“He needs something, the poor old sod,” Dillon said cheerfully. “Things aren’t going too well.” As Rashid finished filling three glasses, the Irishman added, “And what’s your trouble, son? Aren’t you joining us?”
Rashid smiled and Aroun said, “In spite of Winchester and Sandhurst, Mr. Dillon, Captain Rashid remains a very
“Well here’s to you.” Dillon raised his glass. “I respect a man with principles.”
“This would need to be big, Sean, no point in anything small. We’re not talking about blowing up five British Army paratroopers in Belfast,” Makeev said.
“Oh, it’s Bush you want, is it?” Dillon smiled. “The President of the United States flat on his back with a bullet in him?”
“Would that be so crazy?” Aroun demanded.
“It would be this time, son,” Dillon told him. “George Bush has not just taken on Saddam Hussein, he’s taken on the Arabs as a people. Oh, that’s total rubbish, of course, but it’s the way a lot of Arab fanatics see it. Groups like Hizbollah, the PLO or the wild cards like the Wrath of Allah people. The sort who would happily strap a bomb to their waist and detonate it while the President reached out to shake just another hand in the crowd. I know these people. I know how their minds tick. I’ve helped train Hizbollah people in Beirut. I’ve worked for the PLO.”
“What you are saying is nobody can get near Bush at the moment?”
“Read your papers. Anybody who looks even slightly Arab is keeping off the streets these days in New York and Washington.”
“But you, Mr. Dillon, do not look Arab to the slightest degree,” Aroun said. “For one thing you have fair hair.”
“So did Lawrence of Arabia and he used to pass himself off as an Arab.” Dillon shook his head. “President Bush has the finest security in the world, believe me. A ring of steel, and in present circumstances he’s going to stay home while this whole Gulf thing works through, mark my words.”