“Fortunate for the rest of us,” Makeev said.

“Exactly,” Dillon said. “They even have to go softly-softly on terrorists-up to a degree anyway, not like French Intelligence. Jesus, if the lads in Action Service got their hands on me they’d have me spread out and my bollocks wired up for electricity before I knew what was happening. Mind you, even they are prone to the occasional error.”

“What do you mean?” Makeev demanded.

“Have you got a copy of the evening paper handy?”

“Certainly, I’ve been reading it,” Aroun said. “Ali, on my desk.”

Rashid returned with a copy of Paris Soir. Dillon said, “Page two. Read it out. You’ll find it interesting.”

He helped himself to more champagne while Rashid read the item aloud. “Mrs. Margaret Thatcher, until recently Prime Minister of Britain, is staying overnight at Choisy as a guest of President Mitterrand. They are to have further talks in the morning. She leaves at two o’clock for an air-force emergency field at Valenton, where an RAF plane returns her to England.”

“Incredible, isn’t it, that they could have allowed such a press release, but I guarantee the main London newspapers will carry that story also.”

There was a heavy silence and then Aroun said, “You’re not suggesting…?”

Dillon said to Rashid. “You must have some road maps handy. Get them.”

Rashid went out quickly. Makeev said, “Good God, Sean, not even you…”

“Why not?” Dillon asked calmly and turned to Aroun. “I mean, you want something big, a major coup? Would Margaret Thatcher do, or are we just playing games here?”