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the briefcase on the table.

“Another time.” Aroun’s face was suddenly contorted with rage. “Another time? Let me tell you what you have done. You have not only failed me, you have failed Saddam Hussein, President of my country. I pledged my word to him, my word, and because of your failure, my honor is in shreds.”

“What do you want me to do, say I’m sorry?”

Rashid was sitting on the edge of the table, swinging a leg. He said to Aroun. “In the circumstances, a wise decision not to pay this man.”

Dillon said, “What’s he talking about?”

“The million in advance that you instructed me to deposit in Zurich.”

“I spoke to the manager. He confirmed it had been placed in my account,” Dillon said.

“On my instructions, you fool. I have millions on deposit at that bank. I only had to threaten to transfer it elsewhere to bring him to heel.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Dillon said calmly. “I always keep my word, Mr. Aroun. I expect others to keep theirs. A matter of honor.”

“Honor? You talk to me of honor.” Aroun laughed out loud. “What do you think of that, Josef?”

Makeev, who had been standing behind the door, stepped out, the Makarov in his hand. Dillon half-turned and the Russian said, “Easy, Sean, easy.”

“Aren’t I always, Josef?” Dillon said.

“Hands on head, Mr. Dillon,” Rashid told him. Dillon complied. Rashid unzipped the biker’s jacket, checked for a weapon and found nothing. His hands went round Dillon’s waist and discovered the Beretta. “Very tricky,” he said and put it on the table.

“Can I have a cigarette?” Dillon put a hand in his pocket and Aroun threw the newspaper aside and picked up the Smith & Wesson. Dillon produced a cigarette pack. “All right?” He put one in his mouth and Rashid gave him a light. The Irishman stood there, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “What happens now? Does Josef blow me away?”

“No, I reserve that pleasure for myself,” Aroun said.

“Mr. Aroun, let’s be reasonable.” Dillon flicked the catches on his briefcase and started to open it. “I’ll give you back what’s left of the operating money and we’ll call it quits. How’s that?”

“You think money can make this right?” Aroun asked.

“Not really,” Dillon said and took the Walther with the Carswell silencer from the briefcase and shot him between the eyes. Aroun went over, his chair toppling, and Dillon, turning, dropped to one knee and hit Makeev twice as the Russian got off one wild shot.

Dillon was up and turning, the Walther extended, and Rashid held his hands at shoulder height. “No need for that, Mr. Dillon, I could be useful.”

“You’re damn right you could be,” Dillon said.

There was a sudden roaring of an aircraft passing overhead. Dillon grabbed Rashid by the shoulder and pushed him to the French windows. “Open them,” he ordered.

“All right.” Rashid did as he was told and they went out on the terrace from where they could see the Navajo landing in spite of the mist rolling in.

“Now who might that be?” Dillon asked. “Friends of yours?”

“We weren’t expecting anyone, I swear it,” Rashid said.

Dillon shoved him back in and put the end of the Carswell silencer to the side of his neck. “Aroun had a nice private safe hidden safely away in the apartment at Avenue Victor Hugo in Paris. Don’t tell me he didn’t have the same here.”

Rashid didn’t hesitate. “It’s in the study, I’ll show you.”

“Of course you will,” Dillon said and shoved him toward the door.

Mary taxied the Navajo along the strip and lined it up to the Conquest and the Citation. She killed the engine. Brosnan was already into the cabin and had the door open. He went down quickly and turned to give Flood a hand. Mary followed. It was very quiet, wind lifting the snow in a flurry.

“The Citation?” Mary said. “It can’t be Hernu, there hasn’t been enough time.”

“It must be Aroun’s,” Brosnan told her.

Flood pointed to where Dillon’s footsteps, clearly visible in the snow, led toward the track to the wood, the château standing proudly on the other side. “That’s our way,” he said and started forward, Brosnan and Mary following.

FIFTEEN

THE STUDY WAS surprisingly small and paneled in bleached oak, the usual oil paintings of past aristocrats on the walls. There was an antique desk with a chair, an empty fireplace, a television with a fax machine and shelves lined with books on one wall.

“Hurry it up,” Dillon said and he sat on the end of