The Wolf at the Door. Jack Higgins

I’ll let you talk to him, but don’t talk too long. By the way, we’ve established that Flynn’s American passport was a first-class forgery.’

      Blake said, ‘That you, Sean?’

      ‘It sure is, old stick,’ Dillon said.

      ‘Clancy filled me in about Miller and me and some sort of possible IRA link with these prayer cards.’

      ‘And we’ve now discovered the same card in Ferguson’s driver’s wallet, and I hear the guy who tried to waste you, Flynn, had a false American passport.’

      Blake laughed weakly. ‘I’ll tell you something funny about him, Sean. When I had him covered and told him to give up, he didn’t say, “Fuck you.” He said, “Fug you.” I only ever heard that when I was in Northern Ireland.’

      ‘Which shows you what gentlemen we are over there. Take care, ould son and sleep well.’ Dillon switched off and turned to Miller. ‘You heard all that, so there we are.’

      Miller glanced at his watch. ‘Two hours to go. I’ll try to get some sleep.’ He closed his eyes and turned his head against the pillow behind him, reaching to switch off the light.

      Dillon simply sat there staring into the shadows, the verse from the prayer card repeating endlessly in his brain, remembering a nineteen-year-old actor who had walked out of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art to accept an offer to work with the National Theatre, and the night when the local priest in Kilburn called to break the news to him that his father, on a visit to Belfast, had been caught in a firefight between PIRA activists and British troops and killed.

      ‘A casualty of war, Sean,’ Father James Murphy of the church named Holy Name had said. ‘You must say your prayers, not only the Hail Mary, but this special one on the prayer card I give you now. It is a comfort for all victims of a great cause. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’

      He tried closing his eyes, but it still went round and round in his brain and he opened them again, filled with despair just as he had felt it that day, desolation turning into rage, a need for revenge that had taken the nineteen-year-old on a violent path which had shaped his whole life, a path from which there could be no turning back. Yet as always, he was saved by that dark streak of gallows humour in him.

      ‘Jesus, Sean,’ he told himself softly. ‘What are you going to do, cut your throat? Well, you don’t have a razor, so let’s have a drink on it.’

      They landed at Farley just past six in the morning, bad March weather, grey and rainy. Miller and Dillon went their separate ways for Miller had a Mercedes provided by the Cabinet Office, his driver, Arthur Fox, waiting. Tony Doyle had driven down from Holland Park, under Roper’s orders, in Dillon’s own Mini Cooper.

      ‘I’m going home, Sean, to see to my mail, knock out a report on my impressions of Putin and the Russian delegation at the UN, then take it to Downing Street. The Prime Minister will want to see me personally, but he likes things on paper, he’s very precise.’

      ‘Will you tell him of your exploits in Central Park?’

      ‘I’ve no reason not to. It happened to me, Sean, I didn’t happen to it, if you follow me. The way it’s being handled, there is no story, not for the press anyway. The whole thing is an intelligence matter that needs to be solved. He’ll understand. He’s a moralist by nature, but also very practical. He won’t be pleased at what’s happened and he’ll expect a result.’

      ‘Well, let’s see how quickly we can give him one.’

      He got in the Mini beside Tony Doyle and they drove away. Miller got in the back of the Mercedes and discovered a bunch of mail.

      ‘Good man, Arthur.’ He opened the first letter.

      ‘Thought you’d like to get started, Major. Traffic’s building up already. Could take us an hour to get to Dover Street.’

      ‘No problem. I can save a lot of time here due to your usual efficiency.’

      Dillon arrived at Holland Park just after seven. ‘I’m going to shower and change and then I’m going to partake of Maggie Hall’s Jamaican version of the great British breakfast.’

      ‘Hey, I could give you that,’ Doyle said, for born in the East End of London, he was of Jamaican stock.

      Dillon went into the computer room, but there was no sign of Roper, and then Henderson, the other sergeant, entered in a tracksuit.

      ‘Good to see you back, sir. Major Roper’s in the wet room having a good soak. We’re also hosting General Ferguson. He’s in one of the first-floor suites, no sign of movement. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to the Major.’

      ‘Fine, I’m going to my room. Tell him I’ll join him for breakfast.’

      At Dover Street, Miller told Arthur to get a breakfast at the local café and come back in an hour. Once inside the house, he went straight upstairs to the spare bedroom which was now his. It was a decent size for an eighteenth-century townhouse and had its own shower room. The magnificent master bedroom suite at the end of the landing, once shared with his wife, he had kept exactly as it was before her murder, but the door was locked and opened only once a week by the housekeeper seeing to the room and keeping it fresh.

      He stripped his clothes off, left them in the laundry basket, showered and shaved, pulled on a terrycloth 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 any more? 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