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friend for over a dozen years now. He was an American, formerly an FBI field agent, now comfortably ensconced in the American Embassy in London working as an FBI legal attaché, though he still liked to think of himself as ‘active’. They’d met way back when Donaldson had been investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. They had subsequently become good friends as their paths continued to pass professionally and personally over the years. Donaldson had even ended up marrying a Lancashire policewoman, and he moved to the job in London, whilst she transferred to the Met.
    â€˜Could ask you the same.’
    â€˜I work and live in this town. You don’t even live close.’
    Donaldson said, ‘I do now – for today, at least.’ He checked his wristwatch, a chunky and horribly expensive Rolex Oyster Perpetual that his wife Karen had treated him to on the recent birth of their daughter, Katie – named after Henry’s wife. ‘I’ve got a half hour, then I need to get into a briefing  . . . I’ll explain in a moment. More coffee?’
    Henry nodded and watched his friend go to the counter and order two coffees, returning with them and sliding in opposite Henry.
    â€˜Hey, good to see ya, buddy,’ Donaldson said.
    â€˜You too.’ Henry broke the hinged seal on the lid of his drink and took a sip. ‘You must be here on some sort of hush-hush job?’
    â€˜Terrorism – following up some information with a house raid. Pretty low level stuff.’
    Henry pouted. He hadn’t heard anything was going on, but that wasn’t unusual these days as his head often felt like it was in a bucket.
    â€˜Can’t say more than that,’ Donaldson added mysteriously.
    Henry shrugged acceptance and found himself to be curiously uninterested. He knew Donaldson was deeply involved in the handling, sifting and grading of intelligence in connection with terrorism during the course of his work. From that he often got involved, as an observer, in the knocking down of doors, or surveillance of suspects and then, if arrests followed, the interviews of detainees to gather more intelligence. It was like doing a ten thousand piece jigsaw that was mostly blue sky, no corners and pieces missing. The ultimate aim was to disrupt ‘events’, as terrorist incidents were called, and maybe, just maybe, pick up that one vital clue that would lead the Americans to their ultimate goal – one Osama Bin Laden, the leader of al-Qaeda. In respect of today’s operation, Henry did not have a clue about it, but assumed that the Intel must be pretty spot on to lure Donaldson out of his plush office.
    â€˜How did you know  . . .?’
    â€˜That you were here? Bumped into Rik Dean  . . . he told me where you’d sneaked off to and I watched you walk in. Last time we were in here was the day I found out Karen was “up the duff”, as you Brits romantically refer to being knocked up.’
    â€˜I remember,’ Henry grinned.
    â€˜Rik told me about  . . . er  . . .’ Donaldson coughed with embarrassment.
    â€˜That I’d frozen at the scene of a murder?’ Henry said sharply. ‘Had a shed collapse?’
    â€˜Another quaint British phrase,’ Donaldson said. ‘But, yeah, something like that.’
    Henry laughed sourly and shook his head at Donaldson’s forthrightness, then looked sideways through the window to hide the bitter kink on his lips. Then he sighed in defeat, peeled the lid completely off his coffee and took a proper mouthful. ‘So what’s your advice?’
    Donaldson had been very much alongside Henry over the last year or so as he crashed through an emotional roller-coaster ride, rather like being on the ‘Big One’ time and time again, so he knew what his friend had been through. Hope, despair, tragedy. It was only in the last few weeks