London, it was an hour before midnight at the Garrick Club, where a dinner for twenty ministers from various Commonwealth countries was drawing to a close. General Charles Ferguson, for his sins, had been asked to deliver a speech on the economic consequences of terrorism in the modern age, and he couldn’t wait to leave.
The affair had been expected to finish at ten, but it was now eleven, thanks to a certain amount of squabbling during the question-and-answer sessions, and naturally, and to his great annoyance, Ferguson had been involved. He’d had to call his driver on three separate occasions until, at last, the whole sorry business came to an end. He made his escape as fast as possible, found a string of limousines waiting and his not among them. His beloved Daimler had suffered damage and was being refurbished, and the Cabinet Office had provided an Amara and a driver named Pool, who now came forward anxiously.
“And what’s this?” Ferguson demanded ominously.
“We kept getting moved on by security. I’m two streets away, in Venable Row.” He had a cockney accent, but with a slight whine to it that Ferguson didn’t like.
“For God’s sake, man, just lead the way. I want to get home to bed.”
Pool scuttled away. Ferguson sighed. Poor sod. It wasn’t his fault when you thought of it, but what a bloody evening. As Pool reached the end of the street, a limousine came around the corner and ran through a large puddle, splashing the driver severely. It kept on going, and he shouted after it.
“Holy Mother of God, you’ve soaked me, you bastards.” His voice was quite different, more Irish than anything else, and he turned to Ferguson and called hurriedly, “Sorry, sir,” and disappeared around the corner.
“What in the hell is going on?” Ferguson asked softly, and turned into Venable Row. There was some construction going on there, a cleared area and a fence around it with an opening for an entrance, along with a couple of diggers and a work truck. It was dark in there, just a little light in the glare of a streetlight. The silver Amara was parked some yards inside, and Pool was standing beside it.
“Here we are, sir.”
Ferguson moved closer, and, as he approached, Pool turned and started to run away, and the Amara blew up, the explosion echoing between the buildings on either side and setting off their fire alarms.
Ferguson was hurled backwards by the blast, lay there for a moment, then stood up, aware that he was in one piece but that the Amara was burning furiously. The explosion had come from the trunk, and Pool had been closer to the rear of the car. Ferguson lurched towards him, dropped to his knees, and turned Pool over. There was a great deal of blood, and his face was gashed.
Pool’s eyes opened. Ferguson said, “Steady, old son, you’ll be fine. Help coming.”
Pool’s voice was very weak. “I messed up. All my fault.”
“Nonsense,” Ferguson said. “The only person to blame is the bastard who put that bomb in my car.”
Not that Pool heard him, for he’d already stopped breathing, and Ferguson knelt there, a feeling of total desolation passing through him, aware of the sirens of the police and the emergency services approaching, holding a hand already turning cold.
“Not your fault, old son,” he said softly. “Not your fault at all.” As he got to his feet, the first police car roared into the street.
In New York, Harry Miller and Sean Dillon were enjoying a drink in the wood-paneled Oak Bar of the Plaza Hotel, where they were sharing a suite.
“I like this place,” Dillon said. “The Edwardian splendor of it. They say it was Mark Twain’s home away from home. I had a drink in this very bar on my first trip to New York.” The small Irishman was wearing slacks of black velvet corduroy and a black Armani shirt that seemed to complement the hair, so fair it was almost white. He looked calm and relaxed, with the half smile of a man who couldn’t take the world seriously.
“The IRA must have been generous with their expenses. I presume you were after some wretched informer on the run from Belfast?”
“As a matter of fact, I was,” Dillon said, still smiling. “Another one?”
“Why not, but then you’d better get changed. You are, after all, representing the British Government at the UN. I think I’ll stretch my legs while you do.”