The wolf at the door

LONDON
11

It was just after two-thirty the following afternoon when Holley's taxi drew up outside the Albany Regency just off Curzon Street. Stormy weather had caused the flight from Moscow to take longer than usual, but he was here in Mayfair and London in the rain. He had changed the euros Ivanov had given him for sterling, paid the cabdriver generously, and went up the steps to the entrance, where a doorman in a top hat and green frock coat greeted him and a young uniformed porter relieved him of his suitcase.

He found the hotel pretty much as he had remembered it. Slightly old-fashioned, which was its charm, but maintained well, and expensive enough to ensure that the clientele was respectable.

His reservation was waiting, and all Holley had to do was sign the reservation form and produce his passport for identification purposes. The Russians had used the same date and place of birth as on his real passport but hadn't put his mother and her address in Leeds on the next-of-kin page. There would have been no point. During one of his sessions with Lermov during his second year of confinement, the Colonel had told him his mother had died. It was a bad memory and one he preferred to forget.

The young porter accompanied him to the fifth floor and showed him to the suite, which was pleasant and functional, with a sliding window to a small balcony with a good view of Curzon Street and Shepherd's Market. Holley tipped the boy, unpacked quickly, and put his things away. He noticed himself in the full-length mirror when he opened the wardrobe. The black suit, the striped tie, and white shirt made him look exactly right. Banker or lawyer, businessman or accountant. Eminently respectable.

There was a small refrigerator next to the television. He opened it and selected a double-vodka miniature, poured it into a plastic cup, added a little tonic water, and toasted himself in the mirror.

"Here we go, off to bloody war again, old lad." He drank it down and went out.

Shepherd's Market had always been one of his favorite places in London. The narrow streets, the pubs, the restaurants, and the shops selling everything from paintings and prints to antiques. "Selim Malik" was painted in gold above the door of one such shop, a narrow window on each side, one offering a triangle of truly remarkable Buddhas and the other an exquisite Bokhara silk rug. The door was shut, but there was an intercom beside it, and Holley pressed a button, confident he was on camera.

Which proved true, because before he could open his mouth a voice said in Arabic, "Praise be to Allah."

A moment later, the door opened, and he was pulled inside to a tight embrace. "Daniel, it is you. Six years since I've seen you, and you look good."

"Older, Selim, older, but you never change."

Selim was small, perhaps five-five, with long, curling hair that had once been black but was now silvery gray and swept behind the ears, no mustache but a fringe of beard, and a dark olive face. He had good-humored eyes that lit up his personality when he was happy, as he was now. He wore a velvet jacket from another age, a ruffled shirt, and baggy velvet trousers.

"Everything is change, Daniel. I was sixty-five this year, imagine that. Come into my study and have a glass of champagne with me to celebrate."

"So you're still that kind of Arab?"

"Allah is merciful. You've booked in at the hotel? Everything is taken care of? I have a running account there. They're very good."

The study was partly rococo and partly Victorian, with overstuffed chairs and two enormous sofas and an Axminster carpet that must have cost a fortune. A large round table in beaten brass was almost at floor level, and a bottle of Cristal champagne in an ice bucket sat upon it, with seventeenth-century Venetian goblets to drink it with.

"Sit down," he urged. "And you do the honors. I'll be back." He went out, and Daniel thumbed off the cork and poured. Selim returned with a black bag and a laptop, which he put on the table. "A present for you. But let's have a drink first."

He drank it straight down and poured another. "Allah be praised to see you out of that terrible prison. You must feel like Edmond Dantes escaping from the Chateau d'If."

"I think he did sixteen years, but I may be wrong," Daniel said.

"You haven't seen Hamid?" He chuckled. "Forgive me. To you, he was always Malik."

"An old habit. No, I haven't seen him, but we've spoken. I can buy my freedom. The Russians want me to do them a big favor right here in London. If I can bring it off, I'm rid of them for good."

"You think you can trust them?"

"Not really, but I must go with the flow, and hope."

