“We’ve just had a newsflash. Bomb attack on the British Cabinet at Downing Street in London.”
“What happened?” Aroun demanded.
“That’s all they’re saying at the moment.”
Aroun smiled excitedly at Rashid, who’d also heard the message. “Take over and handle the landing.” He scrambled back to the cabin and sat opposite Makeev. “Newsflash just in. Bomb attack on Ten Downing Street.”
Makeev threw down his paper. “What happened?”
“That’s all for the moment.” Aroun looked up to heaven, spreading his hands. “Praise be to God.”
Ferguson was standing beside the outside broadcast vans at Mountbatten Green with Detective Inspector Lane and Sergeant Mackie. It was snowing slightly and a police forensic team were making a careful inspection of Fahy’s third mortar bomb, the one which hadn’t exploded.
“A bad business, sir,” Lane said. “To use an old-fashioned phrase, right at the heart of Empire. I mean, how can they get away with this kind of thing?”
“Because we’re a democracy, Inspector, because people have to get on with their lives, and that means we can’t turn London into some Eastern-European style armed fortress.”
A young constable came across with a mobile phone and whispered to Mackie. The sergeant said, “Excuse me, Brigadier, it’s urgent. Your office has been trying to contact you. Captain Tanner’s been on the line.”
“Give it to me.” Ferguson took the phone. “Ferguson here. I see. Give me the number.” He gestured to Mackie who took out pad and pencil and wrote it down as Ferguson dictated it.
The Mercedes was passing through Dorking when the phone went. Mary picked it up at once. “Brigadier?”
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“The mortar attack on Number Ten. It has to be Dillon. We found out he picked up fifty pounds of Semtex in London last night, supplied by Jack Harvey.”
“Where are you now?”
“Just leaving Dorking, sir, taking the Horsham Road, Martin and me and Harry Flood. We’ve got an address for Dillon.”
“Give it to me.” He nodded to Mackie again and repeated it aloud so the sergeant could write it down.
Mary said, “The road’s not good, sir, with the snow, but we should be at this Cadge End place in half an hour.”
“Fine. Nothing rash, Mary, my love, but don’t let the bastard get away. We’ll get backup to you as soon as possible. I’ll be in my car, so you’ve got the phone number.”
“All right, sir.”
She put the phone down and Flood turned. “Okay?”
“Backup on the way, but we’re not to let him get away.”
Brosnan took the Browning from his pocket and checked it. “He won’t,” he said grimly. “Not this time.”
Ferguson quietly filled in Lane on what had happened. “What do you think Harvey will be up to, Inspector?”
“Receiving treatment from some bent doctor in a nice little private nursing home somewhere, sir.”
“Right, have that checked out and if it’s as you say, don’t interfere. Just have them watched, but this Cadge End place is where we go and fast. Now go and organize the cars.”
Lane and Mackie hurried away and as Ferguson made to follow them the Prime Minister appeared round the corner of the building. He was wearing a dark overcoat, the Home Secretary and several aides with him. He saw Ferguson and came over.
“Dillon’s work, Brigadier?”
“I believe so, Prime Minister.”
“Rather close.” He smiled. “Too close for comfort. A remarkable man, this Dillon.”
“Not for much longer, Prime Minister, I’ve just had an address for him at last.”
“Then don’t let me detain you, Brigadier. Carry on, by all means.”
Ferguson turned and hurried away.
The track through the trees at Cadge End was covered with more snow since they had left. Angel bumped along it to the farmyard and turned into the barn. She switched off and it seemed terribly quiet.
Fahy said, “Now what?”
“A nice cup of tea, I think.” Dillon got out, went round and opened the van doors and pulled out the duckboard. “Help me, Danny.” They got the BSA out, and he lifted it up on its stand. “Performed brilliantly. You did a good job there, Danny.”
Angel had gone ahead and as they followed her, Fahy said, “You haven’t a nerve in your body, have you, Sean?”
“I could never see the point.”
“Well, I have, Sean, and what I need isn’t bloody tea, it’s whisky.”
He went in the living room and Dillon went up to his bedroom. He found an old holdall and packed it quickly with his suit, trenchcoat, shirts, shoes and general bits and pieces. He checked his wallet. About four hundred pounds left in there. He opened his briefcase, which held the five