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cards on their lapels and he grinned and passed a plastic box to one of the Secret Servicemen as they reached the arch. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance, but there’s two hundred knives, spoons and forks in there. It might blow a fuse on that thing.’

      ‘Give it to me and you go through,’ the Secret Serviceman said.

      They negotiated the arch and he opened the plastic box and riffled the cutlery with his hand. At that moment several limousines drew up.

      ‘For Christ’s sake, man, it’s the Israeli Prime Minister,’ his colleague called.

      The Secret Serviceman said to Ahern, ‘You’ll have to leave this box. On your way.’

      ‘Suit yourself.’ Ahern went up the gangplank followed by Norah. At the top he simply slipped through a door and, following a plan of the ship he had memorized, led the way to a toilet area.

      ‘Wait here,’ he told Norah and went into the men’s restroom marked number four.

      There was a man washing his hands. Ahern started to wash his hands also. The moment the man left, he went to the red fire bucket in the corner, scrabbled in the sand and found two Walthers wrapped in cling film, each with a silencer on the end. He slipped one into the waistband of his trousers at the rear and concealed the other inside his uniform blazer. When he went outside he checked that no one was around for the moment and passed the second Walther to Norah, who slipped it into the inside breast pocket of her blazer under the left armpit.

      ‘Here we go,’ he said.

      At that moment a voice with a heavy Italian accent called, ‘You two, what are you doing?’ When they turned a grey-haired man in a black coat and striped trousers was coming along the corridor. ‘Who sent you?’

      Ahern, already sure of his facts, said, ‘Signor Orsini. We were supposed to be at the buffet at the French Embassy, but he told us to come here at the last minute. He thought you might be short-handed.’

      ‘And he’s right.’ The head waiter turned to Norah. ‘Canapés for you and wine for you,’ he added to Ahern. ‘Up the stairs on the left. Now get moving,’ and he turned and hurried away.

      The Prime Minister and the President had already boarded and the crew were about to slip the gangway when Ferguson, Dillon and Hannah drew up in the Daimler. Ferguson led the way, hurrying up the gangway, and two Secret Servicemen moved to intercept him.

      ‘Brigadier Ferguson. Is Colonel Candy here?’

      A large, grey-haired man in a black suit and striped tie hurried along the deck. ‘It’s all right. Is there a problem, Brigadier?’

      ‘These are aides of mine, Dillon and Chief Inspector Bernstein.’ Behind him the gangway went down as the crew cast off and the Jersey Lily started to edge out into the Thames. ‘I’m afraid there could be. The explosion this morning? We now believe it to be a subterfuge. You’ve had a photo of this man Ahern. Please alert all your men. He could well be on the boat.’

      ‘Right.’ Candy didn’t argue and turned to the two Secret Servicemen. ‘Jack, you take the stern, George, go up front. I’ll handle the President. Alert everybody.’

      They all turned and hurried away. Ferguson said, ‘Right, let’s try to be useful in our own small way, shall we?’

      There was music on the night air provided by a jazz quartet up in the prow, people crowding around, mainly politicians and staff from the London embassies, the President, the Prime Minister and the Israeli Prime Minister moving among them, waiters and waitresses offering wine and canapés to everyone.

      ‘It’s a nightmare,’ Ferguson said.

      Candy appeared, running down a companionway. ‘The big three will all say a few words in about ten minutes. After that we continue down past the Houses of Parliament and disembark at Westminster Pier.’

      ‘Fine.’ Ferguson turned to Dillon as the American hurried away. ‘This is hopeless.’

      ‘Maybe he’s not here,’ Hannah said. ‘Perhaps you’re wrong, Dillon.’

      It was as if he wasn’t listening to her. ‘He’d have to have a way out.’ He turned to Ferguson. ‘The stern, let’s look at the stern.’

      He led the way to the rear of the ship quickly, pushing people out of the way, and leaned over the stern rail. After a moment he turned. ‘He’s here.’

      ‘How do you know?’ Ferguson demanded.

      Dillon reached over and hauled in a line and an inflatable with an outboard motor came into view. ‘That’s his way out,’ he said. ‘Or it was.’ He reached over, opened the snap link that held the line, and the inflatable vanished into the darkness.

      ‘Now what?’ Hannah demanded.

      At that moment a voice over the Tannoy system said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Prime Minister.’

      Dillon said, ‘He isn’t the kind to commit suicide, so he wouldn’t walk up to him in the crowd.’ He looked up at the wheelhouse perched on top of the ship, three levels of decks below it. ‘That’s it. It has to be.’

      He ran for the steps leading up, Hannah at his heels, Ferguson struggling behind. He looked along the first deck, which was deserted, and started up the steps to the next. As he reached it, the Prime Minister said over the Tannoy, ‘I’m proud to present to you the President of the United States.’

      At the same moment as Dillon reached the deck he saw Michael Ahern open the saloon door at the far end and enter, followed by Norah Bell carrying a tray covered by a white napkin.

      The saloon was deserted. Ahern moved forward and looked down through the windows to the forward deck where the President stood at the microphone, the British and Israeli Prime Ministers beside him. Ahern eased one of the windows open and took out his gun.

      The door opened gently behind him and Dillon moved in, his Walther ready. ‘Jesus, Michael, but you never give up, do you?’

      Ahern turned, the gun against his thigh. ‘Sean Dillon, you old bastard,’ and then his hand swung up.

      Dillon shot him twice in the heart, a double thud of the silenced pistol that drove him back against the bulkhead. Norah Bell stood there, frozen, clutching the tray.

      Dillon said, ‘Now, if there was a pistol under that napkin and you were thinking about reaching for it, I’d have to kill you, Norah, and neither of us would like that, you being a decent Irish girl. Just put the tray down.’

      Very slowly, Norah Bell did as she was told and placed the tray on the nearest table. Dillon turned, the Walther swinging from his right hand, and said to Ferguson and Hannah, ‘There you go, all’s well that ends well.’

      Behind him Norah hitched up her skirt, pulled the flick knife from her stocking and sprang the blade, plunging it into his back. Dillon reared up in agony and dropped his Walther.

      ‘Bastard!’ Norah cried, pulled out the knife and thrust it into him again.

      Dillon lurched against the table and hung there for a moment. Norah raised the knife to strike a third blow and Hannah Bernstein dropped to one knee, picked up Dillon’s Walther and shot her in the centre of the forehead. At the same moment Dillon slipped from the table and rolled on to his back.

      It was around midnight at the London Clinic, one of the world’s greatest hospitals, and Hannah Bernstein sat in the first-floor reception area close to Dillon’s room. She was tired, which in the circumstances was hardly surprising, but a diet of black coffee and cigarettes had kept her going. The door at the end of the corridor swung open and, to her astonishment, Ferguson entered followed by the President and Colonel Candy.

      ‘The President was returning to the American Embassy,’ Ferguson told her.

      ‘But in the circumstances I felt I should look in. You’re Chief Inspector Bernstein, I understand.’ The President took her hand. ‘I’m eternally grateful.’

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