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pistol back into its holster, pushed the BMW off its stand, and rode away.

    Chapter Two.
    It was raining on the following morning when Ferguson's car dropped him outside Number 10 Downing Street, ten minutes early for his eleven o'clock appointment with the Prime Minister. His driver moved away instantly, and Ferguson crossed the pavement to the entrance. In spite of the rain, there was the usual small crowd of sightseers on the other side of the road, mainly tourists, kept in place by a couple of police constables. Another stood in his usual place by the door, not much protection for the best-known address in England, the seat of political power as well as the Prime Minister's private residence, but that didn't mean a thing as Ferguson well knew. There were others, more inconspicuously attired, situated at certain strategic points in the area, ready to swarm in at the first hint of trouble.
    The policeman saluted. The door was opened, even before Ferguson reached it, and he passed inside.
    The young man who greeted him said, "Brigadier Ferguson? This way, sir."
    There was the hum of activity from the press room on the right as he crossed the entrance hall and entered the corridor leading to the rear of the house and the Cabinet room.
    The main staircase to the first floor was lined with portraits of previous Prime Ministers. Peel, Wellington, Disraeli, Gladstone. Ferguson always felt an acute sense of history as he mounted those stairs, although this was the first time he had done so to meet the present Prime Minister--the first time to explain himself to a woman, and a damn clever woman if it came to that. It was very definitely a new experience. But did anything change? How many attempts had there been to assassinate Queen Victoria? And Disraeli and Gladstone had both had their hands full of Fenians, dynamiters, and anarchists with their bombs, at one time or another.
    On the top corridor, the young man knocked on a door, opened it, and ushered Ferguson inside. "Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister," he said and left, closing the door behind him.
    The study was more elegant now than Ferguson remembered it, with pale green walls and gold curtains and comfortable furniture in perfect taste. But nothing was more elegant in the entire room than the woman behind the desk with the green leather top. The blue suit with the froth of white lace at the throat perfectly offset the blonde hair. An elegant, handsome woman of the world, and yet the eyes, when she glanced up at Ferguson from the paper she was reading, were hard and intelligent.
    "I've had a personal assurance from the French President this morning that this whole wretched business will be hushed up. It never happened. You understand me?"
    "Perfectly, ma'am."
    She looked at the paper before her. "This agent of yours, Corder.
    If it hadn't been for him. . . ." She gestured to a chair. "Sit down, Brigadier. Tell me about him."
    "We recruited Jack Corder some twelve years ago when he was still an undergraduate at All Souls. The route he chose was to immerse himself totally in left-wing politics. We often hear of moles within our intelligence service working for the Russians, ma'am. Jack was the other side of the coin. He endured prison sentences twice for his apparent militancy. Afterward, I transferred him to the European terrorist scene. Frank Barry was his most important assignment."
    She nodded. "I've already spoken to the Director General of DI5, and he tells me that as long ago as nineteen seventy-two one of my predecessors authorized the setting up within DI5 of a section known as Group Four, which has powers held directly from the Prime Minister, to coordinate the handling of all cases of terrorism, subversion, and the like."
    "That is correct, Prime Minister."
    "With you in charge, Brigadier?"
    "Yes, ma'am." There was a longish pause while she stared down at the paper thoughtfully. Ferguson cleared his throat. "Naturally, if you would prefer to initiate some change, I