Justin had been at Talbot Place for the summer holidays and she had joined him for a couple of weeks before returning to London for the start of the autumn term at school. He had been terribly upset at the death of his friend. There was no question of them attending the funeral; even Mary Ellen admitted that. The deaths of all those Highlanders made it impossible, and yet Justin had gone of his own accord, had stood at Sean Kelly's graveside, had been hugged and thanked by all the Kellys, and admitted to the clan. The priest, Father Michael Cassidy, had also blessed him for it.

The confrontation at Talbot Place had been terrible, such was Colonel Henry's rage. He'd slapped Justin across the face, called him a damn traitor, and Jean had pulled her father off and called him a bully and a bigot. Justin had shouted at him, called him a Prod bastard, and said he would join the IRA if he only could. Every servant in the house had heard it. Jean Talbot and her son left for London within the hour. There was a long break for a while. Eventually, Mary Ellen smoothed things over, but Jean visited rarely after that. Her gradual success with her painting, the fact that she'd been commissioned to do a portrait of the Queen Mother, meant nothing to her father.

With Justin, it was different. He was, after all, the heir, and when he chose Sandhurst Royal Military Academy instead of university, and embarked on an army career, the Colonel had been delighted.

Justin made one thing clear, though. After finishing at Sandhurst and joining the Grenadier Guards, he'd visited the Kilmartin Arms and given his oath to Jack Kelly that he would never fight against them in Ulster.

In any event, there was enough happening elsewhere to keep him occupied. Jean knew that he'd flown for the Army Air Corps, helicopters and light aircraft all over the world. She also knew that he'd served with the SAS, but only because-many years earlier when he'd been spending a week's leave with her in Mayfair-a dispatch rider had delivered an envelope. A recall to duty at once, Justin had told her, and had gone off to pack leaving the letter on the desk in the study. She'd read it, of course, and discovered for the first time that he was serving with 22 SAS. She hadn't mentioned it; there was no point as he hadn't told her.

Not that it mattered now. All that was over. Afghanistan had seen to it, and he had survived, covered with glory, wounded and decorated and alive, which was something to be thankful for these days. The business trips to Pakistan and the North-West Frontier were only something to do. He needed action of some sort, it was his nature, and she'd long since come to terms with the fact that women were something he could never take seriously.

So here she was back at the Place again because of a call from Hannah Kelly, the housekeeper, to tell her Colonel Henry'd had another bad turn, and that was something you couldn't ignore where a ninety-five-year-old man was concerned. She'd flown over at once, seen him with Dr Larry Ryan, and there was little comfort from him. One of these days, the bad turn would carry Colonel Henry off, and perhaps that would be in his own best interests, but not this time. So, she faced the prospect of a miserable day or so with a half-mad old man in his dotage, shouting one insult after another at the servants, in language out of the gutter, sitting in his wheelchair in that conservatory that was like a miniature jungle, a decanter of Cognac and a glass on the cane table beside him.

She looked at her watch and saw with a start that she'd been sitting there a long time. She rose, dreading the return to the house, and then like a miracle, her mobile sounded as she started down the track to the house, and Nell barked frantically. 'It's me,' Justin told her. 'I've just got off the plane at Heathrow, tried you in London and got your message. How is he?'

'Still with us and even more dreadful than usual. How was your trip?'

'Wonderful. There's so much going on up there on the border; loads of companies vying with one another. The war inflates everything; it's like a bad movie. You're lucky to get a hotel bed. I've got to call in at the office, meet with Sir Hedley and inform him how things went.'

She was disappointed. 'I was so hoping to see you.'

'So you shall. I'll drive out to Frensham. We've got four planes parked there. I think I'll use the Beech Baron.'

'I haven't flown in that,' she said.

'A new acquisition. Twin engine, can carry six, and it takes off and lands on grass, so I'll be able to land at Drumgoole Aero Club. No need to feel down, Mum. I'll be with you later in the afternoon.'

'All I can say is, thank God, darling.'

'See you soon.' He switched off, leaving her there on the track, suddenly unbelievably happy.

After dropping Dillon off at Holland Park, Miller had continued on to Dover Street and got some sleep. Since his wife's murder the previous year, in a bomb attack aimed at Miller himself, he had lived alone, managing with just a daily housekeeper, a Jamaican widow named Lily Pond, who saw Miller as a tragic figure who needed mothering.

Miller was in his study, working on the stack of mail, when his Codex sounded and Ferguson said, 'The Prime Minister's decided he wants you with me.'

'Can I ask why?'

'I don't know, Harry. I suppose he wants your opinion as well as mine. You are known in the House as the Prime Minister's Rottweiler. So, get your arse down here doublequick.'

'Twenty minutes,' Miller said, and called Arthur to get the car. He found Ferguson sitting outside the PM's study in conversation with Cabinet Secretary Henry Frankel, a good friend to Miller in bad times.

'You're looking fit, Harry.' He shook hands. 'So you've been visiting the great man himself in Washington?'

'If you say so, Henry,' Miller answered.

'I know the General thinks I'm a terrible gossip, but it's not true, love. Let's face it, all the world's secrets flow through here.'

'Yes, well, save them for your memoirs,' Ferguson told him. 'Do we go in now?'

'Of course, now that Harry's arrived.' Frankel crossed the corridor and opened the door. 'I've examined all the material your Major Roper has put together,' the PM said, 'and I'm not surprised the President was so disturbed.'

'We all are, Prime Minister,' Ferguson told him. 'I believe it to be one of the gravest matters I've put before you for some time.'

The Prime Minister was obviously concerned, and turned to Miller. 'What do you think?'

'I'd say it's a small number of people we're talking about, British Muslims in Afghanistan. But it's a pattern all over the world, isn't it, Islamic extremism? There is a Muslim saying: Beauty is like a flag in the city.'

The PM nodded. 'The green flag of Islam flying over Downing Street?'

'Flying over a damn sight more than that,' Ferguson said. 'I'd say we've got to do something about it.'

'I agree.' The PM nodded. 'But individual young Muslim men buying a plane ticket to Pakistan is one thing, a system that facilitates this is quite another. Does such an organization exist? That's what we need to find out. The man who calls himself Shamrock could be the key here. Find him and we may be able to discover the rest.'

'Of course, Prime Minister.' Ferguson got up, as did Miller. 'We'll get on with it.'

The door opened and they left, passing Henry Frankel, who stood to one side and winked at Miller. Both their limousines were waiting outside.

Miller said, 'Where do we start then?'

Ferguson glanced at his watch. It was noon exactly. 'I could use a drink. Tell Fox to deliver you to the Garrick Club.'