"I'm going home, Sean, to see to my mail, knock out a report on my impressions of Putin and the Russian delegation at the UN, then take it to Downing Street. The Prime Minister will want to see me personally, but he likes things on paper, he's very precise."

"Will you tell him of your exploits in Central Park?"

"I've no reason not to. It happened to me, Sean, I didn't happen to it, if you follow me. The way it's being handled, there is no story, not for the press anyway. The whole thing is an intelligence matter that needs to be solved. He'll understand. He's a moralist by nature but also very practical. He won't be pleased at what's happened, and he'll expect a result."

"Well, let's see how quickly we can give him one."

Dillon got in the Mini beside Tony Doyle, and they drove away. Miller got in the back of the Mercedes and discovered a bunch of mail.

"Good man, Arthur." He opened the first letter.

"Thought you'd like to get started, Major. Traffic's building up already. Could take us an hour to get to Dover Street."

"No problem. I can save a lot of time here due to your usual efficiency."

Dillon arrived at Holland Park just after seven. "I'm going to shower and change, and then I'm going to partake of Maggie Hall's Jamaican version of the great British breakfast."

"Hey, I could give you that," Doyle said, for he was of Jamaican stock, born in the East End of London.

Dillon went into the computer room, but there was no sign of Roper, and then Henderson, the other sergeant, entered wearing a tracksuit.

"Good to see you back, sir. Major Roper's in the wet room having a good soak. We're also hosting General Ferguson. He's in one of the second-floor suites, no sign of movement. If you'll excuse me, I'll get back to the Major."