"I'm aware of that, Dillon," Ferguson snapped. "But you could widen the circle to include a lot of people who've been involved with us." He turned to Miller. "What about your sister, Major? She helped us out in that business involving the IRA in County Louth last year. She even shot one of them."
Miller's sister, Lady Monica Starling, an archaeologist and Cambridge don, had indeed proved her mettle-and, in the process, had become as close a friend to Dillon as a woman could.
Miller frowned and turned to Dillon. "He's got a point, Sean, we should speak to her."
Roper said, "If the rest of you can shut up for a moment, I'll get her on the line." He was answered at once. She sounded fraught, her voice echoing through the speakers.
"Who is this?"
"No need to bite my head off, darling," said Miller. "It's your big brother."
"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."
"Of course you must, so get moving."
Miller went out fast, and Roper said, "Open warfare. They certainly mean business, whoever they are. Do you think there's an IRA touch to this?"
Dillon nodded. "Since the Peace Process, the IRA hands have fanned out, looking to make money," he said. "We've dealt with plenty of them in the past, desperate for work, who've offered their skills to various countries in the Russian Federation, worked with the PLO, Hamas, Hezbollah. Then there was Kosovo and Chechnya."
"Iraq," Roper said. "Plenty of money to be made there, one way or another, for the kind of men who were members of the Provisional IRA, with all their military skills."
"Which is exactly the kind of thing I was doing for years, until the General here made me an offer I couldn't refuse." Dillon shook his head. "That's what this all smells like to me-IRA for hire. I'll take myself off to Kilburn and see what I can find out."
"Would you care for some company?" Billy said.
"Why not? What about you, Harry?"
Salter got up. "You go with Dillon, Billy. I'll take your Alfa and get back to the Dark Man and see how Ruby's coping with the cleaning."
He went out, and Ferguson said, "On your way, then, you two, I'm going to have a word with Clancy at the White House, then I'll visit our Russian friends in Belsize Park." He turned to Roper. "Whenever you're ready, Major, call Clancy on his personal line."
Clancy answered at once, nine o'clock on a Washington morning. "General, how are things?"
"They've moved at some speed, but, before I fill you in, how is Blake?"
"What would you expect from an old Vietnam hand? He's being airlifted in a Medical Corps helicopter to a hospital in Washington this afternoon."
"Give him our best. Let me tell you what's happened now."
Which he did, and Clancy was horrified. "This is incredible. Whoever these people are, they certainly don't take prisoners. Everything that's already happened, and now the attempted arson attack on the Dark Man and the assault on Monica Starling, shows we're up against truly ruthless people. And I take your point about who could be next."
"Exactly. Alexander Kurbsky, his aunt Svetlana, and their friend, Katya Zorin. Kurbsky's a marked man. He's still posing as a leukemia victim on chemotherapy, and the change in his physical appearance is remarkable, but if the Russians get wind of his location, that won't hold them for long."
Kurbsky had originally been sent in by the GRU to penetrate British intelligence, but once he'd found out how his bosses had duped him about his sister he'd had a change of heart. In particular, he'd saved Blake Johnson's ass when he'd been kidnapped in London, and then he and Bounine had saved the Vice President's life from a crazed Luzhkov.
"As I recall," said Clancy, "there was a Presidential promise of asylum in the U.S. if Kurbsky ever wanted it. I'm sure that would be honored, if you think it's a good idea."
"What would you suggest?"
"We have a list of facilities, but Heron Island off the Florida coast would be perfect. The Secret Service use it only for the most special cases. A hundred percent security, the staff vetted in every possible way, decent climate, and the house I'm thinking of is spectacular."
"How soon could you arrange all this?"
"Twenty-four hours. I assume you'll handle your end. It may not be forever, General, but I can promise they'll be safe on Heron Island. With luck, we'll take care of the threat between us in a few weeks, and then we can think again."
"Thank you, old friend," Ferguson told him. "I'll be back to you."
Roper had, of course, heard everything. "Sounds good. Are you going up to see them now?"
"Yes, I think so. One less problem if they agree," and Ferguson went out.
His Daimler was back and, with it, Martin, his usual driver, and they drove to Belsize Park. Ferguson, going through everything that had happened, still had not found a solution when Martin parked in the mews beside Chamber Court at the side entrance of the high stone wall. Ferguson announced himself to the intercom, and the gate buzzed and swung open.
The garden was beautiful-rhododendron bushes, cypress trees, plane trees, more bushes surrounding a lovely curving lawn. As he advanced towards the conservatory, Bounine stepped out of the bushes, wearing overalls, holding a baseball bat menacingly in his hand.
"It's General Ferguson, you idiot." Kurbsky emerged from the trees, a sad, gaunt figure, with the skull and the haunted face of someone on chemotherapy, although, in his case, he took drugs to make him look that way.
"What's up?" Ferguson asked.
"We've had an intruder," Kurbsky said. "Yesterday, after supper, we were going to watch television with the ladies. I stepped out of the conservatory to have a smoke and thought I heard something over by the garage, so I went to investigate. Someone jumped me, a man in a bomber jacket and jeans. He was closer to the garage than me and made the security lights come on."
"What happened?"
"He pulled a flick-knife and sprung the blade, so I smacked him about a bit. He was on the ground after I took the knife, so I relieved him of his wallet, and I moved over to the garage security lights to inspect it. Bounine came out on the terrace and called, which distracted me. The guy scrambled up, ran like hell, and got over the wall."