"Not your fault, old son," he said softly. "Not your fault at all." As he got to his feet, the first police car roared into the street. In New York, Harry Miller and Sean Dillon were enjoying a drink in the wood-paneled Oak Bar of the Plaza Hotel, where they were sharing a suite.

"I like this place," Dillon said. "The Edwardian splendor of it. They say it was Mark Twain's home away from home. I had a drink in this very bar on my first trip to New York." The small Irishman was wearing slacks of black velvet corduroy and a black Armani shirt that seemed to complement the hair, so fair it was almost white. He looked calm and relaxed, with the half smile of a man who couldn't take the world seriously.

"The IRA must have been generous with their expenses. I presume you were after some wretched informer on the run from Belfast?"

"As a matter of fact, I was," Dillon said, still smiling. "Another one?"

"Why not, but then you'd better get changed. You are, after all, representing the British Government at the UN. I think I'll stretch my legs while you do."

Miller was dressed formally in a navy blue suit, a blue trench coat on the seat beside him. He was a little under six feet, with saturnine gray eyes, dark brown hair, and a scar bisecting his left cheek.

"God bless Your Honor for reminding me, the simple Irish boy I am. What do you think Putin's up to?"

"God knows," Miller said. "If he thought his presence at the UN was going to force the President and the Prime Minister to attend as well, he's been sadly misinformed."

The waiter provided two more Bushmills whiskeys and departed. Dillon said gloomily, "Sometimes I wonder what the UN is for anymore. Not enough muscle, I suppose."

"Well, it has eighteen acres of land alongside the East River, and its own police force, fire department, and post office," Miller said. "I suppose they'll have to be content with that." He swallowed his whiskey, stood up, and pulled on his trench coat. "I'm going across the street for a stroll in Central Park. The Embassy car will be here in an hour."

"Better take care. That place can be tricky."

"That was then, this is now, Sean. These days, New York is safer than London."

"If you say so, Major." Dillon toasted him. "See you later." Miller accepted the offer of an umbrella from the doorman, crossed to Central Park, and entered. There were few people around in the fading light of late afternoon just before the early evening darkness.

He realized suddenly that he was alone, except for voices somewhere in the distance, a dog barking hollowly, and then the footfalls of someone running up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. A man in a dark green tracksuit, wearing gloves and a knitted cap, came up fast and swerved to one side. He said hello and kept on going, turning through the trees at the end of the path. A moment later, he reappeared, paused to look at Miller, then walked forward.

Miller dropped his umbrella as if by accident and, under cover of picking it up, reached down and found the Colt.25 in the ankle holder. He straightened up, raised the umbrella again, and turned to go.

The man called, "Hey, you, we've got business to discuss."

He ran forward, then slowed, his right hand sliding into a pocket of his tracksuit.

"And what would that be?" Miller asked.

"Wallet, cards, mobile phone. In any order you please." He was up close now, his right hand still in his pocket.

Miller took two quick steps so that the two of them were good and close, then held the silenced Colt almost touching the man's left knee and fired. The man cried out, lurching back as Miller pushed him towards a park bench at the side of the park.

"Oh, Jesus," the man cried, and Miller reached in the tracksuit pocket and found a silenced pistol, which he tossed into the bushes.

"Wallet, cards, mobile phone, wasn't that what you said?"

The man had grasped his knee with both hands, blood pumping through. "What have you done to me? They didn't say it would be like this."

"I've crippled you, you bastard," Miller said. "Hollow-point cartridges. Now, speak up, or I'll give it to you in the other knee as well. Who's 'they'?"

"I don't know. I'm a free lance. People contact me, I provide a service."

"You mean you're a professional hit man?"

"That's it. I got a call. I don't know who it was. There was a package, I don't know who from. A photo of you staying at the Plaza, with instructions, and two thousand dollars in hundreds."

"And you don't know who the client was? That's hard to believe. Why would they trust you?"

"You mean trust me with the money? That's the way it works. Take the money and run, and I'd be the target next time. Now, for the love of God, man, help me."

"Where's the money?"

"In the bank."

"Well, there you go," Miller said. "I'll keep your wallet and cards and leave you your mobile. Call an ambulance and say you've been mugged. No point in trying to involve me. For what you tried to pull, you'd get twenty years in Ossining, or maybe you've already done time there? Maybe you're a three-time loser."

"Just fuck off," the man said.

"Yes, I thought you'd say that." Miller turned and walked rapidly away, leaving the man to make his call.

In the two-bedroom suite they were sharing at the Plaza, Dillon was standing at his bathroom mirror adjusting a tie as black as his shirt. His jacket, like his slacks, was black corduroy, and he reached for it and pulled it on.

"Will I do?" he asked as Miller walked in the door.

"In that outfit, Putin is going to think the undertaker's come for him."

"Away with you. You hardly ever see old Vladimir wearing anything but a black suit. It's his personal statement."

"The hard man, you mean? Never mind that now. We need to talk."

"What about?"

Miller put his right foot on the edge of the bathtub, eased up the leg of his slacks, and removed the ankle holder.

"What the hell is that for?" Dillon said. "I'd like to remind you it's the United Nations we're going to. You wouldn't have got inside the door wearing that."

"True, but I never intended to try. On the other hand, a walk in Central Park is quite another matter, it seems, so it's a good thing I was carrying."

As always with Dillon, it was as if a shadow passed across his face that in the briefest of moments changed his entire personality.

"Tell me."

Miller did, brief and succinct, because of the soldier in him, and, when he was finished, he took out the wallet he'd taken from his assailant and offered it.

"A folded computer photo of me, no credit cards, a Social Security card, plus a driver's license in the name of Frank Barry, with an address in Brooklyn. I doubt any of it is genuine, but there you are. I need a shower and a fresh shirt, and we're short on time."

He cleared off to his own bedroom, and Dillon took the items from the wallet and unfolded the computer photo. It showed Miller walking on a relatively crowded pavement, one half of a truck in view and, behind it, the side of a London cab. Now, where had that come from? A long way from Central Park.

Dillon went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey, thinking of Frank Barry, the hit man. Poor bastard, he hadn't known what he was up against. Miller was hardly your usual politician. He'd served in the British Army during some of the worst years of the Irish Troubles, for some of that time an apparent deskman in the Intelligence Corps. But Dillon knew the truth. Miller had long ago decided that summary justice was the only way to fight terrorism. Since the death of his wife, the victim of a terrorist attack aimed at Miller himself, he had grown even more ruthless.

Dillon folded the computer photo and tried to slide it back into the wallet. It refused to go because there was something there. He fiddled about and managed to pull out a card that was rather ornate, gold around the edges, with a sentiment inscribed in curling type. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.