“Russian guy. Moon said he was called Lhuzkov. He met us in a pub in Kensington across the High Street from the Russian Embassy.”

“And the gig was to kill off Blake Johnson.”

“Something like that.”

Dillon gave him his handkerchief. “It’s clean. Now piss off and find a hospital.”

They couldn’t get in the car fast enough.

Billy said, “Nice and generous of you, letting them keep the two grand.”

“It helped grease the wheels, Billy. A little pain, a little reward.”

The front door opened and Blake came out carrying a couple of flight bags. He put them in the back of the car. “Anybody dead?”

“We wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Blake said, “Who was it?”

“Couple of small-time hoods, hired by Lhuzkov.”

Blake said, “Interesting. He wouldn’t have done that on his own.”

“Don’t worry,” Billy said. “We’ll sort that lot out. It’ll be a pleasure.”

They drove off. Dillon lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Foot down to Farley Field, Billy. Ferguson won’t be pleased if Blake’s late.”

AT FARLEY FIELD, the rain fell relentlessly. Ferguson ’s pilots, Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry, busied themselves with the aircraft, while the General drank coffee and a Bushmills whiskey and stood at the window of the small lounge staring out at the rain. He was indeed not best pleased.

“You’re late.”

“Well, if you can be bothered to wipe the scowl from your face, General dear, I have news for you,” Dillon told him.

Ferguson ’s face became wary. “And what would that be?”

“A couple of gentlemen of evil intent tried to hurry Blake into a better world.”

“Explain. Billy, I need another drink.”

He sampled the Bushmills and listened and Blake watched, amused. “What I want to know,” said Ferguson, “is what’s with all this bloody game-playing? A third-rate colonel working for Russian military intelligence wants to shoot the President’s key security man, and the best he can do is hire these incompetents? Somebody’s head is going to roll.”