He left, the room was quiet, then there was only the sound of the limousine driving away. Moon groaned and reached for the telephone.

IN THE BENTLEY, Harry passed the briefcase over. “You’ll need a savings account.”

Ruby examined it. “My God, this can’t be happening.”

“It is happening. You’ll do a great job running the pub, I’m never wrong about people. Happy days, sweetheart.”

AT HEATHROW it wasn’t busy, possibly due to the lateness of the hour and, though the custom and passport officers on duty regarded them with deep suspicion, they knew better than to object to Dillon and Billy’s presence.

They’d been there a couple of hours, with no one particularly interesting coming through, when a new entry on the arrivals screen caught Dillon’s attention.

“Well, look at that, Billy,” he said. “An old friend. Hazar.”

Billy stopped smiling and shivered a little at the memory of the ordeals they’d gone through in that desolate Middle Eastern country. “Dear God, Kate Rashid of blessed memory.”

“Is that how you remember her?”

“She was some woman.” Billy shook his head at the thought of the woman who had sworn to kill them, and almost succeeded. “If I never see that place again, I’ll only be too happy.”

“A long time ago,” Dillon said. “But thinking of her brings events flowing back, enough to want to take a look at who’s doing night runs from Hazar these days to good old London. Let’s see.”

AS THE QUEUES LENGTHENED, a supervisor called over the loudspeaker for people specifically traveling from Hazar to move to a special section, which they did with surprisingly little fuss.

Caspar Rashid was one of them, a tall handsome man, comparatively light in color, his chin and mouth covered by a beard that was almost blond. He had one piece of folding hand luggage and a briefcase.