dialled a number.
'Ah, that you, Carter? Look, something's come up and I need to see you. I want your input on something before I speak to the Prime Minister ... Yes? Good. I'll see you at the Grenadier in St James's in thirty minutes.'
'Nothing like being decisive,' Blake said.
'Well, as you Yanks say, you ain't seen nothing yet. Order the car, Dillon, I'll find a warrant or two, and we'll be on our way.'
The Grenadier was a pleasant traditional London pub, with old-fashioned dark oak booths. Carter was already there in a corner, sipping a glass of sherry. A small, pale-faced man with white hair, he reacted angrily at the sight of Dillon.
'Really, Ferguson, I've told you before. I object to this murderous swine's presence.'
'Well, take it up with the Prime Minister. He employs him.'
'God save your honour,' Dillon said cheerfully. 'It's a blessing, the grand man like yourself allows me in the same room.'
'Oh, go to hell.'
Ferguson said, 'You'll remember Blake Johnson.'
'Yes, the American.' Carter offered a reluctant hand and turned to Ferguson. 'So what is this?'
'An IRA renegade named Brendan Murphy's up to no good, and I need to know what it is.'
'Nonsense, that's old hat, Ferguson. Murphy isn't a problem any longer, not since the peace process overwhelmed the land.'
'It's the great liar you are,' Dillon told him, and turned to Blake. 'This is the Deputy Director of the Security Services, a faceless man who never worked in the field himself.'
'Damn you, you Irish swine.' Carter was furious.
'Now, that's a racist remark,' Dillon said. 'I could take you to the tribunal.'
'Exactly,' Ferguson agreed. 'And as my sainted mother was Irish, then as a half-Irishman I take it very personally.'
'I'd say you've just insulted his mother's memory,' Blake put in.
'Could we get on with it?' Dillon asked. 'You lifted a man named Sean Regan at Heathrow three weeks ago, when his plane to Dublin was diverted because of fog. Why?'
'Don't be stupid, Dillon. He shot a military policeman in Londonderry a couple of years ago and fled. The policeman nearly died.'
'So you're going to stand Regan up on trial at the Old Bailey?' Ferguson asked.
'We might.'
'But you won't, because of the peace process. We're letting them out of prison now, not banging them up.'
Carter was strangely confused. 'Come on, Ferguson, we're in the hands of our political masters.'
'Not as far as I'm concerned. We're in the hands of the law. The truth is, you're holding Regan to squeeze anything you can out of him in case it may be of future use.'
'So what?'
'Not any more. Where are you holding him?' 'Wandsworth.' Carter answered as a reflex.
'Not any longer.' Ferguson produced a paper from his inside pocket. 'That's a warrant from me as head of the PM's security squad, authorizing me to, as quaint legal language has it, take possession of one Sean Regan.'
Carter was outraged. 'Now, look here, Ferguson.'
'No, you look here. The difference is that I did serve in the field. I was an eighteen-year-old second lieutenant in the Hook in Korea in fifty-two, and I've seen more villains here than you've had breakfasts. So don't argue. Just countersign the order. Here's my pen.'
He offered it and Carter took it, hand shaking, and signed the document. 'My turn will come, Ferguson.'
'I don't think so.' Ferguson blew on the ink. 'Now go away.'
Carter suddenly looked helpless, got up, and stumbled out. Blake said, 'Why is it I don't feel sorry for him?'
'Because he isn't worth it,' Ferguson said. 'So, gentlemen, Wandsworth Prison next stop.'
Ferguson, Dillon and Blake waited in the interview room at Wandsworth until the door was opened, and the kind of prison officer who looked as if he'd been a sergeant in a Guards regiment pushed Regan in.
Dillon said, 'Good man yourself, Sean.' He turned to the others. Always gave us a problem, the two of us being Sean.'
Regan said, 'Jesus, is that you, Dillon?'