"You know best. Don't tell me anything-I would rather not know what it is. Please open the bag and see if it's what you wanted."

Holley did and pulled out an ankle holster and a Colt.25 with a couple of boxes of ammunition. "Hollow-point," Selim said.

Next was a cardboard box containing a Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer, the new, short version. Last of all came a nylon-and-titanium bulletproof vest.

"This is wonderful," Holley told him.

"There should be a knife in there as well."

Holley groped around and found it, slim, dark, and deadly, with a razor-sharp blade leaping to attention when a button was pressed.

"Excellent. That's taken care of me perfectly."

"Not quite." Selim leaned over and opened a zip to a side pocket of the bag. He took out an envelope. "Expense money. Ten fifty-pound notes, and another five hundred pounds in twenties. There is more where that came from, so ask when you need it. Here's a company credit card. I've taped the PIN number on the back. Learn it and destroy. There's always the chance that you're going to need a credit card these days."

"What can I say?"

"Not much. Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Well, let me buy you a late lunch round the corner at the Lebanese. Great, great cooking, unless you have other plans."

"No, not for a while yet. I'd love to have a meal with you." He stowed the items back into the bag. "I'll leave these here for the moment and get them when I come back."

"That's fine." As they went through the shop, Selim said, "What's the plan, to get started at once or take your time?"

"Actually, I'm probably going to Mass," Daniel Holley said. "But don't ask me to explain."

He left the hotel in the early-evening rain, borrowing an umbrella, walked to the end of Curzon Street, hailed a black cab, and told the driver to take him to Kilburn. Darkness was falling and the traffic busy, but they were there quite quickly, and he asked to be dropped at Kilburn High Road. He walked the rest of the way.

Unfortunately, according to the times inscribed on the board at the gate, he was already too late for that evening's services. He hesitated, but a hint of light at the church windows encouraged him to go forward.

Walking through the Victorian-Gothic cemetery, with angels and effigies of one kind or another looming out of the darkness, he realized that he couldn't remember much from his first visit, but, then, it had been so brief. He turned the ring on the door and went in.

It was incredibly peaceful, the lights very low, and the church smelt of incense and candles, the Mary Chapel to one side. Money had been spent here, mostly during the high tide of Victorian prosperity that had coincided with the church-building period when the anti-Catholic laws changed. The stained-glass windows were lovely, the pews beautifully carved, and the altar and choir stalls ornate. Flowers were stacked all around the altar steps in polished brass vases.

Music was playing very softly and almost beyond hearing, but suddenly it stopped. A door creaked open and closed, the noise echoing, there was the sound of footfalls on tiles, and Caitlin Daly walked in from the right-hand side carrying a watering can, and he recognized her instantly.

Holley stayed back in the shadows and watched. The photo he'd seen of her on the Internet was perfectly recognizable but didn't do her full justice. The woman in the green smock and gray skirt, rearranging flowers at the altar and watering them, had been beautiful when he had last seen her in her mid-thirties. At fifty, she was still attractive, her face enhanced by the copper-colored hair that had been cropped in a style Holley remembered from an old Ingrid Bergman movie.

She finished, bowed to the altar, crossed herself, picked up the watering can, turned, and detected movement in the shadows. "Is someone there?" she called, and her voice echoed in the empty church.

He hesitated, then stepped forward. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm not sure. I last saw you in 1995, when I gave you the message: 'Liam Coogan sends you his blessing and says hold yourself ready.' "

She stared at him for a moment, obviously shocked. "Oh, dear God. Who are you?"

"You asked me that last time, and I said: 'Just call me Daniel. I'm Liam's cousin.' You said I didn't sound Irish."

"You don't, you have a tinge of Yorkshire in your voice."

"That's not surprising, since I was born in Leeds."

She shook her head. "I still can't believe it."

"I phoned you at the presbytery and said I was sitting in a rear pew in the church and asked to see you. I said my time was limited, as I had to catch a plane to Algiers."

She nodded. "Yes, I remember so well, and the thrill of it."

"And the disappointment?"

