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there on the hedgerows as Dillon moved toward Valenton, keeping to the back roads. He was riding the BMW motorcycle from the garage and was dressed as a CRS policeman: helmet, goggles, a MAT49 machine gun slung across the front of the dark uniform raincoat.

Madness to have come, of course, but he couldn’t resist the free show. He pulled off a narrow country lane by a farm gate after consulting his map, followed a track through a small wood on foot and came to a low stonewall on a hill. Way below some two hundred yards on was the railway crossing, the black Renault still parked where he had left it. There wasn’t a soul about. Perhaps fifteen minutes later, a train passed through.

He checked his watch. Two-fifteen. He focused his Zeiss glasses on the scene below again and then the white Renault came down the road, half-turning to block the crossing. There was a Peugeot behind it, Pierre at the wheel, and he was already reversing, turning the car as Gaston ran toward him. It was an old model, painted scarlet and cream.

“Very pretty,” Dillon said softly, as the Peugeot disappeared up the road.

“Now for the cavalry,” he said and lit a cigarette.

It was perhaps ten minutes later that a large truck came down the road and braked to a halt, unable to progress farther. It had high canvas sides on which was emblazoned Steiner Electronics.

“Electronics my arse,” Dillon said.

A heavy machine gun opened up from inside the truck, firing through the side, raking the Renault. As the firing stopped, Dillon took a black plastic electronic detonator from his pocket, switched it on and pulled out the aerial.

A dozen men in black overalls and riot helmets, all clutching machine carbines, jumped out. As they approached the Renault, Dillon pressed the detonator. The self-destruct charge in the second black box, the one he had told Pierre contained extra ammunition, exploded instantly, the vehicle disintegrating, parts of the paneling lifting into the air in slow motion. There were several men on the ground, others running for cover.

“There you are, chew on that, gentlemen,” Dillon said.

He walked back through the wood, pushed the BMW off its stand, swung a leg over and drove away.

He opened the door of the warehouse on rue de Helier, got back on the BMW, rode inside and parked it. As he turned to close the door, Makeev called from above, “It went wrong, I presume?”

Dillon took off his helmet. “I’m afraid so. The Jobert brothers turned me in.”

As he went up the stairs Makeev said. “The disguise, I like that. A policeman is just a policeman to people. Nothing to describe.”

“Exactly. I worked for a great Irishman called Frank Barry for a while years ago. Ever heard of him?”

“Certainly. A veritable Carlos.”

“He was better than Carlos. Got knocked off in seventy-nine. I don’t know who by. He used the CRS copper on a motorcycle a lot. Postmen are good too. No one ever notices a postman.”

He followed the Russian into the sitting room. “Tell me,” Makeev said.

Dillon brought him up to date. “It was a chance using those two and it went wrong, that’s all there is to it.”

“Now what?”

“As I said last night, I’ll provide an alternative target. I mean, all that lovely money. I’ve got to think of my old age.”

“Nonsense, Sean, you don’t give a damn about your old age. It’s the game that excites you.”

“You could be right.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “I know one thing. I don’t like to be beaten. I’ll think of something for you and I’ll pay my debts.”

“The Joberts? Are they worth it?”

“Oh, yes,” Dillon said. “A matter of honor, Josef.” Makeev sighed. “I’ll go and see Aroun, give him the bad news. I’ll be in touch.”

“Here or at the barge.” Dillon smiled. “Don’t worry, Josef. I’ve never failed yet, not when I set my mind to a thing.”

Makeev went down the stairs. His footsteps echoed across the warehouse, the Judas gate banged behind him. Dillon turned and went back into the long room, whistling softly.

“But I don’t understand,” Aroun said. “There hasn’t been a word on television.”

“And there won’t be.” Makeev turned from the French windows overlooking the Avenue Victor Hugo. “The affair never happened, that is the way the French will handle it. The idea that Mrs. Thatcher could have in any way been at risk on French soil would be considered a national affront.”

Aroun was pale with anger. “He failed, this man of yours. A