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play their stupid little spy games. I wanted no part of it. I'd call Hammond in the morning and tell him no. Immediately I felt better. I certainly didn't need the problems it would bring, to say nothing of the anxiety. The events of the day proved that. But Daphne Boggs was another story. Eventually Kate asked me what was wrong, and I told her about the pickpocket and the aftermath. She held my hands tightly. Words were superfluous.
    Driving home we were quiet – lost in the complexities of our own thoughts.
    Neither of us was prepared for the events that were about to overtake us.

 
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
    London , England – Wednesday , June 13 , 1962
     
    The best part of driving in London is driving out of it.
    That's precisely what I was doing the next morning, and it was one of those perfect days. The sun made the green of England seem even greener, and there was a translucent sheen over the Thames as I crisscrossed it several times on my way down the Chertsey by-pass near Richmond. This was what I loved about England, and it made the days of drizzle almost bearable.
    Kate had left for school early – I hadn't even seen her – and I was to spend the day at the Royal Military School of Music, commonly known all over the world as Kneller Hall.
    Since Kneller Hall was in Twickenham, Middlesex, I had decided to drive. Not that I needed much urging to get the Jag out, especially on a day like this. My one real extravagance, it was a Mark II 3.4 automatic in British Racing Green, and I loved handling it. I never ceased to marvel at its engineering or its finish – the soft green leather seats and the burled walnut fascia and trim. I had picked it up barely used from an elderly baronet who had decided to upgrade to a Rolls with a chauffeur. I think I got the better of the deal.
    I pondered as I drove, about Kate and her wonderful opportunity, the terrible events of the previous day, and about Colonel Hammond's request and my decision to renege. Strangely, I realized that I was thinking more about Kate's good luck than I was about the intelligence thing. It surprised me that I didn't feel guilty about turning Hammond down.
    With much apprehension I had read the papers earlier, afraid of the lurid details I might find about my tragic meeting with Daphne, the pickpocket. To my surprise and relief it had warranted only a small item on a back page, and my name had not been mentioned.
    Unusual, I felt. The tabloids liked to have a field day with this sort of thing, and I realized how lucky I was not to be smeared all over the front pages. Thank God for small mercies.
    Passing the Twickenham Rugby Grounds I could see the front of the main building of 'KH', with its ornamented red brick. Soaring above the trees were the twin towers, stark against the blue of the sky, standing sentinel for the Union Jack flying between them. It was hard to believe I had spent three years here as a student.
    Turning into the main gate from the narrow road I was promptly saluted by the Pupils on guard duty – not because I was recognized as an officer, I realized, but because I was driving a Jaguar. It was safer to salute anything that smelled of status rather than hear about it later with a bollocking.
    Parking the car I made my way into the main building – the former country home of Sir Godfrey Kneller, the celebrated court painter during the reign of Queen Anne in the early 1700's.
    Lieutenant-Colonel Archibald Mowatt, OBE, LRAM, ARCM, psm, Director of Music, the Royal Military School of Music, and Senior Director of Music for the British Army, was an intimidating figure. Stocky, as many Scots are, his blue eyes pierced out under bushy white eyebrows, and his equally white moustache bristled continuously against a florid complexion.
    Many a student bandmaster has wilted under that gaze, and Archie went to great pains to keep up the front, but underneath it all he was a gentleman and even more, a gentle man.
    “Good morning, David,” he greeted,