When Sergeant Zekan took Dillon along the corridor, someone screamed in the distance and there was the sound of heavy blows. Dillon hesitated but the Sergeant showed no emotion, simply put a hand between the Irishman’s shoulder blades and pushed him toward a flight of stone steps and urged him up. There was an oaken door at the top banded with iron. Zekan opened it and pushed him through.

The room inside was oak beamed with granite walls, tapestries hanging here and there. A log fire burned in an open hearth and two of the Dobermans sprawled in front of it. Branko sat behind a large desk reading a file and drinking from a crystal glass, a bottle in an ice bucket beside him. He glanced up and smiled, then took the bottle from the ice bucket and filled another glass.

“Krug champagne, Mr. Dillon, your preferred choice, I understand.”

“Is there anything you don’t know about me?” Dillon asked.

“Not much.” Branko lifted the file, then dropped it on the desk. “The intelligence organizations of most countries have the useful habit of frequently co-operating with each other even when their countries don’t. Do sit down and have a drink. You’ll feel better.”

Dillon took the chair opposite and accepted the glass that Zekan handed him. He emptied it in one go and Branko smiled, took a cigarette from a packet of Rothmans and tossed it across.

“Help yourself.” He reached out and refilled Dillon’s glass. “I much prefer the non-vintage, don’t you?”

“It’s the grape mix,” Dillon said and lit the cigarette.

“Sorry about that little touch of violence back there,” Branko told him. “Just a show for my boys. After all, you did cost us that Mig and it takes two years to train the pilots. I should know, I’m one myself.”

“Really?” Dillon said.

“Yes, Cranwell, courtesy of your British Royal Air Force.”

“Not mine,” Dillon told him.

“But you were born in Ulster, I understand. Belfast, is that not so, and Belfast, as I understand it, is part of Great Britain and not the Republic of Ireland.”