"Well, don't let me hold you, gentlemen. I'll stay in touch."

Perhaps an hour and a half later, their Gulfstream lifted out into the Atlantic, leaving the lights of New York behind, and rose to thirty thousand feet and headed east. Miller and Dillon sat on either side of the cabin in wide, comfortable seats, and Parry, one of the pilots, entered the cabin.

"If there's anything you want, it's in the kitchen area. You know where the drinks cabinet is, Sean."

"You're too kind," Dillon told him. "How long?"

"The weather in the mid-Atlantic isn't perfect, but, at the worst, I'd say we'll make Farley Field in six hours."

He went out, and Dillon's Codex sounded. It was Clancy. "Have I got news for you."

Dillon put his phone on speaker and leaned towards Miller.

"I traced Barry to Mercy Hospital, and get this. He was waiting to go into the operating room when some guy in scrubs turned up and stuck a hypodermic in him. A nurse discovered him, and he knocked her out and ran for it. Long gone, my friends."

"Whoever was behind Barry didn't trust him to keep his mouth shut," Dillon said. "But how did they find out where he was so quickly?"

"I've seen the nurse's statement. When he was in great pain and waiting to be prepped, she heard him call somebody on his mobile, very worked up, very agitated. He said, 'It's me, you bastard. I'm in Mercy Hospital with a bullet in my knee, and you'd better do something about it or else.' She said she took the phone from him and put it on the bedside table."

"Don't tell me," Dillon said. "It's gone."

"So no way of tracing who his employer was. No point in showing the nurse any faces. The guy was in green scrubs, a face mask, skullcap, the works. Oh, the police will go through the motions, but I'd say that's it. You're still out of it, Major, which is the main thing. Stay in touch. And if you make any sense out of the prayer card thing, let me know."