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decided yet,” said Sir Alan.
    “Mrs. Clifton warned me that a journalist from the Telegraph had been sniffing around, asking far too many questions.”
    “Derek Hart. The damn man ignored the IMF loan story that Giles fed him, went ahead and filed his copy on the Home Fleet incident the moment he set foot in New York. However, there were so many ifs and buts in the piece it wasn’t difficult to convince the editor to spike it, not least because he was far more interested in finding out how Leonid Brezhnev, an old school hard-liner, managed to replace Khrushchev in a surprise coup.”
    “And how did he?” asked the colonel.
    “I suggest you read tomorrow’s Telegraph. ”
    “And Hart?”
    “I’m told he’s on his way to Johannesburg to try to get an interview with a terrorist called Nelson Mandela, which might prove difficult, as the man’s been in prison for more than two years, and no other journalist has been allowed anywhere near him.”
    “Does that mean my team can be stood down from protecting the Clifton family?”
    “Not yet,” said Sir Alan. “The IRA will almost certainly lose interest in the Barrington and Clifton families now Don Pedro Martinez is no longer around to pay the bills. However, I still need to convince Harry Clifton to assist me in another matter.” The colonel raised an eyebrow, but the cabinet secretary simply rose and shook hands with the SAS commanding officer. “I’ll be in touch” was all he said.
    *   *   *
    “Have you made up your mind?” asked Seb as they strolled past the Boathouse Café on the east side of Central Park.
    “Yes,” said Samantha, letting go of his hand. Seb turned to face her and waited anxiously. “I’ve already written to King’s College and told them I’d like to take up their offer to do my PhD at London University.”
    Seb leapt in the air with undisguised delight and screamed “Great balls of fire!” at the top of his voice. No one gave them a second look, but then they were in New York. “Does that mean you’ll move in with me once I find a new flat? We could even choose it together,” he added before she could reply.
    “Are you sure that’s what you really want?” asked Samantha, quietly.
    “I couldn’t be surer,” said Seb, taking her in his arms. “And as you’ll be based in the Strand, while I’m working in the City, perhaps we should look for a place somewhere near, like Islington?”
    “Are you sure?” Sam repeated.
    “As sure as I am that Bristol Rovers will never win the Cup.”
    “Who are Bristol Rovers?”
    “We don’t know each other well enough for me to burden you with their problems,” said Seb as they left the park. “Perhaps given time, a lot of time, I’ll tell you about eleven hopeless men who regularly ruin Saturday afternoons for me,” he added as they reached Fifth Avenue.
    *   *   *
    When Harry walked into the offices of the Viking Press, a young woman he recognized was waiting in reception.
    “Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” said Harold Guinzburg’s secretary, stepping forward to greet him. He couldn’t help wondering how many authors received this sort of treatment. “Mr. Guinzburg is looking forward to seeing you.”
    “Thank you, Kirsty,” said Harry. She led him through to the publisher’s oak-panelled office, adorned with photographs of past and present authors: Hemingway, Shaw, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner. He wondered if you had to die before your picture could be added to the Guinzburg collection.
    Despite being nearly seventy, Guinzburg leapt up from behind his desk the moment Harry entered the room. Harry had to smile. Dressed in a three-piece suit and wearing a half-hunter pocket watch with a gold chain, Guinzburg looked more English than the English.
    “So how’s my favorite author?”
    Harry laughed as they shook hands. “And how many times a week do you greet authors with those words?” he asked as he sank down in the high, buttoned-back leather chair facing his