“Good to see you, Rupert.”

He led the way into a small sitting room, where a gas fire was burning cheerfully in the hearth.

“This is nice,” Lang said, “on a night like this.”

“A Scotch would make it even better, yes?”

“I should say so.”

Lang watched him get the drinks. Belov was Senior Cultural Attaché at the Soviet Embassy just up the road, a job which masked his true vocation as Colonel in charge of the London Station of the GRU, Soviet Military Intelligence, the KGB’s great rivals. He handed Lang a glass.

“Cheers, Rupert.”

“How are you? Still having trouble with the KGB?”

“They keep changing their name these days.” Belov smiled. “Anyway, what was so important?”

“I’ve just had one of my regular meetings with the Prime Minister, Simon Carter, and Brigadier Charles Ferguson. Tell me, does the name Sean Dillon mean anything to you?”

“Oh yes,” Belov said. “Quite a character. He was very big in the IRA, then moved on to the international scene. I’ve the best of reasons for thinking he was behind the attack on Downing Street in ninety-one, then Brigadier Charles Ferguson got his hands on him.” Belov smiled again. “You British really are devious bastards, Rupert. What’s it all about?”

So Lang told him and when he was finished Belov said, “I know all about Daniel Quinn. Believe me, my friend, if the Anglo-Irish Agreement and the Downing Street Declaration really do bring Sinn Fein and the IRA to the peace table, you are going to have serious problems with the Protestant factions.”

“Well that seems to be the general opinion, and that’s why Dillon hopes to meet Quinn and eliminate him tomorrow night.”

“Only one problem,” Belov said. “My man at our Embassy in Dublin told me yesterday that Quinn is in Dublin en route for Beirut under the alias of Brown. An associate of his named Francis Callaghan went to Beirut last week.”