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“I don’t understand you.”

“You’d need to be Irish to understand us, Major, and it’s got nothing to do with religion. Sean Dillon is the best. They couldn’t touch his collar for years, not the RUC, not the British Army. D’you know how he ended up working for Ferguson? During the Serb War, he was flying medical supplies in for children, the Serbs caught him.”

“It’s what’s called a good deed in a naughty world,” Tod Murphy said. “He was faced with a firing squad – and Ferguson blackmailed him. He saved his skin, wiped his slate clean, and in return Sean became his enforcer. We all know the story.”

And Ashimov, in spite of his wealth of experience, was astonished. “And you don’t mind?”

Kelly said, “I told you. He was a comrade. The best. But if he got you in his sights, you were dead. Still would be.”

“So why do you want to know about him?” Kelly asked, and Ashimov told them.

When he had finished, Murphy said, “So this Ali Selim bowser is on the run in Iraq and you’ve got what’s-her-name, Greta Novikova, on his tail?”

“ Ferguson will have Sean on that one like a dose of salts,” Kelly put in. He turned to Tod Murphy. “Put your priest’s intellect on this. What’s your conclusion?”

“Quite simple. Ferguson doesn’t want a trial at the Old Bailey. The Muslims wouldn’t like that. He’s sent Sean to bring Selim back. A nice, quiet inquisition in some safe house in London, and you and Mr. Belov wouldn’t like that.”

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. But how would you two feel if I had trouble in London with Ferguson and his people? What would you say if I said I needed you? It would include taking on Dillon.”

They looked at each other and smiled.

“Ah, now,” said Murphy. “He was a comrade, to be sure. But that doesn’t mean there might not be a score or two to settle.”

“Things run well here, as you know,” Kelly said. “We do things our way and Belov’s money for the farmers keeps things sweet.”

Tod cut in. “But with the Peace Process, it gets awfully boring. What you suggest could be interesting.”

“But just so you realize,” Kelly added. “If there’s something Sean Dillon could give master classes in, it’s bloody mayhem.”

“So where would that leave you?”

“Oh, we’d give him a run for his money.” And Tod Murphy smiled.

It was later that day that President Jake Cazalet walked on the shore at Nantucket. He loved the old beach house with its seafront of beach and sand dunes, and came down whenever he could, certainly most weekends. The helicopter delivered him from Washington late on a Friday, picked him up again Sunday evening.

He had a cook and housekeeper in from the local town. No fuss and good plain cooking, he would say. He’d always insisted that only two Secret Service men accompany him and one always had to be Clancy Smith. The other usually handled communications.

Even with only two minders, however, the security around him was electronically state-of-the-art, especially since the assassination attempt on him three years before while running through the nearby marsh.

He was walking on the beach now with his beloved flat-coated retriever, Murchison, and with Clancy Smith. The surf boiled, the sky was slate gray, rain showering in so hard that the two men each carried an umbrella. They paused for Clancy to light the President’s cigarette.

“It feels good to get away from everything, Mr. President.”

“My God, but it does. The smell of that salt in the air is really something.”

“It sure is.”

In the distance came the unmistakable sound of a helicopter approaching. Clancy said, “That will be Blake coming in, sir.”

“And our English cousins,” Cazalet said. “It always gives me a strange feeling when I hear those things.” He looked along to where the helicopter was dropping in on the beach. “Takes me right back to Vietnam.” He flicked his cigarette away. “Okay, let’s go and greet our guests.”

Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein sat together on the other side of the coffee table by the fire, Cazalet facing them, Clancy leaning against the wall by the French windows behind. Murchison lay on the rug, watching.

Cazalet said, “I read Major Roper’s report on Josef Belov with interest, if that’s the right word. I’ve spoken to the Prime Minister only briefly, for obvious reasons.”

“Which is why he thought it a good idea that we talk, Mr. President.”

“Thank God we do, otherwise I could have been dead on that sidewalk in Manhattan. It could have succeeded so easily. I’ll never understand it, the drive to assassinate.”

“Actually, the Superintendent knows a bit about it,” said Ferguson. “She has a master’s degree in psychology.”

Cazalet said, “Superintendent?”

“Motive, sir, is the basic requirement.”

“And hate,” Cazalet said. “Deep conviction.”

“Not always,” she replied. “For one kind of assassin, professional, the motive is usually money, and a target like you would be a big payday. But the money is no good if he doesn’t survive. It’s often a Day of the Jackal kind of thing for them – meticulous planning and a guaranteed exit.”

Cazalet nodded. “And the other kind?”

“Usually the most successful. You’ll remember President Reagan, shot at close quarters by a man in the crowd who knew he would stand no chance of getting away.”

“So we’re back with what I said in the first place. The motive is hate, deep conviction.”

“And often a genuine religious belief. It’s interesting that the word assassin is derived from the Arabic. During the Middle Ages, members of various cults under the influence of hashish attempted to kill many leaders of the Crusades.”

“Jewish zealots in biblical times used the same tactics on the Romans,” Ferguson put in.

Hannah said, “It can derive from a feeling of deep frustration, Mr. President. It was Lenin who said the purpose of terrorism is to terrorize. It’s the only way a small country can fight against an empire.”

“That was one of Michael Collins’s favorite sayings when he led the IRA back in 1920 against the British,” Ferguson said.

Cazalet nodded. “All very interesting, but how does it explain Morgan?”

“I don’t know any religion on earth that doesn’t have its extremists,” Hannah said. “Right through history, and usually those extremists are the kind of people who are extremely good at brainwashing others, particularly young people.”

“Into becoming assassins, suicide bombers?” Cazalet shook his head.

“Of course, the religious leaders who spread the word are usually reluctant to put themselves on the line.”

“Understandably.” Cazalet got up. “I arranged a light lunch with cook and gave her the afternoon off. I wanted us to have privacy. It’s waiting for us in the kitchen. Lead the way, Clancy. You’ll join us, of course.”

The conversation over lunch was much more social and pleasant, ranging from what was worth seeing on the West End stage to Cazalet and Hannah comparing student days at Harvard and Cambridge.

Cazalet turned to Ferguson. “Did you go to university, General?”

“Too busy. I always intended to, but we had conscription then. After two years in the army, I got a taste for it, I suppose. I was eighteen and Communist Arabs were shooting at me, so when they offered me a commission…” He shrugged. “It seemed the natural thing to do.”

“All those rotten little wars,” Hannah couldn’t help saying. “You couldn’t get enough.”

“Ah, there speaks the psychologist,” Ferguson said cheerfully. “But not my rotten little wars, my dear. All the way through, and that includes Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Kosovo and the two Gulf Wars, I was a member of that happy band of brothers called soldiers who take care of those things from which the general public turns its face. I’ve always liked to think it an honorable profession.” He smiled at Cazalet and Clancy. “Of course, I do not include the marines in that sentiment.”