"Oh, yes, but we can't talk here. Monsignor Murphy is at a dinner tonight. We'll use the sacristy."

It was warm and enclosed in there, a desk and a couple of chairs, a laptop, religious vestments hanging from the rails, registers of all kinds-marriages, deaths-and a church smell to everything that would never go away.

She leaned against the wall by the window, arms folded, and he sat opposite. "Tell me about yourself," she said.

"I'm using an alias at the moment: Daniel Grimshaw."

"A sound Yorkshire name that suits your voice."

"My mother was a Coogan from Crossmaglen, and I was a volunteer with the PIRA."

"So was I, and proud of it."

"I know. Liam told me about your sleeper cell and how he activated you in 1991. Twelve explosions that resonated in the West End of London for months."

Her face was glowing. "Great days, they were."

"Then you went back to waiting? Did that bother you?"

"It's what sleepers do, Daniel, wait to strike again."

"And hopefully for the big one. Back then, Liam asked me that if he activated you again, would I be your controller, and I said yes. Liam died, of course, from a heart attack, but I'm here now."

She nodded gravely. "God rest Liam's soul. He was a good man."

"Were your cell members disappointed not to have a role in the 1996 bombings?"

"Yes, but at least we had the satisfaction of seeing the British suffer such a great defeat. It's strange, but seeing you like this brings your last visit vividly back to me. We always met weekly in the chapel at Hope of Mary. The day you gave me Liam's message, I called a special meeting and gave them the good news."

"And how did they take it?"

"Excitement. Awe. We knelt and recited our own special prayer together."

" ' Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone'?" Daniel said.

She was amazed. "But how do you know that?"

"I just do, as I know the names of those men-Barry, Flynn, Pool, Costello, who changed to Docherty, Cochran, and Murray. A hell of a long time ago. I wouldn't imagine they're still round?"

"Until two years ago, they all attended our weekly meeting, but unfortunately Barry and Flynn had a severe brush with the law. They were both too handy with a gun. Finally, an armed robbery they took part in went sour. They would have probably gotten seven years if caught, but I used a certain influence I have, obtained false American passports for them and other necessary documentation, and packed them off to the States."

"And you stay in touch?"

"On a regular basis. We have a Hope of Mary Hospice and Refuge in New York, too. They are both security men there."

"And the remaining four?"

"We meet as we've always done, united by prayer and a common commitment to the PIRA. I was recruited at London University, the others in various ways. Liam Coogan used to arrange trips to training camps in the west of Ireland. The IRA version of a holiday, he used to say. We did that many times over the years. Bonded, you might say."

"But really only got to do your work with that twelve-bomb jolly in Mayfair in 1991. Was it enough?"

"It always is, if your resolve is strong and you are committed."

"But you need more than that, I think, some deep-seated reason, perhaps some great wrong that urges you on."

"That's true. Take Henry Pool. He's a self-employed private-hire driver. Like you, he had an English father and Irish mother, but her father was murdered by English Black and Tans in 1921 when she was only six months old and her mother fled here to Kilburn. It was a strong motive for him to not exactly care for the English."

"I shouldn't imagine his mother would ever let him forget it."

"Is there something wrong with that?" she asked.

"Not at all. For a ten-year-old child to see her father gunned down by masked intruders in front of her and her mother would, I imagine, be a memory that would last forever."

Her face was surprisingly calm. "So you know about that? Exactly who are you, Daniel, this half Irishman who claims to have been a member of the Provisional IRA? You not only sound Yorkshire, you look like some prosperous businessman. What on earth would ever have made you join?"

So he told her all about Rosaleen Coogan.

Afterwards, she sat down on the other side of the desk from him, her face like stone, her eyes burning, and it was obvious that she accepted the truth of what he had told her.

"Those foul creatures. God's curse on them for what they did to that poor girl."

"Some kind of curse on me ever since," Daniel told her. "I've killed a number of times for the Provos and other times for myself." He stood up, put his foot on the chair, and hitched his trousers up, revealing the ankle holster. "The way of the gun has become rather permanent in my life."

