“Yes, Mr. President.”

“And since it was our British cousins who alerted us to the existence of Morgan, you’d better telephone General Ferguson and let him know.”

In London, it was four o’clock in the morning when the security phone rang at General Charles Ferguson’s flat in Cavendish Place. He switched on the bedside light and answered.

“At such an appalling hour, I can only assume this is of supreme importance.”

“It always is when it concerns the Empire, Charles.”

It was the code word used to indicate the President in danger.

Ferguson was fully alert now and sat up. “Blake, my good friend. What happened?”

“Your information on Henry Morgan was dead-on. He tried to hit the President tonight, but Clancy and I stopped him. Unfortunately, he had a cyanide tooth, so he’s no longer with us.”

“Is the President all right?”

“Absolutely. As for Morgan, what’s left of him will soon be six pounds of gray ash. I’ll probably flush it down the toilet.”

“You’re a hard man, Blake, harder than I believed possible.”

“It’s the nature of the job, Charles, and the bastard did intend to assassinate the President. Anyway, thanks to you and the rest of the Prime Minister’s Private Army, it’s all come out fine. Thank them all for me: Hannah Bernstein, Sean Dillon, and Major Roper.”

“Especially Roper on this one. The man’s a genius on the computer.”

“Got to run, Charles. I’ll be in touch.”

Blake put the phone down, and Romano entered carrying a videotape and several documents.

“Good man,” Blake said.

“Not really.” Romano lit a cigarette. “I’m smart enough to know my place, that’s all.”

Clancy had gone out to check the corridor and found two men in black coats pushing a gurney with a body bag on it.

One of them, a quietly cadaverous man, said, “Mr. Johnson?”

Blake leaned out of the office door. “He’s all ready and waiting for you. Load him on and we’ll see you at Highgrove. Tell Mr. Coffin to wait until we arrive.”