"It's so good to hear from you, Harry, I was going to call. I thought you and Sean were still in New York."

"What's happened? Where are you?"

"I'm at the hospital here in Cambridge."

"For God's sake, tell me, Monica."

"There was a faculty party at a hotel outside Cambridge last night. Dear old Professor George Dunkley was desperate to go. I volunteered to drive him there so he could enjoy his port and so on. Six miles out into the countryside, a bloody great truck started to follow us and just stayed on our tail. It didn't matter what I did, it wouldn't go away, and then, when we came to a wider section of the road, it came alongside and swerved into us."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, but George has his left arm broken. We were hurled into a grass verge and crashed against a wall. I called the police on my mobile, and they were there in no time."

"And the truck?"

"Oh, he crashed farther on. They found the wreck, but the driver had cleared off. The police sergeant who's been dealing with me says the truck was stolen from somewhere in London. George is going to be in hospital for a while. A terrible thing at his age."

"And you are coming to Dover Street to stay at the house with me?"

"That's sweet of you, Harry, but I've got seminars, and there's my book."

"To hell with your seminars, and you can work on your book at Dover Street."

"Harry, what's happening?"

Dillon cut in. "Monica, my love, listen to the man. It's no coincidence what's happened to you. Bad things have been happening to all of us. We need you safe and among friends."

Her voice was quiet. "What's going on, Sean?"

"I'll explain when I pick you up," Miller said. "We should be there in round two hours. Go straight back to your rooms, pack, and don't go out again."

"If you say so, Harry."

The line cleared, and everyone was silent for a moment. Miller said, "Sorry, General, I must go."