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to climb. He banked to turn toward his heading for Brighton and saw a black limousine down below moving out of the trees toward the hangars.
“Well I don’t know who the hell you are,” he said softly, “but if it’s me you’re after you’re too late,” and he turned the Conquest in a great curve and started for the coast.
Angel sat at the kitchen table, holding the mug of coffee Mary had given her. Brosnan and Harry Flood, his arm in the sling, stood listening and Charlie Salter leaned on the door.
“It was Dillon and your uncle at Downing Street, is that what you’re saying?” Mary asked.
Angel nodded. “I drove the Morris with Mr. Dillon’s motorbike in it. He followed Uncle Danny, he was in the Ford Transit.” She looked dazed. “I drove them back from Bayswater and Uncle Danny was afraid, afraid of what might happen.”
“And Dillon?” Mary asked.
“He was flying away from the airfield up the road, Grimethorpe. He made arrangements with Mr. Grant who runs the place. Said he wanted to go to Land’s End, but he didn’t.”
She sat clutching the mug, staring into space. Brosnan said gently. “Where did he want to go, Angel, do you know?”
“He showed me on the chart. It was in France. It was down along the coast from Cherbourg. There was a landing strip marked. A place called Saint-Denis.”
“You’re sure?” Brosnan said.
“Oh, yes. Uncle Danny asked him to take us too, but he wouldn’t, then Uncle Danny got upset. He came in with the shotgun and then . . .” She started to sob.
Mary put her arms around her. “It’s all right now, it’s all right.”
Brosnan said, “Was there anything else?”
“I don’t think so.” Angel still looked dazed. “He offered Uncle Danny money. He said the man he was working for could arrange payments anywhere in the world.”
“Did he say who the man was?” Brosnan asked.
“No, he never did.” She brightened. “He did say something about working for the Arabs the first time he came.”
Mary glanced at Brosnan. “Iraq?”
“I always did think that was a possibility.”
“Right, let’s get going,” Flood said. “Check out this Grimethorpe place. You stay here with the kid, Charlie,” he said to Salter, “until the cavalry arrives. We’ll take the Mercedes,” and he turned and led the way out.
In the Great Hall at Saint-Denis, Rashid, Aroun and Makeev stood drinking champagne, waiting for the television news.
“A day for rejoicing in Baghdad,” Aroun said. “The people will know now how strong their President is.”
The screen filled with the announcer who spoke briefly, then the pictures followed. Whitehall in the snow, the Household Cavalry guards, the rear of Ten Downing Street, curtains hanging from smashed windows, Mountbatten Green and the Prime Minister inspecting the damage. The three men stood in shocked silence.
It was Aroun who spoke first. “He has failed,” he whispered. “All for nothing. A few broken windows, a hole in the garden.”
“The attempt was made,” Makeev protested. “The most sensational attack on the British Government ever mounted, and at the seat of power.”
“Who gives a damn?” Aroun tossed his champagne glass into the fireplace. “We needed a result and he hasn’t given us one. He failed with the Thatcher woman and he failed with the British Prime Minister. In spite of all your big talk, Josef, nothing but failure.”
He sat down in one of the high-backed chairs at the dining table, and Rashid said, “A good thing we didn’t pay him his million pounds.”
“True,” Aroun said, “but the money is the least of it. It’s my personal position with the President which is at stake.”
“So what are we going to do?” Makeev demanded.
“Do?” Aroun looked up at Rashid. “We’re going to give our friend Dillon a very warm reception on a cold day, isn’t that so, Ali?”
“At your orders, Mr. Aroun,” Rashid said.
“And you, Josef, you’re with us in this?” Aroun demanded.
“Of course,” Makeev said because there was little else he could say. “Of course.” When he poured another glass of champagne, his hands were shaking.
As the Mercedes came out of the trees at Grimethorpe, the Conquest banked and flew away. Brosnan was driving, Mary beside him, Harry Flood in the back.
Mary leaned out of the window. “Do you think that’s him?”
“Could be,” Brosnan said. “We’ll soon find out.”
They drove past the open hangar with the Navajo Chieftain inside and stopped at the huts. It was Brosnan, first through the door, who found Grant. “Over here,” he said.
Mary and Flood joined him. “So it was Dillon in