Lord Worth pressed a bell and within seconds Jenkins entered bearing a silver tray with two large brandies. There was no telepathy involved, just years of experience and a long-established foreknowledge of Lord Worth's desires. When he left, both men sat.

Lord Worth said: "Well, what news from the West?"

"The Cherokee, I regret to say, are after you."

Lord Worth sighed and said: "It had to come sometime. Tell me all."

Corral told him all. He had a near-photographic memory and a gift for concise and accurate reportage. Within five minutes Lord Worth knew all that was worth knowing about the Lake Tahoe meeting.

Lord Worth who, because of the unfortunate misunderstanding that had arisen between himself and Cronkite, knew the latter as well as any and better than most, said at the end of Corral's report: "Did Cronkite subscribe to the ten's agreement to abjure any form of violence?"

"No."

"Not that it would have mattered if he had. Man's a total stranger to the truth. And ten million dollars' expenses, you tell me?"

"It did seem a bit excessive."

"Can you see a massive outlay like that being concomitant with anything except violence?"

"No."

"Do you think the others believed that there was no connection between them?"

"Let me put it this way, sir. Any group of people who can convince themselves, or appear to convince themselves, that any proposed action against you is for the betterment of mankind is also prepared to convince themselves, or appear to convince themselves, that the word 'Cronkite' is synonymous with peace on earth."

"So their consciences are clear. If Cronkite goes to any excessive lengths in death and destruction to achieve their ends, they can always throw up their hands in horror and say, 'Good God, we never thought the man would go that far.' Not that any connection between them and Cronkite would ever have to be established. What a bunch of devious, mealymouthed hypocrites!"

He paused for a moment.

"I suppose Cronkite refused to divulge his plans?"

"Absolutely. But there is one odd circumstance: just as we were leaving, Cronkite drew two of the ten to one side and spoke to them privately. It would be interesting to know why."

"Any chance of finding out?"

"A fair chance. Nothing guaranteed. But I'm sure Benson could find out – after all, it was Benson who invited us all to Lake Tahoe."

"And you think you could persuade Benson to tell you?"

"A fair chance. Nothing more."

Lord Worth put on his resigned expression. "All right, how much?"

"Nothing. Money won't buy Benson." Corral shook his head hi disbelief. "Extraordinary, in this day and age, but Benson is not a mercenary man. But he does owe me some favors, one of them being that, without me, he wouldn't be the president of the oil company that he is now." Corral paused. "I'm surprised you haven't asked me the identities of the two men Cronkite took aside."

"So am I."

"Borosoff of the Soviet Union and Patinos of Venezuela." Lord Worth appeared to lapse into a trance. "That mean anything to you?"

Lord Worth bestirred himself. "Yes. Units of the Russian Navy are making a so-called 'goodwill tour' of the Caribbean. They are, inevitably, based in Cuba. Of the ten, those are the only two that could bring swift – ah – naval intervention to bear against the Seawitch." He shook his head. "Diabolical. Utterly diabolical."

"My way of thinking too, sir. There's no knowing. But I'll check as soon as possible and hope to get results,"

"And I shall take immediate precautions." Both men rose. "Corral, we shall have to give serious consideration to the question of increasing this paltry retainer of yours."

"We try to be of service, Lord Worth."

Lord Worth's private radio room bore more than a passing resemblance to the flight deck of his private 707. The variety of knobs, switches, buttons and dials was bewildering. Lord Worth seemed perfectly at home with them all, and proceeded to make a number of calls.

The first were to his four helicopter pilots, instructing them to have his two largest helicopters – never a man to do things by halves, Lord Worth owned no fewer than six of these machines – ready at his own private airfield shortly before dawn. The next four were to people of whose existence his fellow directors were totally unaware. The first of these calls was to Cuba, the second to Venezuela. Lord Worth's worldwide range of contacts – employees, rather – was vast. The instructions to both were simple and explicit. A constant monitoring watch was to be kept on the naval bases in both countries, and any sudden departures of any naval vessels, and their type, was to be reported to him immediately.

The third, to a person who lived not too many miles away, was addressed to a certain Giuseppe Palermo, whose name sounded as if he might be a member of the Mafia, but who definitely wasn't: the Mafia Palermo despised as a mollycoddling organization which had become so ludicrously gentle in its methods of persuasion as to be in imminent danger of becoming respectable. The next call was to Baton Rouge in Louisiana, where lived a person who called himself only "Conde" and whose main claim to fame lay in the fact that he was the highest-ranking naval officer to have been court-martialed and dishonorably discharged since World War . He, like the others, received very explicit instructions. Not only was Lord Worth a master organizer, but the efficiency he displayed was matched only by his speed in operation.

The noble Lord, who would have stoutly maintained – if anyone had the temerity to accuse him, which no one ever had – that he was no criminal, was about to become just that. Even this he would have strongly denied, and that on three grounds. The Constitution upheld the right of every citizen to bear arms; every man had the right to defend himself and his property against criminal attack by whatever means lay to hand; and the only way to fight fire was with fire.

The final call Lord Worth put through, and this time with total confidence, was to his tried and trusted lieutenant, Commander Larsen.

Commander Larsen was the captain of the Seawitch.

Larsen – no one knew why he called himself "Commander," and he wasn't the kind of person you asked – was a rather different breed of man from his employer. Except in a public court or in the presence of a law officer, he would cheerfully admit to anyone that he was both a non-gentleman and a criminal. And he certainly bore no resemblance to any aristocrat, alive or dead. But there did exist a genuine rapport and mutual respect between Lord Worth and himself. In all likelihood they were simply brothers under the skin.

As a criminal and non-aristocrat – and casting no aspersions on honest unfortunates who may resemble him – he certainly looked the part. He had the general build and appearance of the more viciously daunting heavyweight wrestler, deep-set black eyes that peered out under the overhanging foliage of hugely bushy eyebrows, an equally bushy black beard, a hooked nose, and a face that looked as if it had been in regular contact with a series of heavy objects. No one, with the possible exception of Lord Worth, knew who he was, what he had been, or from where he had come. His voice, when he spoke, came as a positive shock: beneath that Neanderthalic facade was the voice and the mind of an educated man. It really ought not to have come as such a shock: beneath the facade of many an exquisite fop lies the mind of a retarded fourth-grader.

Larsen was in the radio room at that moment, listening attentively, nodding from tune to time; then he flicked a switch that put the incoming call on the loudspeaker.

He said: "All clear, sir. Everything understood. We'll make the preparations. But haven't you overlooked something, sir?"