“The trouble is that he isn’t just another thug,” Ferguson replied. “He’s astute, cunning, and a first-class organizer. Dillon has been staying at the Europa under the name of Barry Friar with my assistant, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein. He posed as an arms dealer for a Paris outfit and met with Quinn’s right-hand man, Curtis Daley, tonight.”

“I know that name too,” Carter said.

“What’s the point of all this?” the Prime Minister asked.

“To draw Quinn into the open and deal with him,” Ferguson said.

“You mean shoot him?”

“That is correct, Prime Minister. Dillon has a meeting with Quinn tomorrow at six. All he would tell Chief Inspector Bernstein was that he was to drive there alone. Wouldn’t say where because he knew she’d tell me and thought I might send in the heavy brigade.”

“Arrogant bastard,” Carter commented.

“Perhaps.” The Prime Minister nodded. “But he does seem to get results.” He closed the file in front of him. “You’ll keep me informed, Brigadier.” He stood up. “Good night, gentlemen.”

As Ferguson went to his Daimler outside Number Ten, Carter paused on his way to his own car. “He’ll get you into trouble one of these days, Ferguson.”

“Very probably,” Ferguson said and turned to Lang. “Have you got a car or would you like a lift?”

“No thanks, I feel like the exercise. I’ll walk.”

Lang went out through the security gates and walked along Whitehall. He stopped at the first phone box and made a call. After a while, the phone was picked up at the other end.

“Belov.”

“Oh, good, Yuri. Glad I caught you at home. Rupert here. Something’s come up. I’ll be straight round.”

He put the phone down and hailed the first cab that came along.

TWO

Twenty minutes later he was ringing the bell of the small cottage in a mews off the Bayswater Road. The door was opened within moments and Belov stood there, dressed in a navy-blue pullover and slacks. A small, dark-haired man with a humorous mouth, he was in his late fifties. He motioned Lang inside.