“Of course.” Aroun nodded to Rashid, who went to the far end of the room, swung a large oil painting to one side disclosing a wall safe, which he started to open.

Makeev said, “And what can I do?”

“The old warehouse in rue de Helier, the one we’ve used before. You’ve still got a key?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ve got most things I need stored there, but for this job I’d like a light machine gun. A tripod job. A Heckler amp; Koch or an M60. Anything like that will do.” He looked at his watch. “Eight o’clock. I’d like it there by ten. All right?”

“Of course,” Makeev said again.

Rashid came back with a small briefcase. “Twenty thousand. Hundred dollar bills, I’m afraid.”

“Is there any way they could be traced?” Dillon asked.

“Impossible,” Aroun told him.

“Good. And I’ll take the maps.”

He walked to the door, opened it and started down the curving staircase to the hall. Aroun, Rashid and Makeev followed him.

“But is this all, Mr. Dillon?” Aroun said. “Is there nothing more we can do for you? Won’t you need help?”

“When I do, it comes from the criminal classes,” Dillon said. “Honest crooks who do things for cash are usually more reliable than politically motivated zealots. Not always, but most of the time. Don’t worry, you’ll hear from me, one way or another. I’ll be on my way, then.”

Rashid got the door open. Rain and sleet drifted in and Dillon pulled on his cap. “A dirty old night for it.”

“One thing, Mr. Dillon,” Rashid said. “What happens if things go wrong? I mean, you’ll have your million in advance and we’ll…”

“Have nothing? Don’t give it a thought, me old son. I’ll provide an alternative target. There’s always the new British Prime Minister, this John Major. I presume his head on a plate would serve your boss back in Baghdad just as well.”

He smiled once, then stepped out into the rain and pulled the door shut behind him.