THE AMERICAN EMBASSY in Grosvenor Square was no more than a hundred yards from Highfield Court, which is why Charles Ferguson’s people gathered there before going to the reception.
Sara and Hannah arrived a couple of hours early to give whatever help was necessary but discovered that they were not really needed.
“I can’t compete with the American Embassy for food, and it would be madness for anyone bothered about their career to turn up drunk.” Sadie shook her head. “So coffee and soft drinks, I think.”
“Totally boring, but sensible, I suppose,” Sara told her. “I think I’ll go have a shower and change.”
“I’ll do the same,” Hannah said. “We’ll see you in a bit, Sadie.”
—
HANNAH WAS BACK some forty minutes later wearing a deceptively simple evening suit of black silk by Givenchy that Sara had insisted on buying for her the moment they set eyes on it in Harrods. Complemented by a white linen blouse and her fashionably short hair, Hannah looked sensational when she went downstairs and found Roper in his wheelchair in the rabbi’s study, where a log fire burned brightly.
“My goodness,” he said. “You look wonderful.”
“Even with this?” She raised the walking stick in her left hand.
“You should try a wheelchair, but I love you enough to say stop feeling sorry for yourself. You, Sara, and I, we share the same problem, and it’s a bastard, but you have to make the best of it. So give me a kiss on the cheek, then slide back the partition to the piano room and play something.”
So she did, revealing the Schiedmayer concert grand, the conservatory crammed with flowers and plants. To one side was a stand with candles and matches to light them, which she did, aware of cars arriving outside.
There was a step behind her, and she turned and found Sara in the full dress uniform of a captain in the Intelligence Corps, an array of medals on her tunic.
Hannah said, “I’ve never seen you like that. You look great.”
“So do you. We’re going to have a special evening, so what do you think of giving it a special start with some vintage Cole Porter?”
As Ferguson entered, leading Cazalet, Blake Johnson, and Henry Frankel, Hannah sat down, but instead of playing Porter, she plunged into one of her favorites, the magnificent and shattering opening of Rachmaninoff’s Fourth Piano Concerto. She took it up in a crescendo, cut it off suddenly, then turned on the stool to find them staring in awe.
She felt like a fool for showing off and tried to brave it out. “Of course, when it comes down to it, what Rachmaninoff really needs is a fine orchestra and a world-class pianist.”
Ferguson led the enthusiastic clapping, and called, “Make it Hannah Flynn with the London Symphony Orchestra at the Albert Hall, I’ll be the first to buy a ticket. Where on earth have you been keeping such a talent?”
“Oh, I have a marvelous teacher, it’s all his doing,” she said, as others crowded around to congratulate her.
Henry Frankel kissed her cheek. “I wish I were your agent, love, I really do. I’d make a fortune.” Then he clapped his hands. “I think it’s time we started over to the embassy, everyone.”
Tony Doyle stepped behind Roper’s wheelchair and led the way out. Sara moved to Hannah’s side and hugged her as they went forward. “It was so wonderful, and Sadie cried her eyes out. She loves you like a daughter, you know. But where did all that come from?”
“Henry Frankel asked me that, too, and I said I had a great teacher at college, and that’s true, but—I don’t know, something’s happened inside me. It’s like I’m discovering myself.”
—
GROSVENOR SQUARE WAS as busy as it always was when there was a reception at the embassy, with a sizeable police presence and only a few cars allowed to park after being carefully checked. The Mercedes had been one of them when it had arrived earlier and Hunter, resplendent in dress uniform, had gone into the embassy, leaving Dolan to fill his time the best he could.
He was standing on the pavement, leaning on the Mercedes and smoking a cigarette, when he had a shock. Sara, in uniform with all the medals, caught his eye, and then he realized where he’d seen her and the girl walking with her before.
A couple of policemen stepped into the road to hold up traffic for Roper in his wheelchair, the others following him, Dillon and Holley walking together. As they crossed the road, Dillon recognized Dolan and waved.
“Won’t they let you in, old boy? What a shame.”
He and Holley laughed as they were passed through the security gates to be greeted by American marines.
Hunter’s mobile trembled in his pocket with a text that said: Call me. He retired to the privacy of the men’s room and called Dolan.
“What the hell is so important?” he demanded in a low voice.
“I was watching people going in, and those crazy Falcon people from Charnley were there.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No, I’m not. The two women were with the group, one in army uniform. She had medals.”
“Did she indeed?”
