“They obviously were hanging him out to dry.”

“Exactly, and the cyanide tooth indicates the equivalent of a suicide bombing. He wasn’t meant to survive.”

Cazalet said, “Okay, I know there’s a lot of supposition here, but I admit it makes a hell of a lot of sense. It still leaves the question of the AK. Where did that come from?”

“It certainly wasn’t in his hotel room,” Clancy said. “We figure it was probably left in some locker, maybe a train or bus station.”

“By his unknown contacts in New York,” Blake put in. “By prearrangement. He’d have been given the location, supplied with a key. Again, it’s supposition, but I’d say he didn’t pick that bag up until he was on his way to work.”

“Yes, it makes sense, all of it,” Cazalet said. “He would have made an interesting prisoner, but now he’s dead, which leaves us with a dead end.” He frowned. “Except for Ferguson and his people.”

“Exactly what I was thinking, Mr. President. Maybe we can find out more from the English end.”

“The mother,” Cazalet said, “maybe she knows something.”

“I don’t know. A handicapped, aging lady in a wheelchair is hardly the sort of person that Al Qa’eda would be recruiting,” Blake said. “But she and her son were welcomed warmly at the local mosque.”

“Which is where we should look.” Cazalet nodded. “ Ferguson ’s the man to handle it.” He smiled. “It’s London next stop for you, Blake. I’ll speak to Ferguson myself and promise him every assistance.”

“What about me, Mr. President?” Clancy said.

“No way. I need you to watch my back. You took a bullet for me once, Clancy. You’re my good-luck charm.”