“Mr. Andrew Jones is here to see you,” she said.

Andrew Jones? Shafer was shocked. Jones was a hot-shit director from the Security Service in London. Shafer hadn’t known he was in Washington. What the hell was this visit about? Andrew Jones was a high-level, very tough prick who wouldn’t just drop by for tea and biscuits. Mustn’t keep him waiting too long.

Jones was standing there, and he looked impatient, almost furious. What was this about? His steely blue eyes were cold and hard; his face was as rigid as that of an English soldier posted in Belfast. In contrast, his brilliant red hair and mustache made him look benign, almost jolly. He was called Andrew the Red back in London.

“Let’s go inside your office, shall we? Shut the door behind you,” Jones said in a low but commanding voice.

Shafer was just getting past his initial surprise, but he was also starting to lose it. Who did this pompous asshole think he was to come barging into his office like this? By what right was he here? How dare he? The toad! The glorified lackey from London.

“You can sit down, Shafer,” Jones said. Another imperious command. “I’ll be brief and to the point.”

“Of course,” Shafer answered. He remained standing. “Please do be brief and get to the point. I’m sure we’re both busy.”

Jones lit up a cigarette, took a long puff, then let the smoke out slowly.

“That’s illegal here in Washington,” Shafer goaded him.

“You’ll receive orders to return to England in thirty days’ time,” said Jones as he continued to puff on his cigarette. “You’re an embarrassment here in Washington, as you will be in London. Of course, over there the tabloids have recreated you as a martyr of the brutal and inefficient American police and judicial systems. They like to think of this as ‘D.C. Confidential,’ more evidence of wholesale corruption and naïveté in the States. Which we both know, in this case, is complete crap.”

Shafer sneered. “How dare you come in here and talk to me like this, Jones? I was framed for a heinous crime I didn’t commit. I was acquitted by an American jury. Have you forgotten that?”

Jones frowned and stared him down. “Only because crucial evidence wasn’t allowed in the trial. The blood on your trousers? That poor woman’s blood in the bathroom drain at your mistress’s?” He blew smoke out the side of his mouth. “We know everything, you pathetic fool. We know you’re a stonecold killing freak. So you’ll go back to London and stay there — until we catch you at something. Which we will, Shafer. We’ll make something up if we have to.