JUST BEFORE THREE the River Queen passed under Westminster Bridge and turned, fighting the surging tide. The deck lights were out, only a subdued light in the wheelhouse. Dillon’s gear was laid out in the stern and Salter stood there with him.
“I’m going to take over from Billy at the wheel. When he comes down here he’ll have a two-way radio. You hang off at the stern. You’ll be okay as far as the propellers go. With the design of this boat they’re well underneath.”
“Then what?”
“At what I consider the right moment I’ll call Billy on the radio, and when he gives you the shout, you go. If I get it right, the current should bang you against the Terrace. If I don’t, God help you.”
“Thanks, Harry.” Dillon grinned. “You’re a hell of a fella.”
“Get stuffed, you bloody lunatic,” Salter told him and walked away.
Dillon turned to Hall and Baxter, who stood waiting. “All right, lads, let’s get this lot on.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, he hung on a line from the stern rail, his two equipment bags trailing from his belt, aware of Billy leaning over the rail above him. They were in the shadows, the water very turbulent, and Dillon was conscious of the fierceness of the current. And then Billy called down to him and he let go the line.
HE WENT DOWN five or six feet and the force of the current was incredible, like a great hand seizing him in a relentless grip. He was thrown to the surface, was aware of the River Queen disappearing into the dark, of the lights of the Victorian lamps on the terrace, and then he went under again. A moment later he banged against the stonework of the Terrace, surfaced, and cannoned into the scaffolding that dropped down into the water at the division of the Lords and Commons.
He hung there for a long moment and then unbuckled his inflatable and air tank and let the current take them. He did the same with his fins and mask, paused, then started to climb. He went over the parapet, trailing his two equipment bags, and crouched in the shadows.
A door opened further along the Terrace and a security guard appeared. He walked forward, stood at the parapet, and lit a cigarette, the smoke pungent on the damp air. Dillon waited for five agonizing minutes until finally the man tossed the stub of his cigarette into the river, turned, and went back inside.
Dillon unfastened the lines of his equipment bags, then unzipped his diving suit and stood there naked except for swimming trunks. He dropped the diving suit into the river, then picked up the equipment bags and went to the side of the Terrace Bar where there were storerooms. He opened the small equipment bag, took out the Halogen lamp, and opened the purse containing the picklocks. He switched on the lamp and went to work. It took him less than five minutes and the door opened.
He made a quick exploration. There were stacks of towels and tablecloths, cartons of wine glasses. There were also two toilets and a washbasin in another room at the rear. He opened the larger equipment bag, took out the clothes it contained, and a towel he had put in. He dried himself thoroughly, took off the swimming trunks, and dressed in the waiter’s clothes he had brought.
He checked his watch. It was now a quarter to four. Depending on what time the Terrace staff started, he had about four to five hours to kill. There was a sizeable stock cupboard with various kinds of linen inside. There was no 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 – canapés 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 canapés 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 canapé 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 canapé 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?”