“Highgrove.”

“It’s Blake Johnson, I phoned earlier about a disposal.”

“Of course, sir. We’re ready and waiting.”

“You know where we are. The package will be ready in one hour.”

“We’ll be there.”

“And I’ll expect the disposal to be immediate.”

“Naturally.”

Blake switched off. “Let’s have some coffee.”

There was a pot standing ready in the machine. Clancy went and poured two cups. “Not a thing on him. Swept clean. No ID, no passport, and yet he had to have one to get into the country.”

“Probably stashed it before he came here tonight. Everything else was likely forged. Came into the country posing as a tourist. A forged green card was supplied, a room booked for him in some modest hotel.”

“And the AK?”

“Could have been left for him in a locker anywhere. The job at the security agency could have been arranged for him in advance. I’ll bet he didn’t even meet anyone from his organization here in New York.”

“But some outfit sent him from London.”

“Of course, otherwise why would he be here? They’ve probably got friends in New York who kept an anonymous eye on him, but preferred not to get involved.”

“I wouldn’t blame them. It was a suicide mission,” Clancy said. “Even if we hadn’t gotten him now, he’d have been run down like a dog if the worst had happened.”

“Very probably. Now I must speak to the President.”

He found Cazalet at his desk in the Oval Office.

“Mr. President, we got him. The whole thing was for real. He’s dead, unfortunately.”

“That is unfortunate. Gunshot wound?”

“Cyanide.”

“Dear me. Where are you now?”

“The mortuary, waiting for the disposal team.”

“Fine. Take care of it, Blake. This never happened. I don’t want it on the front page of the New York Times. I’ll order a plane to pick up you and Clancy. I want you back here as soon as possible so we can sort things out.”