LITMIR.BIZ

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      The Washington day in August had been almost subtropical, but by late evening an unexpected shower had cooled things.

      The Hay-Adams Hotel was only a short walk from the White House, and outside the bar two men sat at a small table on the terrace, a canopy protecting them against the rain. The elder had an authoritative moustache and thick hair touched with silver, and wore a dark blue suit and Guards tie. He was General Charles Ferguson, Commander of the British Prime Minister’s private hit squad, which was an unfortunate necessity in the era of international terrorism.

      His companion, Major Harry Miller, was forty-seven, just under six feet, with grey eyes, a shrapnel scar on one cheek, and a calm and confident manner. A Member of Parliament, he served the Prime Minister as a general troubleshooter and bore the rank of Under-Secretary of State. He had proved he could handle anything, from the politicians at the United Nations to the hell of Afghanistan.

      Just now, he was saying to Ferguson, ‘Are you sure the President will be seeing us?’

      Ferguson nodded. ‘Blake was quite certain. The President said he’d make sure to clear time for us.’

      Sean Dillon stepped out on to the terrace, glass in hand, and joined them, his fair hair tousled and his shirt and velvet cord suit black as usual.

      ‘So there you are.’

      Before Ferguson could reply, Blake Johnson appeared from the bar and found them. He wore a light trenchcoat draped over his shoulders to protect a tweed country suit. He was fifty-nine, his black hair flecked with grey. As a boy, he’d lied about his age, and when he’d stepped out of the plane to start his first tour of Vietnam, he’d been only eighteen. Now, a long-time veteran of the Secret Service, he was Personal Security Adviser to the new President, as he had been for several Presidents before him.

      ‘We thought we’d been stood up,’ Dillon told him, and shook hands.

      ‘Nonsense,’ Ferguson said. ‘It’s good of him to make time for us.’

      ‘Your report on Afghanistan certainly interested him. Besides, he’s wanted to meet you for some time now.’

      ‘With all the new blood running around, I think that’s very decent of the man,’ Dillon said. ‘I thought we’d have been kicked out of the door along with the special relationship.’

      Ferguson said to Blake, ‘Take no notice of him. Let’s get going.’

      For those who didn’t want to make a fuss, the best way into the White House was through the east entrance, which was where Clancy Smith, a large, fit black Secret Service man assigned to the President, waited patiently. He had met them all over the years.

      ‘Great to see you, General,’ he told Ferguson.

      ‘So you’re still speaking to us, Clancy?’ Dillon asked.

      ‘Dillon, shut up!’ Ferguson told him again.

      ‘I’m only trying to make sure there’s a welcome for Brits these days. I seem to remember there was a previous occasion when they burned the place down.’

      Clancy roared with laughter. ‘Dillon, you never change.’

      ‘He doesn’t, does he?’ Ferguson said bitterly. ‘But let’s get moving. If you’d be kind enough to lead the way.’

      Which Clancy did, escorting them through many corridors until he finally paused at a door. ‘Gentlemen, the Oval Office.’

      He opened the door and led the way in. The President was in his shirtsleeves,

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