"But you don't regret what you did, you can't!" She banged on the desk with her clenched fist. "Damn all of them."

And now she was really upset, and Daniel said, "Take it easy. It's not always good for us to let the past intrude."

"You don't understand. It's brought it all back to me. The night the men with guns smashed their way in and murdered my father. They forced themselves on my mother, two of them. It was only my age saved me."

Holley, aghast at the horror of it, could only say, "I'm so sorry, girl."

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "What I need is a drink, and I don't think it a sin in the circumstances to raid Monsignor Murphy's cupboard in search of Communion wine." She found a bottle and two coffee cups and poured a generous measure into each. She handed one to him and drank deeply herself. "Now, tell me everything properly, who you are really and what you're doing here."

"There's a man named General Charles Ferguson who runs a special security outfit for the Prime Minister. His right-hand man is Sean Dillon, once a top enforcer for the PIRA, and a good one. In 1991, he was in a Serb prison when Ferguson turned up and made him an offer he couldn't refuse: to join him or face a firing squad."

"So Dillon chose the traitor's path?"

"You could put it that way."

She poured more wine for both of them. "There's no other way of putting it. Tell me more-everything."

"You're quite a man, Daniel," she said an hour later when he was finished. "Probably the most remarkable one I've met in my entire life."

"So what do you think about the Russians?"

"A means to an end. I've nothing against them. In the early years of the Troubles, they provided arms for the PIRA on more than one occasion. I know that for a fact."

"And Charles Ferguson and company?"

"To hell with him. Over the years, as you tell it, he's been responsible for the death of many of our comrades one way or the other. Major Giles Roper may look like a tragic and romantic hero in his wheelchair, but his exploits in bomb disposal did us great harm."

"By God, but you're a hard woman, Caitlin."

"As for Dillon, a damn traitor, and I've no time for him. The fact that his own father was killed by British soldiers should have been bad enough for him."

"He did great work for the cause for years until Ferguson appeared on the scene."

"He's the worst kind of turncoat, I can't see it any other way, and these gangster friends of his, the Salters, they've done us great harm also."

"And then we have Harry Miller?"

"The Prince of Darkness himself. He appears to have made a hobby out of murdering members of the PIRA for years."

"His luck is obviously good. His wife's wasn't, but that's the price you pay. What do you think of his sister?" Holley asked her.

"From what you tell me, she killed a Provo. The kind of upper-class English woman who thinks everything's a jolly jape. She deserves to meet the same end as everyone else."

"And you really mean that?"

It was as direct a challenge as he could make. She said, "I'm very old-fashioned, Daniel. I still believe in a United Ireland, and the Peace Process hasn't given us that, so to hell with it. You and your problem, if I can put it that way, mean there's a chance to go active once more and dispose of some very bad people who've done my side nothing but harm."

"So you're with me on this?"

"You can depend on it," she said firmly.

"And what about the others? Can you talk them round?"

"I don't think I'll have much trouble. Pool has lived on his own since his mother died. Docherty is on his own. He served time as Costello, so I obtained an Irish passport for him as Docherty. He's a drunkard every so often, so no woman will put up with him. Matthew Cochran lives in one lodging home after another since his wife died of breast cancer, and Patrick Murray is a long-distance truck driver. He's never married. Just has one girl after the other. Barry and Flynn, I've already told you about, but, as they're in New York, whatever you're planning won't concern them."

"An assorted bunch."

"But committed, Daniel, committed. The oath, our special prayer, the comradeship-all these things make us what we are-and going active again would only affirm it."

Daniel said, "I'll take your word on that." He stood and took a Codex and its charger out of his raincoat pocket. "This is an encrypted mobile. I've stuck a tab on it with your number and mine. Memorize them and destroy. Call me anytime, and I'll be in touch with you very soon. When will you speak to your people?"

"I'll start phoning round tonight. Daniel, it's been marvelous to see you again." She meant it, her eyes shining, and actually shook hands.

