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to turn down several fares, was sweating a little, and then Brown emerged from the tube entrance, hurried along the pavement, and got in the back.
    “Taken care of?” the driver asked and switched on his engine.
    “As the coffin lid closing,” Brown told him and they drove away.
     
    • • •
     
    Ferguson said, “You’ll stay with Dillon at his place. Only five minutes’ walk from my flat.”
    “Very convenient,” Riley said.
    “And try and be sensible, there’s a good chap. Don’t try playing silly buggers and making a run for it.”
    “And why would I do that?” Riley said. “I want to walk away from this clean, Brigadier. I don’t want to have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”
    “Good man.”
    At that moment, the Daimler turned into Stable Mews, negotiating a gray BT van parked on the pavement, a manhole cover raised behind a small barrier. A telephone engineer wearing a hard hat and a distinctive yellow oilskin jacket with the BT logo printed across the back worked in the manhole.
    Ferguson said, “Right, out you get, you two. The Chief Inspector and I have work to do.”
    “When will we make the hit?” Dillon asked.
    “Sometime tonight. Sooner rather than later.”
    The Daimler moved away and Dillon unlocked the door of the cottage and led the way in. It was small and very Victorian, with a scarlet and blue Turkish carpet runner up the hall. A door stood open to a living room, polished wood block floor, a three-piece suite in black leather, oriental rugs scattered here and there. Above the fireplace was an oil painting, a scene of the Thames River by night in Victorian times.
    “Jesus,” Riley said, “that’s an Atkinson Grimshaw and worth a powerful lot of money, Sean.”
    “And how would you be knowing that?” Dillon asked.
    “Oh, once I had to visit Liam Devlin at his cottage at Kilrea outside Dublin. He had at least six Grimshaws on the walls.”
    “Five now,” Dillon said and splashed Bushmillswhiskey into two glasses on the sideboard. “He gave that one to me.”
    “So the old bugger is still alive.”
    “He certainly is. Eighty-five and still claiming seventy.”
    “The living legend of the IRA.”
    “The best,” Dillon said. “On my best day and his worst, the best. To Liam.” He raised his glass.
    Outside on the corner of the mews, the man working in the manhole got out, opened the door of the van, and went inside. Another man dressed as a BT engineer sat on a stool manipulating a refractive directional microphone, a tape recorder turning beside it.
    He turned and smiled. “Perfect. Heard everything they said.”
     
    And at nine o’clock that evening, Palace Square in Holland Park was sealed off by the police. Ferguson, Dillon, and Riley sat in the Daimler at the gate of Park Villa and watched armed police of the antiterrorist squad smash the front door down with their hammers and flood inside.
    “So far so good,” Ferguson said.
    Dillon took the car umbrella, got out and lit a cigarette, and stood there in the pouring rain. Hannah Bernstein emerged from the front door and came toward them. She wore a black jump suit and flak jacket, a holstered Smith & Wesson pistol on her left hip.
    Ferguson opened the door. “Any luck?”
    “A stack of Semtex, sir, and lots of timers. Looks as if we’ve really nipped some sort of bombing campaign in the bud.”
    “But no Active Service Unit?”
    “I’m afraid not, Brigadier.”
    “I told you,” Dillon said. “Probably long gone.”
    “Sod it!” Ferguson told him. “I wanted them, Dillon.”
    Riley said, “Well, I kept my side of the bargain. Not my fault.”
    “Yes, but not enough,” Ferguson told him.
    Riley was really working very well. He added a little anxiety to his voice. “Here, you won’t send me back, not to Wandsworth?”
    “I don’t really have much choice.”
    Riley switched to panic. “No, not that. I’ll do anything. Lots of things I could tell you and not just about the