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the CIA in this matter, and their advice is this. They agree that the attack was sponsored by al-Qaeda, but they want to keep it under wraps. They’ll immediately start investigating, but want to keep al-Qaeda off balance by not saying a word about it publicly. All they’ll know is that I’m obviously alive and walking around. Al-Qaeda won’t know what to make of it, won’t know what did occur.”
    “Only that their two assassins have gone missing?” Sara nodded. “That makes for an interesting situation.”
    “Well, they love their martyrs,” Ferguson said. “We all know that, so handled this way, it denies AQ the oxygen of publicity.”
    Cazalet said, “Maybe they’ll slip up, make a mistake, try to communicate with each other. That’s helped us before.” Cazalet smiled grimly. “And we have a lot of drones.”
    “Which still requires us to know where the bastards are in the first place,” Dillon said. “To be able to score.”
    There was a slight pause. Sara glanced at Dillon, then said, “Thank you for being so clear, sir.”
    “Very weird.” Dillon shook his head. “We were in New York at the UN to discuss the Husseini affair with the British ambassador, then got yanked out for an evening with you, and it was that which screwed up al-Qaeda’s plan. I’m surprised they didn’t getwind of our trip to Nantucket. The UN’s a sieve, all those countries crammed into that building on the East River. Don’t tell me al-Qaeda doesn’t have its fingers in that pie.”
    “That may be,” Ferguson said. “The point is how we handle it now. I’ve had word from London. It seems the President has spoken to the Prime Minister, who has agreed to all this but with some reluctance. So that settles it. As far as the public is concerned, none of this ever happened.”
    He turned to Dillon. “Have you anything to say? You usually do.”
    “About the dream I had last night? It’s fading rapidly.”
    “Go on, back to your seats. We need a last few words together, don’t we, sir?” he said to Cazalet.
    Dillon and Sara turned to go. He had his hand on the door handle when Cazalet called, “Just a moment, you two.”
    They turned, and Sara said, “Yes, sir, was there something else?”
    “Yes.” Cazalet was smiling. “Very private and between us. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about the CIA. Thank God you were there last night. It’s people like you who guard the wall for all of us, and I, for one, am extremely grateful.”
    There was a silent moment as his words sank in, and then Sara smiled and said, “It’s been a privilege to serve, Mr. President,” and she followed Dillon out.
    —
    Later that day, in the Gulfstream headed home, Ferguson stayed toward the front of the cabin videoconferencing while Flight Lieutenant Parry moved along from the cockpit, visited the kitchen area, and came out with coffee.
    “We’ve got some storms threatening in the mid-Atlantic, somake sure you belt up if you go to sleep. And”—he looked a little uncomfortable—“could you advise Dillon to watch his drinking?”
    He and Sara exchanged a look, then he moved back toward the cockpit. She reached up to a locker and found a couple of blankets, and Dillon, who’d been to the restroom, returned with a glass in one hand. She tossed one blanket to him and draped herself in the other.
    “I’d be careful with your booze intake, Sean,” she advised. “Rough weather forecast.”
    They sat with their backs against the rear bulkhead on either side of the aisle, and he touched her. “Just the one, and then I’ll probably have a sleep.”
    “So you’ve still got problems?”
    “As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about what Cazalet said about people like us guarding the wall.”
    “That was a fine thing for him to say, but then he’s a fine man.”
    “I agree, but it made me feel ashamed.”
    She frowned. “But why should it do that?”
    “Oh, not living up to the image, in my case allowing a mental