Outside, it was pouring, so he raised his umbrella and walked down the path through the gravestones and effigies of the cemetery, pausing for a moment in the roofed gateway to the street.

"Dear God," he said softly. "Am I out of my bloody mind or is she?" But there was no answer to that, and he walked down to the main road and hailed a cab.

It was nine o'clock, and a thought struck him. The Salters and their pub, the Dark Man on Cable Wharf. This could be a good time to check it over. It'd be reasonably busy, so he would be able to blend in with the crowd. His knowledge of London, learned on many visits in the old days, stood him in good stead now. He told the driver to drop him off in Wapping High Street, found a lane with a sign that read "Cable Wharf," and went down.

There was a new development of flats on one side, decaying warehouses on the other, eager for the builders, much of the area begging to be developed. He moved out of the darkness onto Cable Wharf, and it was interesting and attractive. The other side of the Thames was a panorama of streetlights, the Dark Man to his right, the sound of music drifting up. Beyond, there was what looked like a multistory luxury apartment development, the jetty of the old wharf running out into the river, several boats moored there. Things were busy at the Dark Man if the car park was anything to go by, and he ventured into the bar.

It was very crowded, a pretty mixed slice of humanity, all ages, men and women, the roar of voices coupled with taped music. It was like a Victorian-themed pub-mirrors, mahogany, and porcelain beer pumps.

Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, were familiar to him from pictures, and he saw them sitting in a corner booth, seemingly oblivious to the noise. Holley stayed down at the end of the bar, squeezed against it by those standing around and indifferent to him.

A handsome blond arrived on the other side of the bar, and he ordered a beer and a whiskey chaser. She prompted back, "That will put hairs on your chest."

He handed across a ten-pound note, and she tried to give him some change, which he waved away. The noise almost drowned her thanks, and somebody called, "Hey, Ruby, down here."

"There must be a better way." She smiled. "Roll on, eleven o'clock."

"You could go on way after that, couldn't you?" he said.

"Into the early hours if we want, but not in this pub, love. When I call time, out they go. I need to get a life even if they don't."

She turned away. Holley drank his beer, tossed down his whiskey, and left. He walked along the wharf and saw a shed with an old Ford van outside. The door on the driver's side wasn't locked, so he opened it. It smelt like a garage inside, and there was a key in the ignition. Probably used as a runabout on the riverside. He got out, walked to the end of the wharf, and stood looking at the lights for a while. He turned to the pub again, thinking how vulnerable it was, then he went back up through the darkness and hailed a cab in the High Street.

In his suite at the Albany Regency, he checked the room safe in the wardrobe in which he had left the Walther and silencer and all his ammunition. Everything was in order, and he took off his jacket and tie, opened his laptop, and tapped in to some of his files, brain-storming in a way. Miller and Blake Johnson were in New York for the Putin appearance at the UN, that was a fact. That Frank Barry and Jack Flynn were in New York, too, seemed fortuitous. To be candid, it was as if it was ordained. Highly trained in weaponry over the years, "too handy with a gun," Caitlin had said, fleeing to America to avoid the prospect of seven years in jail for armed robbery. A lot could be done with that. He considered it, then thought of his conversation with Max Chekhov about the Belov operation in New York, especially his head of security, Mikhail Potanin. From the sound of him, he'd been Moscow Mafia in his time, which meant he was capable of most things.

Before any final planning was possible, it was necessary for Caitlin Daly to sound out the cell and see what they thought, but the presence of Barry and Flynn together in New York titillated him. If they took care of Blake Johnson and Harry Miller on Friday…

He clicked on Charles Ferguson and saw that he was at a dinner at the Garrick Club that evening. Then he checked on Monica Starling and saw that she had a faculty dinner with Professor George Dunkley of Corpus Christi College that night at a country hotel called Raintree House. He looked it up and discovered it was six miles out of Cambridge.

The audacity of what he was thinking appealed to him. He thought some more about it, then sat by the window, looking out at the night and the rooftops of Shepherd's Market, and called Caitlin Daly on his Codex.

