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won’t ask what you two have been up to. I don’t know and I don’t want to. Just like last time, the Gulfstream will stand by here ready for an immediate exit at any time. I have a red Security One tag for each of you. It covers everything. You must be hot stuff. Even the station commander doesn’t have one of these.”
    Dillon said, “I’m sorry to hear of Sergeant Parker’s death.”
    “Most unfortunate. Happens all the time, I’m afraid. You won’t need anything like that this time. A Mr. Jack Savage is picking you up, I understand. We know him well.”
    “Is someone taking my name in vain?”
    They all turned and saw him standing in the mess doorway, medium height, roughly cut blond hair, a broken nose, a reefer coat over his arm.
    “Come in, you old bastard,” Robson said. “And that’s an order, Sergeant Major.”

    58

J A C K H I G G I N S
    S O M E O N E O N C E S A I D that in Baghdad, all the streets seemed to be some sort of market, although many of them seemed to be lucky to have any buildings left at all. And the peasants were still there, their donkeys carrying not just produce from the countryside, but everything from laptops to televisions, the detritus of war.
    They moved through narrow streets down toward the river, finally turning into a courtyard outside an old colonial house, with a fountain that still worked. A sign over the door traced out “The River Room”
    with bulbs. They got out and Savage snapped his fingers for two boys to grab the luggage and take it inside.
    “The sign?” Billy asked. “Does it still light up?”
    “I’m missing half a dozen bulbs; they’re special but it reminds me of London, the Savoy, the old River Room.”
    “Why do you stay?” Dillon asked. “These days it must be the ultimate way of living on the knife edge.”
    “That’s what I like about it. You can make money here like nowhere else on earth. Let’s go in.”
    They followed. It was shadowy, a floor of Arabic tiles, tables and chairs of cane. Even the bar was cane, with a mirror and what looked like every kind of bottle in the world stacked against it. The bartender, who stood polishing glasses, was big and fat, wearing a white shirt and pants, a scarlet belt of some kind around his middle.
    “What’s your pleasure?” Savage asked.
    “For Billy, nothing. He doesn’t indulge. I’ll have Bushmills Irish whiskey.”
    “Two, Farouk. Takes me back to Northern Ireland in the Troubles. So you’re the great Sean Dillon.”
    “And you’re the bad Jack Savage.” Dillon turned to Billy. “He had a lovely racket going. Chasing down gun runners on the one hand, then selling the proceeds to the Provisional IRA on the other.”

T H E K I L L I N G G R O U N D
    59
    “But not while I was in the Royal Marines, not while wearing the badge. That wouldn’t have been honorable.”
    “He’s big on honor.” Rawan Savage moved into the room. “I’ll have a large vodka—very large. God, it’s hot in here.” She walked out onto a wooden balcony and they followed.
    A couple of minutes later, Farouk was distributing the drinks.
    “Cheers. To new friends.” Rawan raised her glass and in a way seemed to swallow it whole, but that was only an illusion. She held it out to Farouk. Without saying a word, he turned and went back inside.
    The river wasn’t particularly busy. Below them, tied to the jetty, was the motor launch Eagle . Rawan said, “Just up there, a quarter of a mile, is Abdul Rashid’s place. Do you want to have a look?”
    “Shut up, Rawan,” Savage told her.
    “Yes, sir,” She gave him a mock salute.
    “Look, I won’t tell you again,” Savage said. “Drink up or shut up.
    Take your choice.”
    “Is that so?” She turned to Dillon. “Well, I know why you’re here and I don’t admire it.”
    “Is that so?” Dillon said.
    “Snatching a thirteen-year-old girl from her grandfather.”
    “Let’s keep to the facts,” Billy put in. “The said thirteen-year-old girl was