“So that’s where we come in,” Roper said.

“No one in any official capacity can help. The place we call Iraq is an inferno,” Rashid said.

“I’m interested in why your father, a man of such wealth and influence, should stay in the war zone. The major is right.”

“He has dedicated himself to the other side, that is the most I will tell you. What I know about the Army of God during the past months and related dealings with al-Qaeda in many areas of the Middle East and North Africa would interest you, Mr. Dillon, particularly as an Irishman.”

“Now you’ve got the pot boiling. What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Not now. You know what I want.”

“What about your wife?” Greta put in.

“She won’t crack, she’s too strong. A great surgeon. Children are her specialty.”

“And she never knew about your problems with the Islamic business and the Army of God?”

“I thought I was protecting her from it, but the abduction of Sara changed all that. She has her work. That is her mainstay.”

There was a long pause.

Dillon said to Roper, “Can it be done?”

“Well, there is the small matter of the war, but we’ll just have to see what we can do. It’s a good thing Ferguson ’s in Brussels, so we don’t have to tell him. Allow Henderson to take this poor sod away for a shower.” He called to Rashid as he stood up, “Your trip to Hazar. You thought it had a purpose, but those Army of God people were playing with you, was that it?”

“I’ve nothing more to say.”

“Good,” Roper said. “Always nice to be reassured.”

SITTING IN THE COMPUTER ROOM, Roper, who liked to think of himself as the planning genius of all time, had a large scotch and smoked for twenty minutes, but he wasn’t taking it easy.

First, he checked on Molly Rashid’s whereabouts. She was a professor of pediatrics at several hospitals, but that night she had performed heart surgery at Great Ormond Street and gone home at midnight.