She was deeply cautious, waiting for something to be said. "It's Daniel, Caitlin."

She laughed, relief in her voice. "Forgive me, I'll need to get used to this phone. You got back okay, obviously. You didn't tell me where you're staying."

"A nice, quiet, respectable hotel near Shepherd's Market."

"Ah, Mayfair, I like it there."

"I'll get right to the point. Two of the people on our list, Harry Miller and Blake Johnson, will be in New York on Friday, and I was thinking of your people, Barry and Flynn, who you helped to get out of London when prison was in view. 'Too handy with a gun,' you said. How do you think they'd react if you suggested they do the job on Miller and Johnson?"

"They could be up for it," she said. "They've always been hard men. Lucky to stay out of prison years ago. The head of security at our place in New York has told me he's sure that, on the side, they're hoodlums for hire."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"I speak to them most weeks. Their membership in the cell still means a great deal to them. I'd be willing to put it to them."

"I know it's too late for you to speak to the other four tonight, but it's only six in the evening in New York. I'm not trying to put any pressure on you, but time is of the essence. Could you speak to them tonight? No point in me calling, I'm nothing to them."

"I was always the leader, Daniel, guiding them as I saw fit. As far as I'm concerned, though, the show of hands has to be one hundred percent and nothing less. I have only four to stand in front of now, and if we are to agree to your plan of campaign against Ferguson and his people, it is logical that I should speak to Barry and Flynn. But I must make one thing clear. If we agree and they don't, all bets are off."

"Yes, I can see that. I can also see that I'm in your hands on this. By the way, I haven't asked about your weapons status."

"We were well supplied with small arms, explosives, bomb-making parts. It was a while ago, of course, but it should all still be under lock and key in a large cupboard in the presbytery wine cellar. I'm going to go now, Daniel, think out my approach and speak to Barry and Flynn. If I'm lucky, I might even find them together. You must be tired. You were, after all, in Moscow this morning. I'll speak to you tomorrow."

And she was right. Suddenly, he felt bushed. He poured a whiskey for a nightcap, drank it while peering out of the window. So far, so good, but tomorrow was another day. And he went to bed.

The following day, Chekhov phoned him just after breakfast. "Daniel, my friend, how goes it?"

"It goes very well. Where are you?"

"In my apartment. Infinitely preferable to Moscow, I'll tell you. To look out of my window at Hyde Park warms my heart. I love this city."

"Did Lermov say good-bye nicely?"

"Frankly, I think he's more interested in his trip to New York than in your enterprise at the moment. I believe he takes it as a sign of great favor from the Prime Minister."

"You surprise me. I would have imagined him above that sort of thing."

"I'm a true cynic in such matters. People like Lermov, men of huge brain and much learning, often express contempt for the grace-and-favor aspect of success until it's offered to them. I suppose he would love to be a general, if you see my point. Of course, what would really seal it for him would be your success with the business at hand. Can you tell me what's happening?"

Holley had no reason not to. "I went to church, in a manner of speaking, and saw the lady in question. She embraces the idea of activating her cell, listened to what I told her of Ferguson and company, and damned them all. She can't stop hating the British, Max. Her father was killed in front of her when she was ten, her mother raped."

"It sounds like something out of a Bosnian nightmare," Chekhov said. "What do the members of the cell say?"

"I'm waiting to hear. The only problem is that two of them had to clear off to New York with the law breathing down their necks."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Well, everything obviously depends upon what her people decide, but, if it's favorable, I think I'm going to need your help."

"In what way?" Chekhov asked.

Holley explained about Barry and Flynn, and when he was finished Chekhov said, "Where would I come in?"

"The way I see it, one of them will hit Blake Johnson in Quogue and the other take Miller in New York. This guy you employ at Belov… Potanin, I think his name was?"

"Mikhail Potanin. What about him?"

"The impression you gave me was that he was capable of anything. I'd like him to monitor Barry and Flynn. Don't even try to say no, Max. I know the way you oligarchs rose to power, and it was on the backs of a lot of men like Potanin."

