Their Own Game

  ***

  In his Downing Street office, alone except for the Cabinet Secretary, Prime Minister Tony Weaver was getting a similar briefing.

  Verbally, and in hushed tones, of course. Nothing was to be put in writing anywhere about any of this, by anyone, ever. No paper, no leaks.

  “McFosters checked in at Belfast airport, all right,” reported Sir Robin Algar. “No doubt about that. The media were there to see him off.”

  But he seemed not to have arrived.

  “According to Washington,” continued Sir Robin, “no one has seen him at the other end.”

  “Exactly as planned?” asked the PM.

  “Precisely so.”

  “And no one in Washington saw McFosters at all?”

  “No one living.” Sir Robin allowed himself the suggestion of a grin. “Certainly not the gentleman sent to meet him in the arrivals hall, outside customs. He is still there. And McFosters’ bag is still going round on the carousel in the baggage hall. An extraordinary thing altogether!”

  “Well I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Weaver. “You know, I really did wonder if the Americans had the guts to go ahead with all of this. But the game’s on now, all right. Well I’ll be damned!”

  “Shall I ask Jane to come in?” asked Algar.

  “Yes, do. And tell her to bring the whisky!”

  ***

  McFosters was the first.

  ***