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 Ministerâs 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, âAre you sure the President will be seeing us?â
Ferguson nodded. âBlake was quite certain. The President said heâd make sure to clear time for us.â
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.
âSo there you are.â
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, heâd lied about his age, and when heâd stepped out of the plane to start his first tour of Vietnam, heâd 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.
âWe thought weâd been stood up,â Dillon told him, and shook hands.
âNonsense,â Ferguson said. âItâs good of him to make time for us.â
âYour report on Afghanistan certainly interested him. Besides, heâs wanted to meet you for some time now.â
âWith all the new blood running around, I think thatâs very decent of the man,â Dillon said. âI thought weâd have been kicked out of the door along with the special relationship.â
Ferguson said to Blake, âTake no notice of him. Letâs get going.â
For those who didnât 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.
âGreat to see you, General,â he told Ferguson.
âSo youâre still speaking to us, Clancy?â Dillon asked.
âDillon, shut up!â Ferguson told him again.
âIâm only trying to make sure thereâs a welcome for Brits these days. I seem to remember there was a previous occasion when they burned the place down.â
Clancy roared with laughter. âDillon, you never change.â
âHe doesnât, does he?â Ferguson said bitterly. âBut letâs get moving. If youâd be kind enough to lead the way.â
Which Clancy did, escorting them through many corridors until he finally paused at a door. âGentlemen, the Oval Office.â
He opened the door and led the way in. The President was in his shirtsleeves, working his way through a mound of paperwork.
The President and Blake were sitting on one side of the large coffee table, with Dillon, Ferguson and Miller on the other. There was coffee available on a sideboard and they had all helped themselves at the Presidentâs invitation.
Ferguson sipped some of his coffee. âTrying times, Mr President.â
âAfghanistan troubles me greatly. The casualties mount relentlessly, yet we canât just abandon them,â the President said.
âI agree,â Ferguson told him.
The President glanced at Blake. âWhat were those Vietnam statistics again?â
âAt its worst, four hundred dead a week and four times as many wounded,â Blake told him.
âTwo thousand casualties a week.â Miller shook his head. âIt wasnât sustainable.â
âWhich was why we got out,â the President said. âBut what the hell do we do now? We have a large international army, excellent military personnel, backed up by air support and missiles. It should be no contest, and yetâ¦â
Harry Miller put in, âThereâs precedent, Mr President. During the Eighteen-forties, at the height of its Empire, Britain sent an army of sixteen and a half thousand into Afghanistan to take Kabul. Only one man returned with his life, a regimental doctor. Iâve always believed the Afghans were sending a message by allowing him to live.â