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discovered Roper, hair still damp, sitting in his wheelchair in a blue tracksuit, enjoying breakfast and immensely cheerful. Ferguson was sitting opposite, enjoying scrambled eggs.
    “There you are, you devil, what went on in New York, then? You were supposed to be his minder. It’s a miracle he was wearing that ankle holster.”
    “Which I knew nothing about.”
    Maggie Hall entered with scrambled eggs, and withdrew.
    “Diplomatic immunity covered us when we landed in the Gulfstream, obviously, but he couldn’t have worn it to the UN.”
    “Probably just a whim,” Ferguson said. “There’s no question of him going into Parliament with it, but I suspect he does in other places in London.” He glanced at Dillon. “Do you agree?”
    Dillon reached down to his right ankle and produced a Colt .25. “All the rage, these days. I wouldn’t be without one.”
    Roper said, “A damn good job he was carrying when he took that walk in the park.”
    Dillon reached for toast and marmalade, and said cheerfully, “Oh, I suspect he’d have thought of something ghastly as an alternative. A man of infinite resource and guile, our Harry.”
    “You can say that again.” He took a piece of Dillon’s toast, and his Codex sounded. It was Billy Salter. “That you, Roper? I’m at the Dark Man. We’ve had a right old business down here. Some geezer tried a little arson in the early hours.”
    Roper waved a hand at the others, and turned his Codex on speaker. “Say again, Billy?”
    “We’d all gone to bed early—Ruby, Harry, me, Joe Baxter, and Sam Hall,” he continued, naming the Salters’ minders. “Joe was still dressed and watching a late-night movie on television when he heard a noise from the bar. He knocked on Sam’s door to alert him, then smelt petrol, so he moved into the bar, turned on the lights, and found this guy emptying a can of petrol all over the place, the till rifled, cash drawers open.”
    “Who was it?”
    “How do I know? They’re just fishing him out of the Thames. He was wearing a black tracksuit and ski mask, Joe said, and he looked like a terrorist from central casting. Joe had his Smith and Wesson with him. He wasn’t keen on firing, in case the petrol ignited, so the guy threw the can at him and legged it. Sam had joined Joe by then, and they went after him.”
    “What happened?”
    “The old Ford van at the end of the wharf? It always has a key in it, not worth stealing. I reckon he’d checked it out previously, because he ran straight for it, was in and driving off, but the wrong way. There was no place to turn, and he simply ran over the edge of the wharf in the dark.”
    “With him in it?”
    “The police are here now. They’ll have a recovery team get the truck later, but a police diver’s been down, and he’s found the guy. He’s gone down again with another diver to try and get him. Harry’s here, and he’d like a word.”
    The unmistakable cockney voice of Billy’s uncle echoed around the canteen. Harry Salter, a gangster for most of his life and now a property millionaire, said, “Well, this is nice, Roper, we could all have been roasted in our beds. What the hell was the bugger playing at? There was a grand in the till. Wasn’t that enough?”
    It was Ferguson who said, “It’s me, Harry, and Dillon’s just back from New York with the strangest story you’ve heard in a long time.” He turned to Roper. “You explain.”
    Which Roper did.
     
     
     
    Standing on Cable Wharf in Wapping near his beloved pub, the Dark Man, Harry said, “Jesus Christ, Roper, this is incredible.”
    “But true, Harry. The guy who shot Blake, the one who attacked Miller, and then the General’s rogue driver last night, all were in possession of the same prayer card.”
    “Tell me again what it says?”
    Roper did. “The police will search your arsonist’s body when they get him up. Billy can use some muscle by flashing his MI5 card. See where it gets you, and call