“Daley said he’d get back to me.” He took off his hat. “I need a shower. I want to get rid of this hair dye.”

She made a face. “Yes, it’s just not you, Dillon.”

He took off his coat and jacket and made for the bathroom. At that moment the phone rang. He raised a hand – “Leave it to me” – and picked the phone up.

“Barry Friar,” he said, putting on the public school accent.

“Daley. Mr. Quinn will see you tomorrow night at six.”

“Same place?” Dillon asked.

“No, drive from the Europa to Garth Dock. It’s close to where you were tonight. I know you have a hire car, so use that – and make sure you come alone. You’ll be picked up. Mr. Quinn will be there.”

The phone went dead. Hannah Bernstein said, “Now what?”

“Daley. The next meeting is tomorrow evening at six to meet Quinn. I’m to drive there alone.”

“It worked,” she said. “You were right.”

“I usually am.”

“Where’s the meeting?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I tell you, you’ll tell Ferguson, and he’ll have some SAS hit squad on my case. No go, Hannah.” He smiled. “I’ll be all right, girl dear. Go and do your bit with Ferguson and I’ll have a shower.”

“Damn you, Dillon!” But she knew better than to waste her breath in argument. She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

He stripped and went into the bathroom, whistling cheerfully as he turned on the shower, stood under it, and watched the black dye run from his hair.

In most places in the world, by the early seventies, terrorism was a growing problem, especially in Britain because of the IRA and in spite of the activities of the Security Services and Scotland Yard. The Prime Minister of the day had decided drastic measures were needed and had set up an elite intelligence unit responsible to him alone and no one else.

Brigadier Charles Ferguson had headed the unit since its inception, had served every Prime Minister in office, had no personal political allegiance. He usually operated from an office on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence overlooking Horse Guards Avenue, but when Hannah Bernstein rang him on the red phone she was patched through to his flat in Cavendish Square.