ashes in our beautiful garden, but we do have a columbarium where the urn may be displayed with a suitable plaque.”
“No, I’ll take them with me.”
“That won’t be possible at the moment. It takes time, I’m afraid.”
Travers said, “Perhaps you could have the ashes delivered to my house in Lord North Street in a suitable receptacle.” He was embarrassed.
Cox said, “Of course.” He turned to Jenny. “I presume you’ll be flying back to the Caribbean, Miss Grant? We do provide a suitable container.”
“Thank you. Can we go now?” she asked Ferguson.
Travers and Jenny got into the Daimler and Dillon paused at the top of the steps. There was a car parked close to the entrance to the drive and Smith was standing beside it, looking across at them. Dillon recognized him instantly, but in the same moment, Smith got in the car and it shot away.
As Ferguson emerged from the chapel Dillon said, “One of those two men I saw at the inquest was standing over there a moment ago. Just driven away.”
“Really? Did you get the number?”
“Didn’t have a chance to see it, the angle the car was at. Blue Renault, I think. You don’t seem too worried.”
“Why should I be, I’ve got you, haven’t I? Now get in the car, there’s a good chap.” As they drove away he patted Jenny’s hand. “Are you all right, my dear?”
“Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Ferguson told her. “If Henry didn’t tell you the exact location of the submarine, can you think of anyone else he might have spoken to?”
“No,” she said firmly. “If he didn’t tell me, then he didn’t tell anyone.”
“No other diver maybe, I mean, he must have friends who dive as well, or another diver who might be able to help.”
“Well there’s always Bob Carney,” she said, “the diver I told you about. He knows the Virgin Isles like the back of his hand.”
“So, if anybody could help it would most likely be he?” Ferguson asked.
“I suppose so, but I wouldn’t count on it. There’s a lot of water out there.”
The Daimler turned into Lord North Street and stopped. Travers got out first and reached a hand to Jenny. Ferguson said, “Dillon and I have work to do. We’ll see you later.”
Dillon turned in surprise. “What’s this?”
“I’ve an appointment to meet the Deputy Director of the Security Services, Simon Carter, and a Junior Minister called Sir Francis Pamer on the Terrace at the Houses of Parliament. I’m supposed to keep them informed of my plans and I thought it might be amusing to take you along. After all, Dillon, Simon Carter’s been trying to get his hands on you for years.”
“Holy Mother of God,” Dillon said, “but you’re a wicked man, Brigadier.”
Ferguson picked up the car phone and dialed Lane at the Ministry of Defence. “Jack, American called Bob Carney, resident St. John, presently a diver. Everything you can get. The CIA should help.”
He put the phone down and Dillon said, “And what are you up to now, you old fox?”
But Ferguson made no reply, simply folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes.
6
The House of Commons has sometimes been referred to as the most exclusive club in London, mainly because of the amenities which, together with the upper chamber, the House of Lords, include twenty-six restaurants and bars each providing subsidized food and drinks.
There is always a queue waiting to get in, supervised by policemen, composed not only of tourists, but of constituents with appointments to see their Members of Parliament and everyone has to take their turn, no matter who, which explained why Ferguson and Dillon waited in line, moving forward slowly.
“At least you look respectable,” Ferguson said, taking in Dillon’s double-breasted blazer and gray flannels.
“Thanks to your Amex card,” Dillon told him. “They treated me like a millionaire in Harrods.”
“Really?” Ferguson said dryly. “You do realize that’s a Guard’s Brigade tie you’re wearing?”
“Sure and I didn’t want to let you down, Brigadier. Wasn’t the Grenadiers your regiment?”
“Cheeky bastard!” Ferguson said as he reached the security checkpoint.
It was manned not by the security guards usually found at such places, but by very large policemen whose efficiency was in no doubt. Ferguson stated his business and produced his security card.
“Wonderful,” Dillon said. “They all looked about seven feet tall, just like coppers used to do.”
They came to the Central Lobby where people with an appointment to see their MP waited. It was extremely busy and Ferguson moved on, through a further corridor and down more stairs, finally leading the way out through an entrance on to the Terrace overlooking the Thames.
Once again, there were lots of people about, some with a glass in their hand enjoying a drink, Westminster Bridge to the left, the Embankment on the far side of the river. A row of tall, rather Victorian-looking lamps ran along the parapet. The synthetic carpetlike covering on the ground was green, but further along it changed to red, a distinct line marking the difference.
“Why the change in color?” Dillon asked.
“Everything in the Commons is green,” Ferguson said. “The carpets, the leather of the chairs. Red for the House of Lords. That part of the Terrace up there is the Lords’.”
“Jesus, but you English do love your class distinction, Brigadier.”
As Dillon lit a cigarette with his Zippo, Ferguson said, “Here they are now. Behave yourself, there’s a good chap.”
“I’ll do my best,” Dillon said as Simon Carter and Sir Francis Pamer approached.
“There you are, Charles,” Carter said. “We were looking for you.”
“People all over the place,” Pamer said. “Like a damned souk these days. Now what’s happening, Brigadier? Where are we at with this business?”
“Well let’s go and sit down and I’ll tell you. Dillon here’s going to handle things at the sharp end.”
“All right,” Pamer said. “What do you fancy, afternoon tea?”
“A drink would be more to my taste,” Ferguson told him. “And I’m pressed for time.”
Pamer led the way along to the Terrace bar and they found seats in the corner. He and Carter ordered gin and tonics, Ferguson Scotch. Dillon smiled with total charm at the waiter. “I’ll have an Irish and water, Bushmills if you have it.”
He had deliberately stressed his Ulster accent and Carter was frowning. “Dillon, did you say? I don’t think we’ve met before.”
“No,” Dillon said amiably, “although not for want of trying on your part, Mr. Carter. Sean Dillon.”
Carter’s face was very pale now and he turned to Ferguson. “Is this some sort of practical joke?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Carter shut up as the waiter brought the drinks and as soon as he had gone, continued. “Sean Dillon? Is he who I think he is?”
“As ever was,” Dillon told him.
Carter ignored him. “And you’d bring a damned scoundrel like this, here to this particular place, Ferguson? A man that the Intelligence services have hunted for years.”
“That may be,” Ferguson said calmly. “But he’s working for Group Four now, all taken care of under my authority, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“Ferguson, you go too far.” Carter was seething.
“Yes, I’m told that often, but to business. To give you a resume of what’s happened. There was a burglary at Lord North Street, which may or may not have been genuine. However, we did discover a bug in the telephone
