down and turned him on his back.
“Dead,” he said. “Two in the pumper. Good thing you check out on the range every week. This little sod was going to kill you.”
“I know.” Chavasse was on the phone. After a moment he said, “The Chief here. Tell Section Three I’ve had a red alert at my home. Need immediate disposal team.” He put the phone down. “Twenty minutes, Earl, and let’s keep Lucy out of it.”
“As you like, Sir Paul,” Jackson said formally.
The discreet undertaker’s van appeared on time. Two aging gentlemen in formal attire came to the drawing room with a coffin and departed with Moro’s body. The blood had soaked into his robe and there was no stain on the carpet.
“A few pounds of grey ash,” Jackson said. “That’s all he’ll be in the morning. They’ll probably strew him on one of the grass verges.”
“You’re a hard man, Earl.”
“Comes of soldiering too long.” Jackson shrugged. “Nothing else you could have done. It was you or him. Can I get you anything?”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll say goodnight then.”
The door closed and Chavasse sat down to think about recent events, then picked up the phone and rang Downing Street. When it was answered he said, “Code Eagle. Give me the prime minister.”
A moment later John Major came on. “Paul?”
“I just wanted to let you know, Prime Minister, that I’ll be at my desk tomorrow and that I’ll occupy it for as long as you need me.”
“Marvellous,” Major told him. “We’ll speak soon.”
Chavasse put down the phone and poured a Bushmills, then went and drew the curtains and opened the French window. Rain drummed down on the terrace.
