The small man went to his friend and struggled to get him on his feet. They stood there for a moment, the bearded man’s face twisted in agony. Dillon went and opened the door, the rain pouring relentlessly down outside.

As they lurched past him, he said, “Have a good night,” and closed the door.

Still holding the Walther in his left hand, he lit a cigarette using a match from the stand on the bar and smiled at the old barman, who looked terrified. “Don’t worry, Dad, not your problem.” Then he leaned against the bar and called in English, “All right, Makeev, I know you’re there, so let’s be having you.”

The curtain parted and Makeev and Aroun stepped through.

“My dear Sean, it’s good to see you again.”

“And aren’t you the wonder of the world?” Dillon said, just the trace of an Ulster accent in his voice. “One minute trying to stitch me up, the next all sweetness and light.”

“It was necessary, Sean,” Makeev said. “I needed to make a point to my friend here. Let me introduce you.”

“No need,” Dillon told him. “I’ve seen his picture often enough. If it’s not on the financial pages, it’s usually in the society magazines. Michael Aroun, isn’t it? The man with all the money in the world.”

“Not quite all, Mr. Dillon.” Aroun put a hand out.

Dillon ignored it. “We’ll skip the courtesies, my old son, while you tell whoever is standing on the other side of that curtain to come out.”

“Rashid, do as he says,” Aroun called, and said to Dillon, “It’s only my aide.”

The young man who stepped through had a dark, watchful face, and wore a leather car coat, the collar turned up, his hands thrust deep in the pockets.

Dillon knew a professional when he saw one. “Plain view.” He motioned with the Walther. Rashid actually smiled and took his hands from his pockets. “Good,” Dillon said. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

He turned and got the door open. Makeev said, “Sean, be reasonable. We only want to talk. A job, Sean.”