Ferguson hadn’t bothered with a steward on the trip over, just his usual two pilots, Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry. They passed the coast at thirty thousand feet and started out over the Atlantic. After a while, Parry appeared.

“Our American cousins have been more than generous, sir,” he told Ferguson. “Plenty of intriguing grub in the kitchen area, champagne in the fridge.”

“What’s our estimated time of arrival?”

“We should hit Farley Field spot on four o’clock, General.”

He returned to the cockpit. Ferguson said, “I’m going to make some calls. Excuse me.”

He called London on his Codex Four, first Bellamy, the doctor in charge of Rosedene, the special medical unit maintained for Secret Security Service personnel, mainly the victims of some black operation or other. He found Bellamy in his office.

“It’s me. How’s Hannah?”

“Well, the head tests are fine, so they’re transferring her back here for continuing care. The thing is, the traumas she’s had in the last two years have really dragged her down. Her heart isn’t good – not good at all.”

“Is she receiving visitors?”

“Her grandfather and father. They’re being sensible, not overdoing it. It’s Dillon I’ve had to have words with.”

Ferguson frowned. “Why?”

“He’d be round every five minutes if I’d let him. In a funny kind of way, he seems to blame himself for Hannah being in this situation.”