He waited, still clutching the rain hat. It had to be the van, only reason for it being there, so he wasn’t surprised when the rear door opened and a rather large man, a Colt automatic in one hand, emerged.

“Slow and easy, my grand wee man,” he said in the distinctive Belfast accent.

“I say, old chap.” Dillon showed every sign of alarm and raised his hands. “No problem, I trust? I’m here in good faith.”

“Aren’t we all, Mr. Friar,” a voice called, and Dillon saw Daley appear in the doorway of the office. “Is he clean, Jack?”

The big man ran his hands over Dillon and felt between his legs. “All clear here, Curtis.”

“Bring him in.”

When Dillon entered the office, Daley was sitting in a chair behind the desk, a young man of twenty-five or so with an intense, white face.

“Curtis Daley, Mr. Friar, and this is Jack Mullin. We have to be careful, you understand?”

“Oh, perfectly, old chap.” Dillon rolled his rain hat and slipped it into his raincoat pocket. “May I smoke?”

Daley tossed a packet of Gallaghers across. “Try an Irish cigarette. I’m surprised to find you’re English. Jobert and Company; now that’s a French arms dealer. That’s why we chose him.”

Dillon lit a cigarette. “The arms business, especially at the level you wish to deal, isn’t exactly thriving in London these days. I’ve been in it for years ever since getting out of the Royal Artillery. I’ve worked as an agent for Monsieur Jobert all over the world.”

“That’s good.”

“Monsieur Jobert told me I’d be meeting your leader, Mr. Quinn?”

“Daniel? Why should he expect that? Any special reason?”

“Not really,” Dillon said hurriedly. “I did a tour with the Royal Artillery in Londonderry, nineteen eighty-two. Mr. Quinn was quite famous.”

“Notorious, you mean,” Daley said. “Everyone after him. The police, the Army, and the bloody IRA.”