“Christ Almighty. Titanium waistcoats again.”

Billy left, and Dillon walked Greta out and watched as Henderson let Billy out of the electronic gates. After he drove away, they went back inside.

“I think I’ll sleep in staff quarters,” Greta said, and at that moment Ferguson ’s voice echoed out of Roper’s computer, and he sounded annoyed.

“Isn’t anyone there?”

GRETA JUMPED, Roper placed a finger on his lips and Dillon poured Bushmills from a bottle on the corner table.

“I’m here, boss. You know us, we never close,” Roper said.

“How’s Brussels?” Dillon put in.

“Bloody boring, but that’s politics for you. As far as the Prime Minister is concerned, though, we’re into another time of the wolf.”

“A second Cold War?” Dillon said.

“I think we’ve known that for a while. General Volkov never leaves Putin’s side, and as for that fat fool Lhuzkov at the embassy, we’ll deal with him later. So things are quiet at the moment?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor, and boring with it.”

“The stage Irishman act is past its sell-by date, Dillon. All right, if that’s all, I’ll say good night. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

He clicked off and Dillon said, “I’m going to bed for a while. Knowing you, you’re going to get started on the false papers.”

“Nothing like a bit of forgery to pass away my lonely night. It’s like something out of Dickens,” and Roper turned to his beloved computers. “Sean-the mystery man from al-Qaeda, the Broker. Do you believe in him?”

“Absolutely,” Dillon said.

Roper smiled. “I’m so pleased. So do I.”

IN THE EMBASSY IN BRUSSELS, Vladimir Putin sat drinking vodka with General Volkov, his most trusted security adviser, and Max Chekov.

“So, things are proceeding well with Belov International?” the President said.