“Bernstein, Brigadier. Dillon made contact.”

“With Quinn?”

“No, Curtis Daley. Dillon has a meeting tomorrow night at six. He won’t tell me where. Says he doesn’t want you sending the heavy brigade in. He has to drive there alone.”

“Awkward sod,” Ferguson said. “Will Quinn be there?”

“So it seems, sir.”

Ferguson nodded. “Catching him is the name of the game, Chief Inspector. Some of these Loyalist groups are now as big a threat as the IRA. Quinn is certainly the most dangerous leader to be found amongst their rather numerous factions. Sons of Ulster.” He grunted. “I mean, my mother was Irish, but why do they have to be so damned theatrical?”

“Dillon always says it’s the rain.”

“He would, wouldn’t he. Everything’s a joke.”

“So what do you want me to do, sir?”

“You do nothing, Chief Inspector. Dillon wants to do things his own way as usual, get close enough to Quinn to put a bullet between his eyes. Let him get on with it, but I won’t have you in the line of fire. You provide backup at the Europa only. If he pulls this thing off tomorrow night, get him straight to Aldergrove airport. I’ll have the Lear jet waiting to fly you to Gatwick.”

“Very well, sir.”

“I’ll have to go. I’ve got my weekly meeting with the Prime Minister at Downing Street in an hour.”

Hannah Bernstein checked her makeup and hair, then left her room and took the lift downstairs. She went into the bar, but there was no sign of Dillon, so she sat at a corner table. He came in a few minutes later wearing a roll-neck sweater, Donegal tweed jacket and dark slacks, his hair, washed clean of the black dye now, so fair as to be almost white.