“The bastard who was interested in the Dakota and his pilot? He saw me, and shouted, ‘Won’t they let you in, old boy?’ He seemed different.”
“What do you mean?”
“When he dealt with us at Charnley, he seemed like just a stupid prick, but not this guy. He’s trouble.”
“You were right to call me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The place is jammed with people, but I’ll find them.”
“Watch yourself. He and his friends could be awkward.”
“In the American Embassy? I doubt it. Maybe I’ll be the one to make trouble for these Falcon people. We’ll see.”
Hunter went back to the crowd, lifted a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and went hunting. It didn’t take long. The crowd was heaviest where the ambassador stood, people hanging in there, hoping for a word or two with the great man, but their chance tonight was minimal.
With him, though, was Cazalet, with Henry Frankel, cabinet secretary to the Prime Minister, and Major General Charles Ferguson, who also worked for the Cabinet Office. He recognized both of them from CIA files. The four people from the Falcon affair, however, who were there with them, were complete strangers, and so was the man in the wheelchair.
The reason for his ignorance was Alice Quarmby. Back in Washington, she had used the power of the President and the Basement to access the related CIA files and wipe the slate clean. The Prime Minister’s private army had ceased to exist, and so had the records of anyone who’d ever worked for it.
Hunter believed Ferguson to be a military advisor to the Cabinet Office as he pushed through the crowds toward the ambassador, who was listening to Jake Cazalet while Dillon and the others made small talk.
Hunter emerged from the crowd. “Mr. Ambassador. A word, if I may.”
They all turned to look at him. Noting the uniform, the ambassador said, “How can I help, Colonel?”
“Samuel Hunter, sir, we spoke this morning. I’m an aide to the President, in London on his behalf.”
“Behalf of what?” Dillon asked, and turned to Holley. “Aren’t you an aide to the Algerian foreign minister, Daniel? What do you do?”
“I must confess—not a lot.”
Hunter said, “Well, some of us take our work more seriously than that.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” Holley said. “Of course, I’m not an aide, I’m a special envoy. Maybe that’s why I have so much fun.”
Sara cut in. “Oh, I don’t know, darling, I wouldn’t have called it fun when you took that army of Tuareg tribesmen all the way down through the Sahara to save the city of Timbuktu from the al-Qaeda rebels.”
“What a great story.” Dillon smiled. “It’s got everything but Beau Geste, the French Foreign Legion, and Fort Zinderneuf.”
The ambassador said, “Of course, I suppose you started with Desert Storm. Twenty-five years ago. We were meant to have finished with deserts after we toppled Saddam, but it seems to have gone on forever as a never-ending war in Afghanistan. A dreadful bloody place, but then you Special Forces people will have found that out for yourselves.”
“Yes, terrible people, the Afghans. Absolute savages,” said Hunter.
“Interesting,” Holley said. “Which province did you soldier in?”
“Helmand,” Hunter answered.
Sara Gideon said, “Why, so did I! Of course, that was before you people took over and set up a base with showers, television, and burgers. Quite a comfort zone.”
“Are you suggesting the High Command was at fault to do that, young woman?”
Jake Cazalet, who had been listening to the exchange together with Ferguson and the other guests, intervened.
“She is not your young woman, Colonel, but a captain in the British Army. Her medals speak for themselves, as does her service record: Belfast, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan, plus a Military Cross for bravery in action.”
Hunter’s astonishment was plain to see. “I don’t understand. What did she earn that doing?”
Sara broke in. “Just listen, you stupid man, and I’ll tell you. I was in Sangin when a Brigade Reconnaissance Force special-ops unit needed a Pashto speaker to go up to Abusan, where they had a badly wounded Taliban leader who couldn’t speak English. Three chaps from the BRF supported me. Wally, Alec, and Frank, who was the sergeant. They were dressed like Taliban and had an old Saladin armored car left by the Russians, now mounted with a heavy machine gun. We joined on the end of a convoy going up-country by night when we were ambushed by a large Taliban force.”
There was music and laughter in the rest of the room, but Cazalet, Ferguson, and company all moved closer, not wishing to miss a word.
“The enemy came in yelling and screaming,” said Sara. “Alec started to fire the machine gun, I emptied my Glock, Wally was using his AK until he got shot in the throat. Frank had opened a box of RPGs and started to fire them, one after another. A grenade in return put him down, and the shrapnel wounded me above the left eye. Then Alec went over the side, shot in the head, so I took on the machine gun while Frank, bleeding badly, kept launching grenades.”
