“You’ve mentioned it several times since I’ve known you, Dillon.” She stood up. “Let’s get moving before that monumental ego of yours surfaces again.”

Ferguson ’s Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and the front door of the most famous address in the world was opened to him instantly. An aide took his coat and led the way up the stairs, knocking on a door and ushering him into the study.

John Major, the British Prime Minister, looked up and smiled. “Ah, there you are, Brigadier. The week seems to have gone quickly. I’ve asked Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, to join us, and Rupert Lang. You know him, I take it? As an Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office I thought he might have a useful contribution to make to our weekly consultation. He serves on a number of Government committees.”

“I have met Mr. Lang, Prime Minister. Like myself, Grenadier Guards until he transferred to the Parachute Regiment.”

“Yes, fine record. I know you don’t care for Simon Carter, and the Security Services don’t care for you. You know what they call you? The Prime Minister’s private army.”

“So I believe.”

“Try and get along, if only for my sake.” There was a knock at the door and two men entered. “Ah, come in, gentlemen,” the Prime Minister said. “I believe you all know each other.”

“Hello, Ferguson,” Carter said frostily. He was a small man in his fifties with snow-white hair.

Rupert Lang was tall and elegant in a navy-blue striped suit and Guards tie, hair rather long, an intelligent, aquiline face, a restless air to him.

“Nice to see you again, Brigadier.”

“And you.”

“Good. Sit down and let’s get started,” the Prime Minister said.

They worked their way through a variety of intelligence matters for some forty minutes with particular reference to terrorist groups of various kinds and the new menace of Arab fundamentalism in London.