Rashid moved back, walked to the end of the pier, paused by the rail in the shelter of a small terrace and dialed the number of Aroun’s house in the Avenue Victor Hugo on his portable phone.

There was a slight click as the Walther was cocked and Dillon rammed the muzzle rather painfully into Rashid’s right ear. “Now then, son, a few answers,” he demanded. “Who are you?”

“My name is Rashid,” the young man said. “Ali Rashid.”

“What are you then? PLO?”

“No, Mr. Dillon. I’m a captain in the Iraqi Army, assigned to protect Mr. Aroun.”

“And Makeev and the KGB?”

“Let’s just say he’s on our side.”

“The way things are going in the Gulf, you need somebody on your side, my old son.” There was the faint sound of a voice from the portable phone. “Go on, answer him.”

Makeev said, “Rashid, where is he?”

“Right here, outside a café on the river near Notre Dame,” Rashid told him. “With the muzzle of his Walther well into my ear.”

“Put him on,” Makeev ordered.

Rashid handed the phone to Dillon, who said, “Now then, you old sod.”

“A million, Sean. Pounds if you prefer that currency.”

“And what would I have to be doing for all that money?”

“The job of a lifetime. Let Rashid bring you round here and we’ll discuss it.”

“I don’t think so,” Dillon said. “I think what I’d really like is for you to get your arse into gear and come and pick us up yourself.”

“Of course,” Makeev said. “Where are you?”

“The left bank opposite Notre Dame. A little pub on a pier called Le Chat Noir. We’ll be waiting.”