“It’s come, Mr. Aroun. The signal we’ve been waiting for. I just heard it on the radio transmitter from Baghdad.”

The winds of heaven are blowing. Implement all that is on the table. May God be with you.

Aroun had gazed at it in wonder, his hand trembling as he held the notepad, and his voice was hoarse when he said, “The President was right. The day has come.”

“Exactly,” Rashid said. “Implement all that is on the table. We’re in business. I’ll get in touch with Makeev and arrange a meeting as soon as possible.”

Dillon stood at the French windows and peered out across the Avenue Victor Hugo to the Bois de Boulogne. He was whistling softly to himself, a strange, eerie little tune.

“Now this must be what the house agents call a favored location.”

“May I offer you a drink, Mr. Dillon?”

“A glass of champagne wouldn’t come amiss.”

“Have you a preference?” Aroun asked.

“Ah, the man who has everything,” Dillon said. “All right, Krug would be fine, but non-vintage. I prefer the grape mix.”

“A man of taste, I see.” Aroun nodded to Rashid, who opened a side door and went out.

Dillon, unbuttoning his reefer coat, took out a cigarette and lit it. “So, you need my services this old fox tells me.” He nodded at Makeev, who lounged against the fireplace warming himself. “The job of a lifetime, he said, and for a million pounds. Now what would I have to do for all that?”

Rashid entered quickly with the Krug in a bucket, three glasses on a tray. He put them on the table and started to open the bottle.

Aroun said, “I’m not sure, but it would have to be something very special. Something to show the world that Saddam Hussein can strike anywhere.”