“I’m talking about a crack team of specialists,” he said. “Best of breed in every case. There’s no time for training exercises—it’s going to have to be people who have worked together before, people I’ve worked with and can trust.” He pictured a succession of faces, flashing in his mind like so many file photos, and mentally culled the list according to essential criteria until four remained. Each was someone he had worked with in his past career. Each was someone he felt he could trust with his life; indeed, each was someone who owed him his life, and who, temperamentally, would respect a debt of honor. And none of them, as it happened, were American nationals. The State Department could breathe easy. He gave Lang the list. Four men from four different countries.

Suddenly Janson slapped the bolted table. “Christ!” he half shouted. “What was I thinking? You’re going to have to scratch the last name, Sean Hennessy.”

“He’s dead?”

“Not dead. Behind bars. Her Majesty’s Prison Service. HMP Wormwood Scrubs. Got embroiled on a weapons charge a few months ago. Suspected of being IRA.”

“Was he?”

“As it happens, no. Hadn’t been since he was sixteen, but the military police kept his name in its Provo files all the same. In point of fact, he was doing a job for Sandline Ltd.—keeping the Democratic Republic of Congo safe for coltan extraction.”

“Is he the best person for the job you want him to do?”

“I’d be lying if I told you otherwise.”

Lang punched a series of numbers on what looked like a flat telephone console, and brought the handset to her ear.

“This is Márta Lang,” she said, speaking with clipped precision. “Márta Lang. Please verify.”

Sixty long seconds elapsed. Finally she spoke again. “Sir Richard, please.” The number dialed was obviously not one that was in general circulation; it was unnecessary to specify to whomever had answered that it was an emergency, for that assumption would be automatic. Verification no doubt involved both voice print analysis and a telephony trace to the ANSI signature unique to every North American telephone line, including those that used a sat-com uplink.

“Sir Richard,” she said, her voice defrosting slightly. “I have the name of an HMP prisoner by the name of Sean, S-E-A-N, Hennessy, double n, double s. Probably an SIB apprehension, approximately three months ago. Status: arraigned, not convicted, awaiting trial.” Her eyes sought out his for confirmation, and Janson nodded.

“We’ll need to have him released at once and on a plane bound for …” She paused, reconsidering. “There’s an LF jet docked at Gatwick. Get him on board immediately. Call me back within forty-five minutes with an estimated arrival time.”