key in the door so he locked it from the inside, arranged some piles of towels into a rough bed. It was surprising how cheerful he felt.
“Harry will be pleased,” he thought and fell almost instantly asleep.
HE CAME AWAKE with a start, aware of the door handle rattling. He glanced at his watch and saw it was almost nine o’clock. He heard a voice call, “The bloody door’s locked. I’ll go and see if I can find a key.”
Footsteps retreated, the outer door opened and closed. Dillon opened the door in seconds, moved into one of the toilet stalls, and locked it. He waited, and after a while the outer door opened and someone entered. There were two of them, because after the door was opened a man said, “Right, take those tablecloths and get cracking.”
A woman said, “All right, Mr. Smith.”
The door banged and the man started whistling and moving around. After a while he moved into the next toilet stall and sat down and lit a cigarette. Dillon flushed the toilet and went out. The man’s white jacket hung on a peg by the basin, a plastic identity card on the jacket. Dillon unpinned it and fastened it to his own jacket so that it was half obscured by his lapel.
When he went outside, the Terrace was already a scene of activity, waiters everywhere at work in the bar and making up tables. Dillon picked up a napkin from a table, draped it over one arm, and reached for a tray. He went straight out past two security guards and up the steps.
FOR AN HOUR he went walkabout, visiting restaurants, not only in the Commons but the House of Lords, keeping constantly on the move, his tray at the ready. Not once was he challenged. God knows what Ferguson would make of that. As for Carter…
It was just after ten that he made his way back to the Terrace. It was a hive of activity. He went in past the security guards and paused. A gray-haired man in black coat and striped trousers was ordering waiters here and there, telling them what to do. He didn’t even give Dillon a second glance when he spoke to him.
“You – canapes from the rear table.”
“Yes, sir,” Dillon said.
He stood against the wall with other waiters, and a few moments later Members of Parliament started to flood in. It was amazing how quickly the Terrace filled up, and the waiters got to work and served refreshments. Dillon did his bit, taking a tray of canapes around, and then he caught sight of Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Carter entering.
Dillon turned away but stood close enough to hear Carter say, “Sorry for you, Ferguson, that little bastard’s left you with egg on your face.”
“If you say so,” Ferguson said.
A moment later, an announcement sounded over the Tannoy. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Prime Minister and the President of the United States.”
They came through the entrance and stood there and the crowd broke into spontaneous applause. Dillon crossed to the table, picked up a canape dish with a lid, hovered over it for a moment, then turned. The President and the Prime Minister were moving through the crowd, pausing to speak to people. They reached Simon Carter, Ferguson, and Hannah Bernstein and stopped.
Dillon heard the President say, “Brigadier Ferguson. Good to see you again.” He greeted Carter, then Hannah.
Dillon walked forward. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
He was aware of the look of amazement on Hannah’s face, of Ferguson’s incredulous frown, and on Carter’s face nothing but shock. Dillon lifted the lid of the canape dish disclosing a five-pound note nestling on top.
“Your fiver, sir.”
Carter was incandescent with rage, but the most interesting reaction was from President Clinton. “Why, Mr. Dillon, is that you?” he said.
IT WAS THE middle of the afternoon and they were together in Ferguson’s office, the three of them.
There was a look of unholy joy on Ferguson’s face. “You cunning Irish bastard.”
“And you a half one.”
“The look on Carter’s face. Delicious. I had to explain to the President and the Prime Minister, of course, which didn’t help Carter. The President thought it was fantastic. I must tell you that after our previous help to him with the peace process in Ireland last year he had a high opinion of you, Dillon. It’s now even higher. So, how did you do it?”
“From the river, Brigadier, but I’d rather not get into details.”
Ferguson turned to Hannah Bernstein. “Do you know, Chief Inspector?”
“I’m afraid I do, sir.”
“As bad as that, is it?”
“Let’s put it this way. The background to it is so criminal that if I were still working for Special Branch at Scotland Yard I’d have no other choice but to read Dillon his rights and arrest him. However, under the peculiar circumstances of my employment with you, such considerations do not apply.”
“Good God.” Ferguson shook his head. “Still, I knew what I was taking on when I recruited you, Dillon, only myself to blame. Go about your business, the both of you,” and he opened a file in front of him.
AT THE SAME time at Green Rapids Detention Center Kathleen Ryan and her uncle walked through the park. There were as usual, thanks to the warden’s liberal visitation policy, a large number of visitors. Paolo Salamone walked some little distance behind. He had received a phone call from Sollazo as his lawyer just after breakfast.
It had been brief and to the point. “Regarding the matter we discussed the other day and the individual concerned, any further information would certainly help your case.”
Salamone hadn’t known such excitement in a long time. There was a real chance now, with Sollazo and the Don on his side, that he might get some review of his sentence and anything was worth that, which was why he kept an eye out for the Kelly girl. He knew from talking to her uncle that she mainly worked the night shift at the hospital, which was why she was able to visit three, sometimes four times a week.
They didn’t seem to be talking much and he saw them stroll toward one of the small rustic shelters beside the lake. Salamone hurried through a small plantation of trees behind the hut and stood at the back. He could hear them talking quite plainly.
“You seem depressed today, girl.”
“And why shouldn’t I be, you in here like a caged animal.”
“Little I can do about that, little anyone can do.”
“You know, when they transferred you here I was full of hope. That’s why I saw that fella Cassidy you shared a cell with once at Ossining and got the forged passports. I thought there would be a chance of making a break,” Kathleen said.
“Not from here. You know why the regime here is so liberal. Because the security is so tight. Every modern electronic marvel on these walls, cameras scrutinizing every move. I’m going to die here, Kathleen, and that’s the truth of it. Time we talked about your future, time you moved on, and when you decide to go, I’ve things to say.”
“Such as?”
“It can wait.”
“Then don’t talk rubbish. How’s your health?”
“Not bad. I take the pills, do as I’m told. They’ll be taking me down to Green Rapids General Hospital on Tuesday morning for another heart scan.”
“I’m on the night shift, but I’ll go in and look out for you. I’ll see you again tomorrow anyway, I’ve got the time in the morning. Around eleven.”
“That’s nice.”
They got up and walked away and Salamone went back up through the trees.
As they approached the security gates, Kathleen said, “Are you still on the same pills?”