She stopped suddenly, looking back into some secret place, and Roper said gently, “Go on, Sara, tell us what happened then. I think it would be good for you.”
“The machine gun emptied, but I managed to reload with the spare cartridge box and continued shooting. Frank had run out of grenades and was badly wounded in the chest. I’d given him my head cloth to hold against it, and as I resumed firing, I was shot in the leg and held on to the gun to keep from falling over, and then the Taliban started to run away, and I could hear the helicopters, so I slumped down against Frank and waited.”
“Did he survive?” the ambassador asked.
“Yes, to receive the Military Cross from the Queen, who told him how grateful everyone was, but that didn’t help Wally and Alec.”
“But you were awarded the Military Cross also. You’re wearing it.”
“Quite right, but I received mine from Prince Charles later.”
There was a complete silence from everyone until Henry Frankel crossed to her, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “God bless you for opening up like that. I’ll never forget it.”
Roper said, “I’ve always loved you, Sara, but even more after listening to you. By the way, in case you’re wondering where Hunter is, he eased back into the crowd a short while ago, his tail between his legs.”
The ambassador said, “I served in Vietnam at the age of eighteen, with Blake Johnson here.”
Blake said, “It was great fun, I don’t think. Fighting Vietcong up to our armpits in some lousy swamp in the Mekong Delta. In defense of the American Army, I must say my opinion of that clown Hunter is unprintable. God alone knows what kind of Special Forces he was involved with.”
“I’ll drink to that, old buddy,” said the ambassador. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’d better circulate.”
Ferguson moved to them. “An interesting evening. I think it’s time to discuss what to do about Hunter.”
“Tonight?” Dillon asked.
“Not much we can do tonight. Tomorrow at breakfast.”
“He seems to have made quite an impression on you,” Dillon said.
“I’d like to shoot him myself. What the Algerian foreign minister said to us is true. Hunter’s a rotten apple if ever there was one.”
“And Havoc?” Dillon asked.
“Another one of his rotten schemes.”
“Actually, I don’t think Weber’s heart is in the Havoc affair anymore,” Dillon said.
“What do you mean?” Ferguson demanded.
“When Hunter turned up there with his bully boy sergeant, Weber didn’t like it at all. When I asked if Hunter was his partner, he said he was, in a way, and that it was the biggest mistake of his life.”
“Excellent,” Ferguson said. “We’ll see what comes up tomorrow.”
—
THE NEXT DAY, it was a dark and dismal morning, rain drumming relentlessly against the window, as Sara and Hannah went down to the canteen in search of breakfast. They found Dillon and Holley enjoying poached eggs, bacon, and toast. Sara took the same, Hannah the scrambled eggs, and Dillon offered tea or coffee according to their pleasure.
“No sign of the general?” Sara inquired.
Dillon shook his head. “Roper was finishing as we got here and is back in the computer room.”
Holley said, “He told us that Ferguson’s hardly been off the telephone for the past two hours, so when you’re finished, I suggest we go and find out what’s going on.”
—
THEY FOUND ROPER pouring a large Irish into a mug of tea. Tony Doyle was watching, dressed to go in a khaki trench coat against the rain and carrying an umbrella.
“I hope you’ve had breakfast, Tony,” Sara told him. “You might end up asleep in that Daimler.”
Ferguson, on the way in, said, “And so he will, if necessary. Go and wait for me outside, Staff Sergeant.” He looked at Roper and shook his head. “A bit early in the day even for you, Major.”
“I couldn’t agree more, General, but I don’t worry about it. So much has happened to me, it’s a miracle I’m here at all. Not that it matters. Hunter and his sergeant friend do, however. How do you want us to handle them?”
“The problem is that this wretched man is a presidential aide even though we know, thanks to Alice Quarmby, that he’s only got one task, to keep an eye on Jake Cazalet.”
Holley said, “That doesn’t mean he can use his position for nefarious purposes.”
“Which this Havoc business at Charnley qualifies as,” Dillon said. “MI5 are aware of Weber’s little enterprise and the Dakota loaded with Muslim treasures looted in Mali.”
Sara said, “So why not arrest Weber?”
“He isn’t going anywhere,” Ferguson told her. “And we can use him to snag Hunter.”
Hannah said, “But why let the bastard in the country at all when we know he’s a crook?”