"So who's arguing? Let's see first if Barry and Flynn agree, and, if so, I'll put it in Potanin's lap."

"I'll be in touch the moment I hear. Is Ivanov in?"

"Making himself at home. He'll have all week to make his move until Lermov gets in at the weekend. He's too eager, that boy."

Half an hour later, Caitlin called. "How are you?" she asked. "Did you have a good night?"

"More to the point, did you?"

"Daniel, they went for it hook, line, and sinker. Flynn lives in Greenwich Village, but Barry has a staff flat at the Refuge. I called him first, and Flynn was with him. Barry put the telephone on speaker, and I was able to discuss it with both of them. They admitted to having done contract work in the past."

"There's an old Yorkshire saying: 'I don't mind a thief as long as he's an honest thief.' From the sound of them, they'll do for me. The Refuge where Barry has staff quarters, I take it they have computer facilities?"

"Of course."

"Look up Harry Miller online and you'll find a photo of him walking along a London street. Send Barry a copy. While I have you, you can give me their addresses and mobile numbers."

"Is that necessary?"

"I can't do everything through you, Caitlin, it'll just be too cumbersome and ineffective. Besides, I've just arranged for someone to monitor them and see to their general welfare. He'll make sure they're all right."

She did as he asked, and he wrote the information down. "When is your meeting?"

"Six tonight."

"Do you want me there?"

"Not really, Daniel. I've been their leader for so long, and the cell is a tight unit psychologically. I think it would be better if you told me what you wanted them to do, and I'll pass it on."

"Fine. I'll allocate the tasks and get a taxi up to the church later this afternoon to give them to you. That means if they do say yes, you can tell them what's expected of them. If they say no, then simply put the stuff in your office shredder. I'll phone you when I'm on the way."

"Daniel, are you sure?"

"Time is going to be very tight. Friday will be a big day and night both here and in New York. If you're going to get anywhere with them, remind them of their years of serving the cause, appeal to their patriotism. Ferguson and his people are the enemy. You've got to sell it."

"I will, Daniel."

As he sat going over a mental progress report, he realized the one issue he hadn't done anything about was the Kurbsky mystery. He looked at his watch. He had time for just a quick look. He left the hotel quickly, hailed the first cab he saw, and told the driver to take him to Belsize Park. He soon found Chamber Court, the residence of Kurbsky's aunt, Svetlana. It was a substantial detached property, early Victorian from the look of it. There was a front gate and a side gate, each with an intercom, but you couldn't see through the gates, and the walls were high, and it looked like an electronic security system ran along the top.

He kept on walking at a steady pace, aware that he was very probably on camera, and then a strange thing happened. The side gate opened, and a man in overalls emerged. He was completely bald, his cheeks hollow, the eyes sunken and staring. Obviously, someone on chemotherapy. It seemed cruel to think it, but he looked like a walking ghoul.

The poor sod, Holley thought, as Alexander Kurbsky ignored him and went into the corner shop on the other side of the road.

Holley kept going and found Abbey Road, increasing his pace and turning up his collar as it started to rain lightly. According to the files, Kurbsky's aunt lived in the house with her companion, Katya Zorin, British born but of Russian extraction. When the original plan had been put in place, Kurbsky had told Luzhkov that his aunt was to be left alone, that he would not visit her because he didn't want her in any way to be involved with the plot that had brought her nephew to London. In all the material Holley had studied, there had been no indication that anyone connected with the GRU had made any attempt to check the situation. Could Chamber Court have been housing Kurbsky all along, perhaps under Ferguson's protection? It was an intriguing thought, just as intriguing as the poor wretch he had just seen. Possibly an odd-job man of some sort.

He continued along Abbey Road, caught a cab at Swiss Cottage, and told the driver to take him to the Albany Regency. There was work to be done.

