“Beautiful place,” said Admiral Morgan to James, the young man who was supervising the luggage.

“One of the best views in England,” he said. “Shall I take your bags up to your room? We’re not really a regular hotel, just two suites for VIPs, which I imagine you must be.”

“Not us,” said Arnold. “We’re just a couple of strays with no other hotel room, looking for a place to stay for two or three days.”

“Absolutely,” chuckled James. “Nearly everyone who comes here arrives in a Royal Air Force private helicopter from the Queen’s Flight.”

At this moment, a police car came swiftly down the steep, winding approach to the Leatherne Bottel to check that all was well. The sergeant asked to see the manager, to stress the importance of privacy and secrecy for the guests. He told her that a limousine from the U.S. embassy would be arriving shortly, with two more security men, and that the four agents would share the second suite.

James led the admiral and Kathy back out to the terrace and seated them at a table right on the riverbank beneath a pergola. It was just one o’clock and the sun was high. Only an hour and forty minutes had elapsed since the Hamas general had tried to assassinate Arnold Morgan.

“I’ll bring you some lunch, if you wish,” said James. “How about some fillets of plaice and spinach? Chef’s just cooking it now.”

“Perfect,” said Kathy.

“How about a roast beef sandwich with mayonnaise and mustard?” asked the admiral.

“Shut up, darling,” said Kathy, and then, turning back to James, “Two plaice and spinach. Ignore him.”

Arnold chuckled. He was always amused at being bullied by the only person in the world who even interrupted him, never mind argued.

James hesitated, but Arnold confirmed, “She’s the boss. Well… mostly. And would you give the guys whatever they want? Everything’s on my tab.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” he replied. “We were told specifically that every last charge would be handled by the U.S. ambassador’s office in London.”

“Guess I’m more popular than I thought,” said Arnold.

Meanwhile, Ravi and Shakira were still driving north and had reached the Hertfordshire town of Baldock, where he pulled into the parking lot of the King’s Arms Hotel. Ravi took out his cell phone and tapped in the numbers for the Ritz Hotel.

“Would it be possible to speak to Admiral Arnold Morgan?” he said.

The operator was silent for a few seconds, and then said, “I’m sorry, sir. The admiral and Mrs. Morgan checked out more than an hour ago.”

“Did they leave a forwarding number or address?”

“I’m sorry, sir. We have no further information on that.”

Ravi, who had been timing the call on his watch, clicked off his phone. It had taken twenty-five seconds, and Ravi knew full well it would have taken the police around fifteen seconds to log into the call, and perhaps trace geographically the cell phone’s position.

He knew it had run too long, but he needed to know the admiral had left the hotel. The police, who he guessed correctly were already tapped into the Ritz switchboard, probably now knew someone had called the admiral from the Hertfordshire area.

This meant he had to get out of the area, and he backed out onto the main road, and headed up to Cambridge, to a city he knew slightly, and to an anonymous hotel. They had to go somewhere, and he had to find out the whereabouts of the admiral. Otherwise everything would have been for nothing.

The journey took around an hour, and they located the Sheraton out on the edge of the city, checked in for the night under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Barden. Ravi ’s impeccable English accent eliminated the need for passports. They ordered coffee and biscuits in their room, and sat down to work out a plan to locate Admiral Morgan.

After a half hour, there was only one name that had not been discarded. It was that of Emily Gallagher, who a) obviously knew where the Morgans were going and b) might tell a friend of the admiral’s. She would most definitely not tell Carla Martin, who had let her down so badly over Charlie and Kipper and who might have murdered the owner of the Brockhurst garage.

So far as Ravi could tell, either he located the admiral and his wife, or the entire mission, with its vast expense and three murders, was on the verge of being aborted. Arnold Morgan could be anywhere. Maybe even at another hotel in London. But wherever he was, security would surround him. In Ravi’s opinion, there was not much difference from trying to take him out in England or in the USA. The risks were huge, there was an American security presence, and everyone involved was taking the matter extremely seriously. Especially the British police.

Ravi wrote off the possibility of using official channels. Anyone making any inquiries whatsoever would immediately come under suspicion by those hard-eyed London cops. The only chance was family, and that meant Emily Gallagher.

He told Shakira he would make one call only, since he was confident that Emily’s phone would now be tapped by the FBI. He had no idea how long he would have before they located his cell phone, and there was no point trying to make the call on a land line from the hotel. They’d pinpoint that in under ten minutes.

Somehow he had to make the call from out in the open and see if he could outfox the old lady. Shakira said she didn’t much like the idea of involving Emily again, of forcing her to play a part in the smashing of her own daughter’s happiness.

But Ravi was becoming fixated by the thought of Arnold Morgan. It was as if there was nothing beyond the American admiral. Shakira thought he was possessed by some kind of obsession about Arnold Morgan, and she was afraid that obsession would lead to his own death.

She noticed how withdrawn he had become, how reluctant he was to talk to her. And now, in the teeth of the gravest danger, he wanted to make a personal phone call to Emily. In Shakira’s opinion, they had both done their very best and should now retreat, back to Gaza where it was relatively safe. It was time to let someone else try their luck. This was becoming, in her opinion, ominously beyond the reasonable call of duty.

Ravi paced the room. He checked his watch. It was almost five o’clock, noon in Virginia. They were on the top floor of the Sheraton Hotel, and he had noticed a sign for the roof terrace. He told Shakira somewhat curtly to “wait here.” Then he left the room, walked along the corridor, and stepped out onto the deserted terrace.

He tapped in the numbers-zero-zero-one. Then area code 703, then the number. It rang three times, and then a voice said, “Hello, this is Emily Gallagher speaking.”

“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Gallagher. This is Commander Toby Trenham, of the Royal Navy in London. I’m a very old friend of Admiral Morgan’s from our days in Holy Loch. And he gave me this number to call if I missed him while he was staying in the Ritz.”

“Well, I’m very sorry, Commander. I only know about the Ritz and I thought he was there today. If they aren’t, I really have no idea where they’ve gone.”

“Oh, gosh. How disappointing. I was going to give them dinner at Admiralty House. You have no clues where I might pick up their trail?”

“Commander, I really don’t. Except Arnold did say something about going to Scotland for a few days.”

“No idea where, I suppose?”

“Not really. It’s a very big place, you know, all those Highlands, and Lowlands, and Western Isles, and Loch Lomond, and Loch Ness where that frightful underwater creature lives.”

“It doesn’t sound promising, Mrs. Gallagher, I agree. I think I’d better abandon it. If you do hear from the admiral, you might just tell him I called. Trenham, Commander Toby Trenham.”

“I’ll be sure to. Good-bye, Commander.”