"What about?"

Miller put his right foot on the edge of the bathtub, eased up the leg of his slacks, and removed the ankle holder.

"What the hell is that for?" Dillon said. "I'd like to remind you it's the United Nations we're going to. You wouldn't have got inside the door wearing that."

"True, but I never intended to try. On the other hand, a walk in Central Park is quite another matter, it seems, so it's a good thing I was carrying."

As always with Dillon, it was as if a shadow passed across his face that in the briefest of moments changed his entire personality.

"Tell me."

Miller did, brief and succinct, because of the soldier in him, and, when he was finished, he took out the wallet he'd taken from his assailant and offered it.

"A folded computer photo of me, no credit cards, a Social Security card, plus a driver's license in the name of Frank Barry, with an address in Brooklyn. I doubt any of it is genuine, but there you are. I need a shower and a fresh shirt, and we're short on time."

He cleared off to his own bedroom, and Dillon took the items from the wallet and unfolded the computer photo. It showed Miller walking on a relatively crowded pavement, one half of a truck in view and, behind it, the side of a London cab. Now, where had that come from? A long way from Central Park.

Dillon went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey, thinking of Frank Barry, the hit man. Poor bastard, he hadn't known what he was up against. Miller was hardly your usual politician. He'd served in the British Army during some of the worst years of the Irish Troubles, for some of that time an apparent deskman in the Intelligence Corps. But Dillon knew the truth. Miller had long ago decided that summary justice was the only way to fight terrorism. Since the death of his wife, the victim of a terrorist attack aimed at Miller himself, he had grown even more ruthless.