“Too difficult at this point. Too sticky.” He shook his head. “An American colonel, a presidential aide, and a CIA operative who we know traffics with arms dealers on behalf of his country but holds out his grasping hand.” Ferguson smiled ruefully. “A strange game we play, but our game. Mind you, there’s nothing I’d like better than to fly Hunter and his sergeant by helicopter to Afghanistan, leave them to rot in Helmand province, and fly away without a second look. What would you say to that, Captain Gideon?”
“Why, that I’d fly the helicopter for you, sir. You did second me to the Army Air Corps three years ago.”
“I remember,” he said grimly. “But to be serious, we really must find something to do about the colonel. Any sensible suggestions welcome, so keep thinking. Don’t forget that Cazalet’s speaking again tonight—this one I expect you all to attend. Let’s go, Staff Sergeant.”
“There goes a remarkable man,” Hannah said. “But one of these days, he’s going to drop dead in his tracks if he keeps up this pace. For a man of his age, it’s ridiculous.”
“I wouldn’t try telling him that,” Roper said.
—
CLOSE TO BELGRAVE SQUARE and adjacent to Buckingham Palace Gardens, Hedley Court was the work of one Henry Hedley, a Victorian entrepreneur who had made a fortune out of coal and railways but was more interested in the cause of his fellow men.
It had opened in 1850, a Victorian masterpiece that soon became the home of free thinking. As Benjamin Disraeli, the great politician and future prime minister, said of it: “Never the voice of government of whatever brand, only the voice of sensible people, whoever they are.”
The Great Hall at Hedley Court could hold three hundred people and many more than that had turned up in the hope of seeing Jake Cazalet, but only ticket holders were admitted.
A loudspeaker system had been installed so that the speech could be heard by the large numbers who stood outside to listen, which explained the sizeable armed police presence.
The American ambassador, a special guest, sat with the Prime Minister and Cabinet colleagues in the front row.
In deference to Roper’s wheelchair, Ferguson’s party had squeezed together into a balcony box from where they could observe everything, which explained why Sara saw Hunter and Dolan, still in uniform, sit down at the end of a row that was not too far from the Prime Minister’s party.
“Look what the cat’s brought in, General,” she pointed out. “It won’t be long before he and his wretched sergeant are on television. The cameras are operating from the box opposite.”
Ferguson glanced down and exploded. “That bloody man is getting everywhere, and it’s quite improper for him to be in uniform. The reception at the American Embassy was different.”
“I suppose you could say he’s making his presence felt,” Dillon said, and turned to Blake Johnson. “Don’t you agree?”
Ferguson exploded again. “Well it’s time somebody took him by the scruff of the neck and dropped him on another planet or something.”
“Difficult to arrange, General, but I’ll see what can be done,” Dillon told him.
There was a sudden quiet as the music played by the television company came to an end, and the Prime Minister, without any fuss, nodded to Jake, and they walked to the lectern together. There was scattered applause.
The Prime Minister said, “Please rise for the American national anthem.”
With a great shuffling, the audience complied, and the music soared out, Cazalet with his hand on his heart, the Prime Minister with the same, and when the anthem finished and applause broke out, he waved it down.
“You all know this man,” he said. “A distinguished soldier and great president of the United States. I beg you to listen to him,” and he returned to his seat.
Cazalet jumped straight in. “Nine-eleven. The London bombing. Both were al-Qaeda, so we went to war with them, and yet al-Qaeda lives on. Sometimes it stands to one side observing the barbarity of new groups such as ISIS, yet there it remains. We thought that the death of Saddam, Gaddafi, and bin Laden would cure the ills of the Middle East, but we never appreciated the extent to which those tyrants had kept the lid on their countries with an iron hand. Now, with Syria, we have an unprecedented refugee problem.”
There was silence for a moment, then someone called, “What’s to be done about the refugees? Can you tell us that?”
“Even in the remotest areas, people can look at a television screen. They see the best that Western civilization has to offer, and they want it. Europe, the United States, why wouldn’t they want to go there, and with America’s history of accepting immigrants in large numbers, why shouldn’t their hopes be high?”
Hunter jumped up. “This is a disgrace. What gives you the right to even suggest that the United States might consider such people in any way suitable to be admitted to our country?”
There was an angry muttering, but Cazalet waved a dismissive hand. “I knew Damascus before the war. The city had a reputation for being one of the most beautiful and civilized in the Middle East, and it was. Muslims, Christians, and Jews worked together happily, the stores and restaurants were full, no one fought.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Hunter said. “I’m warning about the thousands of migrants who stampede into Europe any way they can like ravenous wolves.”
