"From what you've told me, there's a story with him that bears investigation."

"You could be right. He wasn't my usual man, and the Cabinet Office uses hired-car companies when it's under pressure. I've told the antiterrorism people at Scotland Yard to play it down as much as possible. Fault in the car, petrol explosion, that kind of thing. Don't want the press leaping in and implying Muslim bombs."

"Maybe it was."

"Well, we don't want another public panic. Bellamy's had Pool's body brought here, and George Langley will do the postmortem. I'll stay till he's done."

After hanging up, Roper sat there thinking about it, and Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, came in. "Still at it, Major? What am I going to do with you?"

"That was General Ferguson. He was going to his car when it blew up. The driver's dead."

"My God," Doyle said softly. "Takes you back to Ireland in the Troubles. Like someone's walked over my grave." He shivered. "Can I get you anything?"

"Sustenance, Tony, that's what I need. Get me a bacon sandwich. I'd better get in touch with Miller and Dillon in New York."

"Christ, they'll go berserk, those two."

He went out. Roper poured another whiskey, then phoned Miller on his Codex.

2

Miller and Dillon were walking back to their limousine outside the UN, discussing where to go for dinner, when Miller took the call. He listened, his face grim, then said, "Tell Dillon."

He handed his Codex over, and Dillon listened, his face darkening. "You're sure the old sod's okay?"

"So it would appear. Not the driver, though. Something fishy there, I think."

"Then you'd better investigate."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know, Harry's in charge. I'm just his minder."

"As if he needs one."

"Certainly not on this trip. He went for a walk in Central Park, and some bastard had a go."