Barry was out, there was no doubt about that, as the man produced a hypo from his pocket, ready charged, exposed the needle, and injected its contents in Barry's left arm. The man stood there, looking down for a moment, noticed Barry's mobile phone on the bedside table, picked it up, and turned to dump the hypo in the wastebasket. The door suddently opened, and the nurse came in.

She was immediately alarmed. "Who are you? What are you doing?"

He dropped the hypo in the bin and punched her brutally, knocking her to the floor. He went out, hurried along the corridor, and, as an alarm sounded behind him, didn't bother with the elevator but took the stairs, plunging down fast, finally reaching the basement parking garage. A few moments later, he was driving out.

Upstairs, of course, it was pandemonium on the fifth floor with the discovery of the unconscious nurse, but it would be some time before she would be able to explain what had happened. The only certainty was that the man known as Frank Barry was dead.

It was just before midnight in London when Major Giles Roper, of the bomb-scarred face, sitting at his computer at the Holland Park safe house, got the phone call from Ferguson.

"Little late for you, General."

"Never mind that. Some bugger just tried to blow me up after I'd been to that do at the Garrick."

Roper turned his wheelchair to the drinks table, poured a large scotch, and said, "Tell me."

Which Ferguson did, the whole affair, including the death of Pool. "I'm at Rosedene now," he said, naming the very private hospital he had created for his people in London, a place of absolute total privacy and security, headed by the finest general surgeon in London. "Bellamy's insisting on checking me thoroughly. I was knocked over by the blast."

"You've been lucky," Roper said ruefully. "And I'm the expert."

"But not Pool."