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the international circuit help each other out, and since the breakdown of things in Russia there’s plenty of the right kind of technical assistance available on the world market.”
    There was another silence, the Prime Minister drumming on the desk with his fingers. Finally he said, “The Anglo-Irish Agreement and the Downing Street Declaration are achieving results, and President Clinton is behind us fully. Twenty-five years of bloodshed, gentlemen. It’s time to stop.”
    “If I may be a devil’s advocate,” Rupert Lang said, “that’s all very well for Sinn Fein and the IRA, but the Protestant Loyalist factions will feel they’ve been sold out.”
    “I know that, but they’ll have to make some sort of accommodation like everyone else.”
    “They’ll continue the fight, Prime Minister,” Carter said gravely.
    “I accept that. We’ll just have to do our best to handle it. Machine guns by night are one thing, even the Semtex bomb, but not plutonium. That would add a totally new dimension.”
    “I’m afraid you’re right,” Carter said.
    The Prime Minister turned to Ferguson. “So it would appear to be Beirut next stop for Dillon, Brigadier.”
    “So it would.”
    “If I recall the details on his file, Arabic was one of the numerous languages he speaks. He should feel quite at home there.” He stood up. “That’s all for now, gentlemen. Keep me posted, Brigadier.”
     
     
    When Ferguson reached his Cavendish Square flat, the door was opened by his manservant Kim, an ex–Ghurka Corporal who had been with him for years.
    “Mr. Dillon and the Chief Inspector have just arrived, Brigadier.”
    Ferguson went into the elegant drawing room and found Hannah Bernstein sitting by the fire drinking coffee. Dillon was helping himself to a Bushmills from the drinks tray on the sideboard.
    “Feel free with my whisky by all means,” Ferguson told him.
    “Oh I will, Brigadier, and me knowing you to be the decent old stick that you are.”
    “Drop the stage Irishman act, boy, we’ve got work to do. Now go over everything in detail again.”
     
     
    “I suppose the strangest thing was the mystery motorcyclist,” Dillon said as he finished.
    “No mystery there,” Ferguson told him. “January 30 have claimed responsibility for the whole thing. Someone phoned the
Belfast Telegraph
. It’s already on all the TV news programs.”
    “The dogs,” Dillon said. “But how would they have known about the meet?”
    “Never mind that now, we’ve more important things to consider. It’s Beirut for you, my lad, and you, Chief Inspector.”
    “Not the easiest of places to operate in,” Dillon said.
    “As I recall, you managed it with perfect ease during the more unsavory part of your career.”
    “True. I also sank some PLO boats in the harbor for the Israelis, and the PLO have long memories. Anyway, what would our excuse be for being there?”
    “The United Nations Humanitarian Division will do nicely. Irish and English delegates. You’ll have to use aliases, naturally.”
    “And where will we stay?” Hannah asked.
    “Me darling, there is only one decent hotel to stay these days in Beirut,” Dillon told her. “Especially if you’re a foreigner and want a drink at the bar. It’s the place Daley told me Francis Callaghan was staying. The Al Bustan. It overlooks the city near Deirelkalaa and the Roman ruins. You’ll find it very cultural.”
    “Do you think Quinn will be there too?” she asked.
    “Very convenient if he is.” He turned to Ferguson. “You’ll be able to arrange hardware for me?”
    “No problem. I’ve got an excellent contact. Man called Walid Khasan.”
    “Arab, I presume, not Christian.” Dillon turned to Hannah Bernstein. “Lots of Christians in Beirut.”
    “Yes, Walid Khasan is a Muslim. His mother was French. The kind of man I like to deal with, Dillon. He’s only interested in the money.”
    “Aren’t we all, Brigadier, aren’t we all.” Dillon smiled. “So