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of the others.

“Good,” Dillon said. “It’s perfectly clear that only one country road links Choisy to Valenton and here, about three miles before the airfield, there’s a railway crossing. Perfect.”

“For what?” Aroun demanded.

“An ambush. Look, I know how these things operate. There’ll be one car, two at the most, and an escort. Maybe half a dozen CRS police on motorbikes.”

“My God!” Aroun whispered.

“Yes, well. He’s got very little to do with it. It could work. Fast, very simple. What the Brits call a piece of cake.”

Aroun turned in appeal to Makeev, who shrugged. “He means it, Michael. You said this was what you wanted, so make up your mind.”

Aroun took a deep breath and turned back to Dillon. “All right.”

“Good,” Dillon said calmly. He reached for a pad and pencil on the table and wrote on it quickly. “Those are the details of my numbered bank account in Zurich. You’ll transfer one million pounds to it first thing in the morning.”

“In advance?” Rashid said. “Isn’t that expecting rather a lot?”

“No, my old son, it’s you people who are expecting rather a lot, and the rules have changed. On successful completion, I’ll expect a further million.”

“Now look here,” Rashid started, but Aroun held up a hand.

“Fine, Mr. Dillon, and cheap at the price. Now what can we do for you?”

“I need operating money. I presume a man like you keeps large supplies of the filthy stuff around the house?”

“Very large,” Aroun smiled. “How much?”

“Can you manage dollars? Say twenty thousand?”

“Of course.” Aroun nodded to Rashid, who went to the far end of the room, swung a large oil painting to one side disclosing a wall safe, which he started to open.

Makeev said, “And what can I do?”

“The old warehouse in rue de Helier, the one we’ve used before. You’ve still got a key?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ve got most things I need stored there, but for this job I’d like a light machine gun. A tripod job. A Heckler & Koch or an M60. Anything like that will do.” He looked at his watch. “Eight o’clock. I’d like it there by ten. All right?”

“Of course,” Makeev said again.

Rashid came back with a small briefcase. “Twenty thousand. Hundred dollar bills, I’m afraid.”

“Is there any way they could be traced?” Dillon asked.

“Impossible,” Aroun told him.

“Good. And I’ll take the maps.”

He walked to the door, opened it and started down the curving staircase to the hall. Aroun, Rashid and Makeev followed him.

“But is this all, Mr. Dillon?” Aroun said. “Is there nothing more we can do for you? Won’t you need help?”

“When I do, it comes from the criminal classes,” Dillon said. “Honest crooks who do things for cash are usually more reliable than politically motivated zealots. Not always, but most of the time. Don’t worry, you’ll hear from me, one way or another. I’ll be on my way, then.”

Rashid got the door open. Rain and sleet drifted in and Dillon pulled on his cap. “A dirty old night for it.”

“One thing, Mr. Dillon,” Rashid said. “What happens if things go wrong? I mean, you’ll have your million in advance and we’ll . . .”

“Have nothing? Don’t give it a thought, me old son. I’ll provide an alternative target. There’s always the new British Prime Minister, this John Major. I presume his head on a plate would serve your boss back in Baghdad just as well.”

He smiled once, then stepped out into the rain and pulled the door shut behind him.

TWO

DILLON PAUSED OUTSIDE Le Chat Noir on the end of the small pier for the second time that night. It was almost deserted, a young man and woman at a corner table holding hands, a bottle of wine between them. The accordion was playing softly and the musician talked to the man behind the bar at the same time. They were the Jobert brothers, gangsters of the second rank in the Paris underworld. Their activities had been severely curtailed since Pierre, the one behind the bar, had lost his left leg in a car crash after an armed robbery three years previously.

As the door opened and Dillon entered, the other brother, Gaston, stopped playing. “Ah, Monsieur Rocard. Back already.”

“Gaston.” Dillon shook hands and turned to the barman. “Pierre.”

“See, I still remember that little tune of yours, the Irish one.” Gaston played a few notes on the accordion.

“Good,” Dillon said. “A true artist.”

Behind them the young couple got up and left. Pierre produced half a bottle of champagne from the bar fridge. “Champagne as usual, I presume,