As much as he wanted to, Harvath couldn’t be two places at once. With such sketchy information, the choice of which city to try to head off an attack in was a toss-up. It all came down to the numbers. He would go where the most American lives were at risk and it was the Old Man who made the call-London.

Carlton had excellent contacts in Great Britain; experienced people he could trust. He also had something else-a Delta unit training with the British SAS at a classified site in Wales. With one call from the Old Man to the DOD, the unit was packing its bags and heading for London.

When Harvath arrived, he was met by one of the deans of MI5, Robert Ashford. He was a barrel-chested man of medium height with steel-gray hair and a broad, flat nose. He looked very capable of handling trouble and also looked like he had probably dealt plenty of it out over the course of his career.

Ashford introduced himself and handed over his card. “Bob Ashford. Welcome to England.” Looking at Harvath’s bag, he added, “I understand there’s nothing special you need to declare, correct?”

As the capability kit at the safe house in Geneva wouldn’t cover Riley and the interrogation team, the Old Man had instructed Harvath to leave his gear behind. “Correct,” Harvath said, tapping his bag. “I only brought my toothbrush and a change of underwear. I was told you know all the best places to shop.”

Ashford smiled, removed his credentials, and navigated Harvath through the passport control and customs checkpoints. Parked in a fire lane just outside was a black BMW. The MI5 man directed Harvath to the passenger seat and then walked around and got behind the wheel.

“Seatbelts, please,” he said as he shut the door and started the vehicle. “Peaches would never forgive me if something happened to you.”

“Peaches?” repeated Harvath.

“A little joke amongst his friends. I assume you refer to him as Mr. Carlton or some such back in the States.”

“Either that or boss. Sometimes known simply as the Old Man.”

Ashford chuckled softly, applied his turn signal, and pulled away from the curb. “We weren’t always old, you know. We were once quite young. Younger than you even.”

Harvath didn’t need a reminder of his age. He still had a swollen testicle and a couple of bruises that five years ago would have been gone by now.

“Reed’s a good man and an even better operative,” Ashford added.

“Is that where the nickname Peaches comes from, or should I ask Mrs. Carlton about it?”

The MI5 agent smiled. “Suffice it to say, the nickname was meant as an antithesis. Your boss was anything but sweet. No matter how unsavory a tactic the enemy employed, he could always one-up them. He never hesitated doing what needed to be done. And you should have seen him interrogate. My goodness, within minutes, even I was ready to tell him everything I knew, and I was on his side. In a word, he could be bloody ruthless, ergo the name-”

“Peaches.”

“Exactly,” replied Ashford as he changed lanes, cutting off a cab driver who honked in protest. “He has always been a gentleman, though. Exceedingly polite, your boss.”

“He speaks very highly of you too,” said Harvath.

“He damn well should. Without me, he never would have been allowed back into the U.K. again.”

Harvath had heard rumors around the Carlton Group offices about the Old Man’s past. “He didn’t really strike Prince Charles, did he?”

“He didn’t strike him. He knocked him out bloody cold, mate. That’s where that whole polo accident story came from.”

“All because Charles had said something about Diana?”

“Reed was very fond of the princess. He had gotten to know the royal family quite well while working over here. They always insisted he be involved with their security when they came to the U.S. Whether that rankled the Secret Service or not, I don’t know, but Reed always made sure the royal family had the very best agents. Some even said their security plans rivaled the president’s.”

“He got called in for help after Diana’s death, right? He was part of the secret team looking into whether the car crash was an accident or a homicide.”

Ashford nodded. “When Reed arrived, Charles had been drinking, a lot. That’s when the prince made a crude remark about Diana and Reed punched him out. I stuck up for Peaches, of course.”

“Which means you pulled your gun when Charles’s security detail rushed him?”

“There are many conflicting stories as to what happened that night,” said Ashford as he switched lanes and cut off another vehicle. “Let’s put it this way, I understand why all my peers have been knighted and I haven’t. But in the end, as long as I’m still recognized in the pub when I go back to Yorkshire, that’s all that matters to me.”

Harvath smiled. “Bullshit. I haven’t met a Brit yet who doesn’t dream of being knighted.”

The MI5 man smiled back and changed the subject. “Reed’s phone call has caused quite a bit of a stir.”

“I can imagine,” said Harvath.

“Obviously, we want to extend to you every professional courtesy, but we are taking the lead on this.”

“Based upon the intelligence we gathered for you and which specifically states that Americans are the target?”

Ashford downshifted and switched lanes. “The targets may be American, but the attack is planned for Britain and British lives, as well as other nationalities, are also at risk. Besides, if the shoe was on the other foot, would you be giving us control over Times Square?”

The man had a point. “No, we wouldn’t.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Nobody wants an attack to take place in their own country.”

“As long as we work together.”

“We already are. Against our better judgment, we are not raising the terror-alert level and we are not going to close down Piccadilly Circus. You and your team will be able to work the area, but our teams will be there too.”

Harvath was about to reply, when he added, “And before you say anything, I want you to know that you have nothing to worry about. You won’t see my people.”

“Yes, I will.”

Ashford laughed. “Okay, maybe you will see them, but I guarantee you the bad guys won’t.”

Harvath loved the Brits. They were some of the most squared-away operators he had ever met, but he wasn’t comforted by Ashford’s assurance.

“And there’s one final item which is not open for negotiation,” the man added. “Any suspects taken into custody here shall belong to us and will be interrogated by us. It’s the only way I could get this signed off. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Harvath replied. “Interrogations make me squeamish anyway.”

Ashford looked at him. “Somehow I doubt that.”

For the balance of the drive, the men made small talk and discussed politics.

Ashford soon brought his BMW to a stop in front of an immaculate Georgian town house in Belgravia, just southwest of Buckingham Palace.

“There’s a package for you in the boot,” he said, activating the trunk-release as Harvath climbed out.

Harvath walked to the rear of the BMW, and inside was a large, hard-sided suitcase. Lifting it out, he walked back around to the front of the vehicle.

Ashford rolled down his window. “Peaches has pinned a lot of his hopes on you. He says you have good judgment and that we can trust you.”

“You can,” replied Harvath.

“Good, because we’ve put a lot at risk. There are many people we’ve kept out of the loop for security reasons. When this goes down, they’re not going to be happy that they weren’t included.”

“They’ll get over it.”

“Provided everything goes to plan. But, if a bomb or bombs are detonated tomorrow and there are casualties, there will be hell to pay.”

Harvath had no trouble grasping who Ashford and the Brits intended to stick with the bill if something went wrong. “We want to take as many of them alive as possible.”

“Let’s hope we get them all,” said Ashford, putting his car in gear. He looked at his watch. “We’ll meet tomorrow morning at six. I’ll pick you up here. If I hear of anything before then, I’ll call you.”