“Including doctors, teachers, and many people with valuable professional experience to offer. I think our country might welcome a few.”
“Then all I can say is thank God you are not in the White House now,” Hunter told him. “We don’t need you.”
The angry voices started again, telling him to shut up or get out, but when someone called him a Nazi bastard enough was enough, and two large policemen approached Hunter down the aisle and had words. He tried to argue the matter, but raised voices made their point, and he and Dolan left.
Ferguson said, “And that’s a Special Forces colonel.”
Roper nodded. “I must check his file again.”
Sara said, “It’s got to be the greatest work of fiction of all time.”
Cazalet was addressing the audience again. “Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen, the charades are over. Could I have some serious questioning now?”
A young woman a few rows back raised her hand. “Kate Munro, sir. I’m with the Spectator.”
“I’m flattered,” he told her. “That’s the oldest political magazine in the country. How can I help?”
“What fascinates me is not so much that you were president of the United States or that your family was rich and your father a senator. It’s that you walked out of Harvard—”
Cazalet cut in on her with a smile. “And went downtown to the recruiting office and joined the army for two tours in Vietnam.”
“Exactly. Your draft lottery number hadn’t come up. You could have avoided it all. You were even wounded twice. Why did you do it?”
The crowd was completely quiet, everyone waiting, and Cazalet started to talk. “The Vietnam War was a bad business. Many Americans didn’t agree with it and unfortunately often took their anger out on the soldiers. One morning, I dropped by my dining hall to have coffee and noticed a new student who’d lost most of his left arm, obviously a veteran.”
There was a pin-drop silence as the young woman asked, “What happened next?”
“Oh, another student came in and started to give him a hard time. I suggested he leave him alone, but he refused, so I knocked him out. Of course, I was called to the dean’s office to be told what a bad thing I’d done to a rather unpleasant bully. I realized at that time, for the first time, really, that I had a different set of values, so I marched into a Cambridge recruiting office and joined up. My mother was a great lady and took it well, my father not as much—he’d been convinced I’d never be able to get any kind of decent career in the future, but he changed his mind when I got shot and received a few medals. It was good for a political career, he used to say.” Cazalet smiled wryly. “He never understood I did it because I had to.”
“Well, we understand,” the young woman said. “Thank you very much for your service.”
“To be interviewed by the Spectator is reward enough. Now—can we get back to the business in hand? Who else has got a question for me?” A forest of hands was raised instantly.
—
IN THE END, the evening had to be brought to a close because of the hour, and Jake Cazalet had enjoyed the triumph of a lifetime. Ferguson and the others hung on for a while out of consideration for Roper in his wheelchair.
Sara turned to Ferguson as Henry Frankel and Ambassador Hardy joined them, Cazalet delayed by outstretched hands.
“An amazing speech, it’ll be on every front page. The big question I’ll bet everyone will be asking, though, is who on earth was the idiot in American uniform who was trying to give him a hard time.”
Hardy said, “The one thing I dread is that some newspaper reporter will find out he’s actually a presidential aide. The President never did make it clear to me what the colonel was doing in London.”
Cazalet joined them at that moment, and Blake Johnson, right behind him, said, “I can answer that, although I’m breaking a presidential confidence.”
There was a pause, startled looks were exchanged, and Philip Hardy said, “I’d hate to see you put yourself in a difficult position because of that bastard, Blake.”
“I’m not. Yesterday, Jake and I were being driven in General Ferguson’s Daimler when my secretary spoke to me from the White House. She had overheard the President and Hunter—the man was only given the appointment to empower him. In effect, he was to spy on Jake and be sure of where he was at any given moment. The implication was that perhaps Jake should pull back on public appearances and realize that he is no longer president.”
Philip Hardy laughed out loud. “Well, if that’s the general hope, it has just been shattered by the finest speech I’ve heard in years.” He turned to Cazalet and shook his hand. “You surely made me proud to be an American tonight, Jake. We both served as boys in Vietnam, both were wounded, and I just want to apologize for the insults you received from that wretched man while he was wearing the uniform of our country.”
“Kind of you to say that, Phil,” Cazalet told him. “Sticks and stones to guys like you, me, and Blake.”
“Of course,” Hardy said, glancing at Ferguson and nodding slightly. “I must leave you now and prepare my answers for the publicity that I’m sure will come my way.”
