He stripped his clothes off, left them in the laundry basket, showered and shaved, pulled on a terry-cloth robe, and went down to the kitchen. He ate two bananas, drank a glass of cold milk from the refrigerator, went into his study, sat at his computer, and produced his report. Satisfied, he went upstairs and changed, ready for Arthur exactly on time as ordered.

He called in at Downing Street, showing his face at the Cabinet Office, where he was greeted with enthusiasm by Henry Frankel, a good friend who had smoothed the way for Miller in many ways in the terrible days following the death of his wife.

"You look well, Harry. How was Vladimir?"

"Worrying, Henry. To be honest, I think I find him rather impressive on occasion, and I'm not supposed to."

"Certainly not."

Miller handed him his report. "All there, but I expect the PM saw it on television."

"Not the same, sweetheart," said Henry, his gayness breaking through occasionally. "Who believes in TV anymore? You've got a genius for seeing things as they really are."

"Lermov was with Putin. I hear he's the new Head of Station in Kensington."

"I believe he's expected this weekend. I wonder what they've done with Boris Luzhkov?"

"God knows," Miller said. There were few things Henry Frankel didn't know about, but Boris Luzhkov ending up dead in the Thames was one of them.

"The boss is in, and he's expecting this, so I'll deliver it now. He said you're to wait, so help yourself. Coffee, all kinds of tea, juices. We've got a miracle machine now. Just press the right button."

Which Miller did and also glanced at the Times. Frankel was in and out several times, but it was thirty-five minutes before he came over to him and smiled.

"Everything on the go this morning, but he'll see you now." Miller followed him. Frankel opened the door of the office and stood to one side.

"Come in, Harry." The PM was behind his desk. "Take a chair. First-class report."

"Thank you, Prime Minister. Putin didn't say anything he hasn't said before, but he does have this dangerous gift of sounding quite reasonable."

"As I know, to my cost, but I must tell you that I've had Charles Ferguson on the phone. A terrible business, this incident with his car and the death of the driver."

"I don't know what the General has told you, Prime Minister, but it now seems certain that the driver was party to the whole affair. It would seem likely that the device, whatever it was, exploded prematurely, unfortunately for him. General Ferguson is handling the matter as if it was an accident, not a bomb, so there should be no problem with the media."

"Yes, that's the last thing we need. Ferguson's also filled me in on the unfortunate business on Long Island, and on your own brush with death in Central Park." He sighed. "Trouble follows you everywhere I send you-Kosovo, Washington, Lebanon. You always end up shooting someone. You are the most irregular Member of Parliament I have ever known."

"Hardly my fault, Prime Minister, when you send me to places where people are liable to do a bit of shooting themselves."

"A valid point. All those years in the Intelligence Corps dealing with the wild men of Ulster made you spectacularly good at violent solutions. Your decision to leave the army on your father's death and put yourself up for his seat in Parliament has proved most fortuitous, although it would have been slightly more convenient if we'd both been members of the same political party."

"Well, you can't have everything," Miller said.

"I'm aware of that. No one in the Cabinet has any kind of military experience whatsoever, which is why I broke the rules and made you an under-secretary of state. You can be, on occasion, a thoroughly ruthless bastard, and there are times when that's something that's needed."

"But I am attached to you, Prime Minister, and that makes all the difference."

"Flattery gets you nowhere, Miller. I'm due in the House soon, so you've got fifteen minutes to explain this whole damn mess and what you and Ferguson intend to do about it."

Which Miller did, rapidly and fluently, covering everything. "That's it, I think."

"And quite enough. Prayer cards, killings, a bombing, and, to top all that, this suggestion of an IRA link. That can't be possible. I've enough on my plate with all these banks failing, plus the worst recession in years. I know there are a few crackpot organizations out there still demanding a United Ireland, but enough is enough. Sort it, Harry, sort it-and quickly."

He stood up, the door opened behind Miller as he rose, and Henry Frankel ushered him out.

"How do you know when people are leaving?" Dillon asked. "Are you a magician or something?"

"Absolutely, love. Take care." Miller went out, calling Arthur on his mobile.

"As soon as you like, and we'll make it Holland Park."

Dillon, after a shower and change, went to the canteen, where he discovered Roper, hair still damp, sitting in his wheelchair in a blue tracksuit, enjoying breakfast and immensely cheerful. Ferguson was sitting opposite, enjoying scrambled eggs.

"There you are, you devil, what went on in New York, then? You were supposed to be his minder. It's a miracle he was wearing that ankle holster."

"Which I knew nothing about."

Maggie Hall entered with scrambled eggs, and withdrew.

"Diplomatic immunity covered us when we landed in the Gulfstream, obviously, but he couldn't have worn it to the UN."

"Probably just a whim," Ferguson said. "There's no question of him going into Parliament with it, but I suspect he does in other places in London." He glanced at Dillon. "Do you agree?"

Dillon reached down to his right ankle and produced a Colt.25. "All the rage, these days. I wouldn't be without one."

Roper said, "A damn good job he was carrying when he took that walk in the park."

Dillon reached for toast and marmalade, and said cheerfully, "Oh, I suspect he'd have thought of something ghastly as an alternative. A man of infinite resource and guile, our Harry."

"You can say that again." He took a piece of Dillon's toast, and his Codex sounded. It was Billy Salter. "That you, Roper? I'm at the Dark Man. We've had a right old business down here. Some geezer tried a little arson in the early hours."

Roper waved a hand at the others, and turned his Codex on speaker. "Say again, Billy?"

"We'd all gone to bed early-Ruby, Harry, me, Joe Baxter, and Sam Hall," he continued, naming the Salters' minders. "Joe was still dressed and watching a late-night movie on television when he heard a noise from the bar. He knocked on Sam's door to alert him, then smelt petrol, so he moved into the bar, turned on the lights, and found this guy emptying a can of petrol all over the place, the till rifled, cash drawers open."

"Who was it?"

"How do I know? They're just fishing him out of the Thames. He was wearing a black tracksuit and ski mask, Joe said, and he looked like a terrorist from central casting. Joe had his Smith and Wesson with him. He wasn't keen on firing, in case the petrol ignited, so the guy threw the can at him and legged it. Sam had joined Joe by then, and they went after him."

"What happened?"

"The old Ford van at the end of the wharf? It always has a key in it, not worth stealing. I reckon he'd checked it out previously, because he ran straight for it, was in and driving off, but the wrong way. There was no place to turn, and he simply ran over the edge of the wharf in the dark."

"With him in it?"

"The police are here now. They'll have a recovery team get the truck later, but a police diver's been down, and he's found the guy. He's gone down again with another diver to try and get him. Harry's here, and he'd like a word."