'As ever was. Come to take you away from your cell and
'Ah, that you, Carter? Look, something's come up and I need to see you. I want your input on something before I speak to the Prime Minister ... Yes? Good. I'll see you at the Grenadier in St James's in thirty minutes.'
'Nothing like being decisive,' Blake said.
'Well, as you Yanks say, you ain't seen nothing yet. Order the car, Dillon, I'll find a warrant or two, and we'll be on our way.'
The Grenadier was a pleasant traditional London pub, with old-fashioned dark oak booths. Carter was already there in a corner, sipping a glass of sherry. A small, pale-faced man with white hair, he reacted angrily at the sight of Dillon.
'Really, Ferguson, I've told you before. I object to this murderous swine's presence.'
'Well, take it up with the Prime Minister. He employs him.'
'God save your honour,' Dillon said cheerfully. 'It's a blessing, the grand man like yourself allows me in the same room.'
'Oh, go to hell.'
Ferguson said, 'You'll remember Blake Johnson.'
'Yes, the American.' Carter offered a reluctant hand and turned to Ferguson. 'So what is this?'
'An IRA renegade named Brendan Murphy's up to no good, and I need to know what it is.'
'Nonsense, that's old hat, Ferguson. Murphy isn't a problem any longer, not since the peace process overwhelmed the land.'
'It's the great liar you are,' Dillon told him, and turned to Blake. 'This is the Deputy Director of the Security Services, a faceless man who never worked in the field himself.'
'Damn you, you Irish swine.' Carter was furious.
'Now, that's a racist remark,' Dillon said. 'I could take you to the tribunal.'
'Exactly,' Ferguson agreed. 'And as my sainted mother was Irish, then as a half-Irishman I take it very personally.'
'I'd say you've just insulted his mother's memory,' Blake put in.
'Could we get on with it?' Dillon asked. 'You lifted a man named Sean Regan at Heathrow three weeks ago, when his plane to Dublin was diverted because of fog. Why?'
'Don't be stupid, Dillon. He shot a military policeman in Londonderry a couple of years ago and fled. The policeman nearly died.'
'So you're going to stand Regan up on trial at the Old Bailey?' Ferguson asked.
'We might.'
'But you won't, because of the peace process. We're letting them out of prison now, not banging them up.'
Carter was strangely confused. 'Come on, Ferguson, we're in the hands of our political masters.'
'Not as far as I'm concerned. We're in the hands of the law. The truth is, you're holding Regan to squeeze anything you can out of him in case it may be of future use.'
'So what?'
'Not any more. Where are you holding him?' 'Wandsworth.' Carter answered as a reflex.
'Not any longer.' Ferguson produced a paper from his inside pocket. 'That's a warrant from me as head of the PM's security squad, authorizing me to, as quaint legal language has it, take possession of one Sean Regan.'
Carter was outraged. 'Now, look here, Ferguson.'
'No, you look here. The difference is that I did serve in the field. I was an eighteen-year-old second lieutenant in the Hook in Korea in fifty-two, and I've seen more villains here than you've had breakfasts. So don't argue. Just countersign the order. Here's my pen.'
He offered it and Carter took it, hand shaking, and signed the document. 'My turn will come, Ferguson.'
'I don't think so.' Ferguson blew on the ink. 'Now go away.'
Carter suddenly looked helpless, got up, and stumbled out. Blake said, 'Why is it I don't feel sorry for him?'
'Because he isn't worth it,' Ferguson said. 'So, gentlemen, Wandsworth Prison next stop.'
Ferguson, Dillon and Blake waited in the interview room at Wandsworth until the door was opened, and the kind of prison officer who looked as if he'd been a sergeant in a Guards regiment pushed Regan in.
Dillon said, 'Good man yourself, Sean.' He turned to the others. Always gave us a problem, the two of us being Sean.'
Regan said, 'Jesus, is that you, Dillon?'
'As ever was. Come to take you away from your cell and
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