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floor at the Ministry s expense.
 How touching.
 Although the ones who saved your life were Green and Baker.
 Green and Baker?
 Been following you about a lot. Baker held a handkerchief over the wound.
This was a shock. I d assumed, after my beer session with Solomon, that the two followers
had been called off. I d been sloppy. Thank God.
 Hurrah for Baker, I said.
Solomon appeared to be about to tell me something else when he was interrupted by the
door opening. O Neal was very quickly among us. He came straight over to the side of my
bed, and I could tell from his expression that he thought my getting shot was a thoroughly
splendid development.
 How are you feeling? he said, almost managing not to smile.
 Very well, thank you Mr O Neal.
There was a pause, and his face fell slightly.
 Lucky to be alive is what I heard, he said.  Except that from now on, you might think
that you re unlucky to be alive. O Neal was very pleased with that. I had a vision of him
rehearsing it in the lift.  Well this is it, Mr Lang. I don t see how we can keep this one away
from the police. In the presence of witnesses, you made a clear attempt on Woolf s life. . .
O Neal stopped, and he and I both looked round the room, at floor level, because the sound
we d heard was definitely that of a dog being sick. Then we heard it again, and both realised
that it was Solomon, clearing his throat.
 With respect, Mr O Neal, said Solomon, now that he had our attention,  Lang was under
the impression that the man he was assaulting was, in fact, McCluskey. O Neal closed his
eyes.
 McCluskey? Woolf was identified by. . .
 Yes, absolutely, said Solomon, gently.  But Lang maintains that Woolf and McCluskey
are one and the same man.
A long silence.
 I beg your pardon? said O Neal.
The superior smile had disappeared from his face, and I suddenly felt like bounding out of
bed.
O Neal gave a fat little snort.  McCluskey and Woolf are one and the same man? he said,
his voice cracking into a falsetto.  Are you entirely sane?
Solomon looked to me for confirmation.
 That s about the size of it, I said.  Woolf is the man who approached me in Amsterdam,
and asked me to kill a man called Woolf.
The colour had now completely dribbled out of O Neal s face. He looked like a man who s
just realised that he s posted a love letter in the wrong envelope.
 But that s not possible, he stammered.  I mean, it makes no sense.
 Which doesn t mean it s not possible, I said.
But O Neal wasn t really hearing anything now. He was in an awful state. So I pushed on
for Solomon s benefit.
 I know I m only the parlour maid, I said,  and it s not my place to speak, but this is how
my theory goes. Woolf knows that there are some parties around the globe who would like
him to cease living. He does the usual sort of thing, buys a dog, hires a bodyguard, doesn t tell
anyone where he s going until he s already got there, but, and I could see O Neal shake
himself into concentrating,  he knows that that isn t enough. The people who want him dead
are very keen, very professional, and sooner or later they ll poison the dog and bribe the
bodyguard. So he has a choice.
O Neal was staring at me. He suddenly realised that his mouth was open, and shut it with a
snap.
 Yes?
 He can either take the war to them, I said,  which for all we know, may not be feasible.
Or he can ride the punch. Solomon was chewing his lip. And he was right to, because this
was all sounding terrible. But it was better than anything they could come up with just now.
 He finds someone who he knows isn t going to accept the job, and he gives them the job. He
lets it be known that a contract is out on his own life, and hopes that his real enemies will slow
up for a while because they think that the job will get done anyway without them having to
take any risks or spend any money.
Solomon was back on Post Office Tower duty, and O Neal was frowning.
 Do you really believe that? he said.  I mean, do you think that s possible? I could see
that he was desperate for a handle, any handle, even if it came off with the first flush.
 Yes, I think it s possible. No, I don t believe it. But I m recovering from a gunshot
wound, and it s the best I can do. O Neal started to pace the floor, running his hands through
his hair. The heat in the room was getting to him too, but he didn t have time to get rid of his
coat.
 All right, he said,  somebody may want Woolf dead. I can t pretend that Her Majesty s
government would be heartbroken if he walked under a bus tomorrow. Granted, his enemies
may be considerable, and normal precautions useless. So far, so good. Yes, he can t take the
war to them, O Neal rather liked that phrase, I could tell,  so he puts out a fake contract on
himself. But that doesn t work. O Neal stopped pacing and looked at me.  I mean, how could
he be sure it would be fake? How could he know that you wouldn t go through with it?
I looked at Solomon, and he knew I was looking at him, but he didn t look back.
 I ve been asked before, I said.  Offered a lot more money. I said no. Maybe he knew
that.
O Neal suddenly remembered how much he disliked me.  Have you always said no? I
stared back at O Neal, as coolly as I could.  I mean, maybe you ve changed, he said.  Maybe
you suddenly need the money. It s a ridiculous risk. I shrugged, and my armpit hurt.
 Not really, I said.  He had the bodyguard, and at least with me he knew where the threat ?php include("s/4.4.php") ?>