“I’ll go with you, Mr. Ambassador,” Henry Frankel said. “Just in case there are any questions you may have for the Prime Minister.”
They departed, and Ferguson turned to the others. “I don’t know about you lot, but I must say that this was quite an invigorating experience. Now we must go home, my friends, and try to rest while we can to prepare for what lies ahead.”
—
DESPITE THE HOUR, Weber was not asleep when the telephone rang in his flat, and the Master said, “I imagine you’ve been watching television.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Weber told him. “What a clown Hunter proved to be. He made a complete fool of himself.”
“That’s because he is,” the Master said. “While Cazalet, on the other hand, was amazing. Having said that, it’s very disappointing from al-Qaeda’s point of view. The last thing we were looking for was an American hero inspiring people.”
“What do you think will happen now?” Weber asked.
“It’s a great story, but on the other hand, what does it really mean? Cazalet was a fine soldier and a great president, but those things were then, and this is now. The unfortunate thing is Hunter. It was only his approach to you that brought him to my attention.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get in touch with me when he approaches you again. He’ll be desperate now, and his hope of getting into the illegal Mali trade is all he has left because his little tirade could cause his recall to Washington at any moment. If he approaches you, let me know at once.”
“And what will you do?”
“I’m tempted to have him shot, but we’ll see.”
—
THE MASTER OPENED the door leading to the stern of the barge on the Quai des Brumes and gazed with pleasure at the floodlit splendor of Notre Dame, a glass of red wine in his right hand. The stupidity of Hunter had been beyond belief, but before giving orders for his assassination, it would be sensible to see what the new day would bring. In a certain way, it would be quite entertaining, and he smiled, finished his wine, and returned inside.
—
AT THE HILTON PARK LANE, Hunter sat in his suite with Dolan, drinking heavily and watching one news program after another that featured the events at Hedley Court.
“Just look at Cazalet,” Hunter said. “Thinks he’s so damned marvelous up there on stage. Who does he think he is?”
“I think he knows exactly who he is—and now so does everybody else if they didn’t already,” Dolan said drunkenly, holding up his glass. “God bless America.”
This infuriated Hunter. “Go on, you bastard, get out of here. Who needs you?”
“I’d say you do, Colonel, if only to back up your lies. As I recall, all you were doing in Sangin was administering supplies to the PX.”
“I said get out of here,” Hunter told him. “So do it or I’ll call security.”
“I’ll be back,” Dolan told him. “There’s no one else who’d bother with you now,” and he lurched out.
Hunter sat there afraid like he had never been. Why had he done it, such a stupid thing and in uniform? Everything had been going so well, and then came the icing on the cake, the totally unexpected appointment as a presidential aide. It had gone to his head and puffed him up and at the same time made him envious of the man, the medals, the glory, which explained his mad decision to attend the Hedley Court function in full uniform and act as he had.
He went to bed, slept badly, and was rung at seven by a call from the American Embassy. “Colonel Hunter, you have a Master Sergeant Dolan with you on your trip?” a woman’s voice said.
Hunter shook his head to clear it. “That’s correct, is there a problem?”
“He was noticed staggering along Park Lane this morning at about three a.m. He stepped off the pavement and was swiped by a bus. He’s ended up in Marsh Lane Hospital’s emergency room. He had no identification about where he was staying on him but did have his passport, which led to us.”
“How is he?” Hunter demanded.
“It seems he’s not good at all, but you can call the hospital yourself. I believe the police may want to have a word with you.”
Hunter had walked to the television set while talking and found himself watching himself on an early morning news show.
“Why would they want me?”
“You’d have to ask them that, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Everybody knows he was with me. I should estimate that at least half the population of London saw me in action on television last night.”
“Yes, Colonel, I’m sorry, sir.”
Hunter was reasonably clearheaded by now. “Why would you be? Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Mary Smith, on attachment to the embassy, Colonel. I’m sorry about what happened to you last night.”
“Not as much as I am. I was an unbelievable damned fool, but I appreciate your comments. I’ll call the hospital.”
Which he did and received what news there was from a ward sister, who made it clear the situation was grave and visitors were not welcome. So that was that. He was tired of the old Hunter, the lies and the subterfuge. He was likely to get a swift recall to Washington, so his only chance to do something about Havoc would be now. Maybe he could think of something legal to do with the Dakotas? He’d better go to Charnley now and find Hans Weber.