“I charge very reasonable rates,” Dillon said.

“Fluent German, Spanish and French, oh, and Irish.”

“We mustn’t forget that.”

“Reasonable Arabic, Italian and Russian.” Branko closed the file. “Is it true you were responsible for the mortar attack on No. 10 Downing Street during the Gulf War when the British Prime Minister, John Major, was meeting with the War Cabinet?”

“Now do I look as if I’d do a thing like that?”

Branko leaned back and looked at him seriously. “How do you see yourself, my friend, gun for hire like one of those old Westerns, riding into town to clean things up single-handed?”

“To be honest, Major, I never think about it.”

“And yet you took on a job like this present affair for a bunch of well-meaning amateurs and for no pay?”

“We all make mistakes.”

“You certainly did, my friend. Those boxes on the plane. Morphine ampoules on top, Stinger missiles underneath.”

“Jesus.” Dillon laughed helplessly. “Now who would have thought it.”

“They say you have a genius for acting, that you can change yourself totally, become another person with a look, a gesture.”

“No, I think that was Laurence Olivier.” Dillon smiled.

“And in twenty years, you’ve never seen the inside of a cell.”

“True.”

“Not any longer, my friend.” Branko opened a drawer, took out a two-hundred pack of Rothmans cigarettes and tossed them across. “You’re going to need those.” He glanced at Zekan and said in Serbo-Croatian, “Take him to his cell.”

Dillon felt the Sergeant’s hand on his shoulder pulling him up and propelling him to the door. As Zekan opened it Branko said, “One more thing, Mr. Dillon. The firing squad operates most mornings here. Try not to let it put you off.”

“Ah, yes,” Dillon said. “Ethnic cleansing, isn’t that what you call it?”