Ravi walked back into the room and instructed Shakira to pack and be prepared to leave.

“But we only just arrived,” she said. “Aren’t you tired? You haven’t been to bed for two days.”

“I am tired. But we are both on a mission for our people.”

“I know that. But where are we going?”

“ Scotland,” he replied.

“Where’s that?” asked Shakira.

“About four hundred miles north of here. It’s the top part of England.”

“Why are we going there?”

“Because Emily Gallagher just told me that’s where Admiral Morgan is headed, and we don’t have one single other clue about his whereabouts.”

“But Scotland ’s a whole country, right? With towns and everything?”

“It sure is. And we don’t have any idea which part he’s visiting.”

“Well, where do we start?”

“I don’t know. All I do know is we either go there and try to find him, or go home-wherever that is.”

“But how do we get to Scotland?”

“Drive. Airports are out of bounds for us.”

“How about a train?”

“Same. And anyway we’ll need a car, and I don’t want to risk renting again. In case it slipped your mind, darling Shakira, I am wanted in the British Isles for two murders.”

Arnold and Kathy sat on the banks of the Thames in the warm embrace of the Leatherne Bottel and its staff. The admiral had ordered dinner for 8:30, and now he and Kathy were sipping a superb white Burgundy, a 2004 Corton-Charlemagne made by the maestro, Franck Grux, for Olivier Leflaive Frères. This bottle is widely regarded as one of the longest-lived, most delicious wines in the world.

Arnold considered it perfect for the first evening of their vacation, the best kind of soothing elixir to steady the nerves after someone has just made a bold attempt to blow your head off.

The Thames is wide along this reach, and the occasional boat chugs by on its way down to the lock at Goring. Ducks meander along the riverbank, and the views are always wondrous with the changing light of a summer evening.

Kathy had rarely seen the admiral in a more mellow mood, and she decided to mention the strictest taboo in their lives.

“Jimmy was right, wasn’t he?” she said.

The admiral sipped luxuriously. “Yes,” he replied. “Jimmy was right. Clever little sonofabitch.” Even in defeat, Arnold still needed to take one last swing.

“What about his whole thought process-you know, the girl in Brockhurst, the murder in Ireland, the submarine? Do you think they were all correct, all connected?”

“Of course they were,” the admiral harrumphed. “Every one of ’em. His conclusions were too quick, but the outcome was correct.” At which point, he took another good solid gulp of Corton-Charlemagne and added, “Beginner’s luck, in a way.”

“ Arnold!”

“Well, he’s never worked on a case like that before. Half civilian, half military. And he’d solved it before it started.”

“Very clever,” said Kathy.

“Very goddamned fluky,” said the admiral. “He didn’t have anything like the evidence you need to leap to wild conclusions like that.”

“Do you think he might be a genius?”

“Probably,” growled Arnold. “But just remember, I invented the little sonofabitch. But for me, he’d still be working in the mailroom.”

“There are times, Arnold, when you are a disgrace. Jimmy is the son of an admiral and a very senior diplomat. He came to the NSA as a highly recommended intelligence lieutenant. And he’s one of the youngest lieutenant commanders in the history of the United States Navy. He did not graduate from the mailroom.”

“I meant that metaphorically, of course,” said Arnold, adding, pompously for him, “I have always been wary of precocity.”

“Jesus!” said Kathy. “You’re the most precocious person I ever met. And I bet you always were.”

Arnold laughed. “All right, all right. Jimmy out-thought me. I’m too old; I’ve lost my edge. This is Socrates and Plato all over again. The pupil overtakes the master.”

“Oh, don’t be too hard on yourself, darling,” she replied. “What I really want to know is, do you think the London assassin might try again?”

“Well, he won’t know where we are any longer, will he? Your mom told Carla about the Ritz, and that’s where he showed up. Even we aren’t certain where we’re going to be in the next few days. So I doubt he’ll ever locate us in time to take another shot.”

“ Arnold? Are you sure we shouldn’t head home, right now?”

“Not ’til we’ve finished dinner,” he chuckled. “Remember, no one has the slightest idea where we are and where we’re going. Not even you.”

The admiral signaled for James to take the white Burgundy in, to the table, and to serve him a glass of the 1998 Château de Carles, which had been opened an hour previously. This particular deep red Bordeaux, made on the right bank of the Gironde River, has a pedigree dating back to the eighth century when Emperor Charlemagne camped in the area.

Château de Carles itself dates back to the fifteenth century, and all that history, plus the distant presence of the great warrior Charlemagne, tipped the balance for Arnold, away from his favorite Château Lynch-Bages to the earthy black fruit aromas of the wine from Fronsac.

“Always remember, my boy,” he said to James. “Ninety-eight. St. Emilion and Pomerol, right bank of the river. That’s where they made the top vintage.”

“I did know that, sir. But I’ve never really known why.”

“Because it rained like hell on the left bank,” snapped the admiral.

“Really? Well, how wide’s the river, sir?”

“About a hundred times wider than the one outside the front door,” chuckled Arnold, as he led the way to the table, hugely looking forward to the forthcoming house specialty of honey-glazed duck with pickled plum.

At 10 P.M., British television announced details of the fatal shooting that had taken place on the front steps of the Ritz Hotel that morning. They named the dead man as George Kallan, an American national employed by the U.S. embassy in London and believed to be on the staff of the U.S. admiral Arnold Morgan, who was staying at the hotel. There had been no arrests, and, as yet, there were no suspects. The shot was believed to have been fired from a building on the opposite side of Piccadilly.

From the newscast, it was plain that the police had been very reticent about the nature of the crime. Scotland Yard did not have a representative supplying any extra information, and it was almost impossible for journalists to speculate, given the paucity of information.

Behind the scenes, however, there was pandemonium. Scotland Yard called in MI-5 and MI-6. The long-anticipated attempt on Admiral Morgan’s life had indeed happened. The attack, which had been flagged by the FBI, the CIA, and even the National Security Agency, had been carried out by persons almost certainly connected with the Middle Eastern Jihad against the West.

One way or another, one of the Holy Warriors had tracked down the admiral, the first time he had left the United States in six months. According to all known intelligence, gathered internationally in the last few weeks, the culprit was General Ravi Rashood, the former SAS major, who appeared to be on the loose somewhere in Great Britain. Right now, he was wanted for the murders of Jerry O’Connell and George Kallan.

The news reached Jimmy Ramshawe at 5 P.M. (local) at Fort Meade. It came in the form of a private signal from one of his buddies in the CIA: Jim, someone tried to assassinate Admiral Arnold Morgan at the front door of the Ritz Hotel in London today. The bullet missed, but hit one of the admiral’s bodyguards, George Kallan, killed him instantly.

Lt. Commander Ramshawe went white. He felt no sense of triumph, no feeling of exoneration for all the grief he had been given by the admiral. He actually felt scared, for Arnold and for Kathy. This represented all his dreads. And it was not the stray rifle shot across Piccadilly that bothered him. It was the fact that this organization, to which General Rashood belonged, had very obviously decided the time had come to eliminate the Big Man.