. After all, you knew the damn man. You, too, Chief Inspector. I’d like your input.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “The Daimler is waiting, so let’s be off,” and he led the way out.
     
    They waited in the interview room at Wandsworth, and after a while, the door opened and Jackson pushed Riley into the room and closed the door.
    Riley said, “Sean, is that you?”
    “As ever was, Dermot.” Dillon lit a cigarette, inhaled, and passed it to him.
    Riley grinned. “You used to do that in the old days in Derry. Remember when we ran rings round the Brits?”
    “We did indeed, old son, but times change.”
    “Well, you’ve certainly changed,” Riley said. “And from one side to the other.”
    “All right,” Ferguson broke in. “So you’ve had the old pals act. Now let’s get down to business. What do you want, Riley?”
    “Out, Brigadier.” Riley sat on one of the chairs at the table. “Six months is enough. I can’t face anymore, I’d rather be dead.”
    “Like all those people you killed,” Hannah said.
    “And who might you be?”
    “A Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch,” Dillon told him, “so mind your manners.”
    “I was fighting a war, woman,” Riley began, and Ferguson cut in.
    “And now you’ve had enough of the glorious cause,” Ferguson said. “So what have you got for me?”
    Riley appeared to hesitate and Dillon said, “Hard as nails this old bugger, Dermot, but very old-fashioned. A man of honor, so tell him.”
    “All right.” Riley raised a hand. “You people always thought there were three Active Service Units operating in London. There was a fourth and a different kind of setup. Nice house in Holland Park. Three guys and a woman, all with good jobs in the City. Another thing—all handpicked because they’d been