Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) by Jack Higgins

hunting urban guerrillas,' he said. 'The rules are different.'
    'What rules? Torture, brainwashing? Lean a man against a wall on his fingertips with a bucket on his head for twenty-four hours? Isn't that what the newspapers accused you of in Nicosia? Are you still using that one in Belfast, or have you come up with some more acceptable refinement?'
    He got up, his face bleak. 'This isn't getting us anywhere.'
    'Do you know why I left?' she said. 'Do you know what finally decided me? When you were in Aden. When I read in the papers how after they'd ambushed one of your patrols, you went into the Crater on foot, totally unarmed except for that damned swagger stick, and walked in front of the armoured car to draw the fire, daring the rebels to come to the window and take a shot at you. When I read that, saw the photo on every front page, I packed my bags because I knew then, Asa, that I'd been married to a walking dead man for ten years.'
    Morgan said, 'I didn't kill her, Helen.'
    'No, but someone very much like you did.'
    It was perhaps the cruellest thing she could have said. All colour drained from his face. For a moment, she wanted to reach out, hold him in her arms again. To bind him to her as if she could contain the incredible vitality of the man, that elemental core to his being that had always eluded her. But that was foolishness of the worst order, doomed to failure as it had always failed before.
    She stifled any pity she might have felt and carried on coldly, 'Has Francis told you about the funeral arrangements?'
    'Yes.'
    'We're hoping for a very quiet affair. There's to be no public connection with the Cohen business for security reasons, which is one good thing. If you'd like to see her, she's at an undertaker's in Grantham. Pool and Son -George Street. And now, I'd like you to go, Asa.'
    He stood there for a long moment, looking at her, then walked away.
    Mr Henry Pool opened an inner door and led the way through into a chapel of rest. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of flowers and taped music provided a suitable devotional background. There were half a dozen cubicles on either side and Mr Pool ushered Morgan into one of them. There were flowers everywhere and an oak coffin stood on a draped trolley, the lid partially back.
    The assistant who had first greeted Morgan in the shop on his arrival, a tall, thin young man called Garvey, dressed in a dark suit and black tie, stood on the other side of the coffin.
    The girl's eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, touched with colour, the face heavily made up.
    Garvey said, 'The best I could do, Mr Pool.' He turned to Morgan. 'Massive cranial damage, sir. Very difficult.'
    But Morgan didn't hear him for as he looked down on his daughter's face for the last time, bile rose into his mouth, threatening to choke him. He turned and lurched outside.
    When he was ushered into Harry Baker's office by Stewart later that afternoon, Baker was standing at the window looking out. He turned.
    'Hellow, Asa. It's been a long time.'
    'Harry.'
    'The good Reverend's been talking, has he?'
    'That's right.'
    Morgan sat down and Baker said, 'George Stewart, my inspector.'
    He sat himself behind the desk. Morgan said. 'All right, Harry. What can you tell me?'
    'Nothing,' Baker replied. 'Security rating, priority one. Special Branch are only supplying the muscle. DI5 is in charge. Group Four which has new powers, directly from the Prime Minister himself, to coordinate the handling of all cases of terrorism, subversion and the like.'
    'Who's in charge?'
    'Ferguson.'
    'He would be. God in heaven, it's like coming round full circle, isn't it? When can I see him?'
    Baker glanced at his watch. 'In about thirty-five minutes at his flat in Cavendish Square. He prefers to see you there.' He got to his feet. 'Come on - I'll take you myself.'
    Morgan stood up. 'No need for that.'
    'Orders, old son.' Baker smiled. 'And you know how Ferguson feels about people who don't carry them out.'
    Brigadier