This United state

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Paula Grey's nightmare began at exactly 10 pm. on a cold February night in Albemarle Street, the heart of Mayfair, London.

She walked out of Brown's Hotel, left hand clutching the collar of her coat, shoulder bag slung over her right arm. A taxi pulled in to the kerb, the door was flung open, a man dived out. Cord Dillon, Deputy Director of the CIA. The last person in the world she'd expected to see. He stopped abruptly, close to her.

'Paula, get away from me. You'll get killed.'

'Cord, what the devil-'

'That white Cadillac coming up the street. Full of men trying to shoot me-'

'Come this way. My town. Don't argue!'

She grabbed the right arm of the large American, guided him swiftly up the street, away from the approaching car. The rear window on their side lowered as she hustled Dillon. She had a glimpse of a bald man holding a handgun.

A taxi cut in front of the Cadillac, delaying it. They were already beyond the facade of Brown's Hotel. She hauled Dillon into the partial shelter of a setback, in front of a large plate-glass window. Crack! She had heard no sound of a shot fired. Glancing behind them she saw the bullet hole in the window. A huge triangular section of plate glass toppled. Inwards, away from them.

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