'We're grateful for you finding a moment to see us,' Ferguson told him. 'We live in trying times, but we'll pull through, I'm sure of it.'

'God willing.' The President shook hands with the three of them, Dillon last, and said, 'You really believe you can hunt this man, this Shamrock, down, don't you, Mr Dillon?'

'Absolutely, Mr President.'

The President smiled. 'You are a remarkable man, my friend. Don't let me down.'

'My oath on it, sir.' He held the President's hand a moment longer, then turned and followed the others as Blake ushered them out.

Late the next morning, Ferguson's Gulfstream, his regular RAF pilots, Lacey and Parry, at the controls, rose to thirty thousand feet, climbing high over the Atlantic. After a while, Parry looked into the cabin.

'There's some problematic weather in the mid-Atlantic. A question of how heavy the winds are.'

'I'd have said perfectly acceptable if they're flying up your backside,' Dillon told him.

'Right as usual, Dillon, which means our flight time will be cut to about six hours if we're lucky. Anyone like anything to eat or drink?'

'Thank you, no, Flight Lieutenant,' Ferguson told him, and Parry withdrew.

Miller said, 'You certainly impressed the President, Sean.'

'I only told the man what I thought he'd want to hear.'

'Rash promises as usual,' Ferguson put in. 'Shamrock could be anybody.'

'There's no such thing,' Dillon told him. 'Everyone is a somebody, and I intend to find him, one way or another. In fact, I'm so certain, I'll have a drink on it.'

'Not me,' Ferguson told him, and unfolded the quilt beside his seat. 'I'm going to take a nap. I'll have to see the Prime Minister tomorrow. If you want to make yourself useful, Harry, call in to Roper and tell him what happened.'

He switched off his light and pulled up the quilt.