He sat drawing up the specific plans of action for Caitlin Daly. The number one target was Ferguson. He had that dinner at the Garrick Club, and Henry Pool was the obvious choice there. Pool had been in the private-hire business for several years, and his luxury Amara limousine was already preapproved by the Ministry. It was up to him to discover a way of being Ferguson's driver on Friday night. One of the small explosive devices Caitlin had hidden in the wine cellar would suffice to do the job, aided by an electronic remote control or possibly a pencil timer.

Miller and Johnson in New York were down to Barry and Flynn.

The Salters-he was helped there by the fact that, unusually for such a successful pub, it closed at eleven o'clock, and its comparative isolation would mean it would take time for emergency services to get there. An arson attack after midnight. He wrote down the name John Docherty, and suggested he proceed on foot so that the noise of a vehicle at that time in the early hours would not be noticed in the pub. He mentioned that an old Ford van parked outside the shed had a key in the ignition.

Monica Starling. She would leave Corpus Christi College at seven o'clock and drive six miles to the Raintree House. A photo from Holley's laptop was printed, and he assigned the task to Patrick Murray, the long-distance truck driver. It shouldn't be hard to run Monica Starling's vehicle off a country road.

Finally, Alexander Kurbsky. Something was not right about Chamber Court, he felt it instinctively, and the strange inhuman being he'd seen coming out of the side gate didn't seem right either. So that task he suggested for Matthew Cochran. Cochran would have to get over that wall to discover if it was tenanted only by the two women or not.

He produced each task on a separate sheet and put them together in an envelope with no address on it, as a precaution, and his mobile sounded. He answered.

"It's me, Ivanov, I'm calling from the Embassy. What's happening?"

"I've been busy, that's what's happening. I really haven't got time to talk now."

"Don't give me that. I'm in charge of you until Colonel Lermov gets here on Saturday. I've spoken to Chekhov. He tells me you've contacted the Daly woman and she's interested, but what's all this about New York?"

Holley was angry and bitterly regretted having been so open with Chekhov. "None of your business, sunshine. Don't interfere. If you screw things up, I'll kill you, I swear it."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me. Now, be a good boy. You know the rules. We never meet, I'm in charge, and I keep you informed on the telephone."

"Fuck you, you bastard."

"Why, Peter, I didn't know you cared."

Holley switched off. He might have known. That was the trouble with the military, always wanting to show what big stuff they were, always stealing the good work some junior officer had produced and passing it off as their own.

He pulled on his raincoat, stuffed the large envelope in a plastic bag, and went out in search of a cab.

It was late afternoon now, shadows drawing in, and close to five. He was just in time. It would give her a chance to look at his plans. He called her from the High Street in Kilburn.

"I'm here. You don't need to spend time with me. I'll just pass you the envelope."

"Wait for me in the church. I'll walk from the presbytery and come in through the back door."

He did as he was told, pushed the great front entrance open and ventured in. There were five or six people over on the right waiting by the confessional boxes. He stood at the back, and she appeared outside the sacristy and waved, and he went to join her.

She pulled him in, took the envelope, and opened it. "I'll give it a quick read." She finished the sheets in five minutes and put them back in the envelope. "It all seems to make sense. I'm sure Pool can sort something out with the car. He once told me he's very well in with the Ministry. It's a starting point anyway."

"Good."

"What about Roper and Dillon? I don't see them here."

"We haven't got enough manpower at the moment. But we can take them soon. For Roper, I thought we'd blow up the Holland Park safe house. The man in the wheelchair never seems to leave it these days."

"And Dillon?"

"I'll shoot him. He's a loner, which simplifies things. Someone alone in the street on a rainy night, someone behind…" He smiled, and she took a step back.

"Someone walked over my grave when you said that."

"Not you, Caitlin, not for years. Call me when you're ready."

He went out and straight up the aisle, opened the door wide, and started down the path. Peter Ivanov, dressed in a trench coat and trilby, stepped out of a monumental archway and faced him.

Holley stood there looking at him. "So you knew about the church and where it was even when we were in Moscow. You're not supposed to interfere, Ivanov. You'll ruin everything."

"Come with me," Ivanov told him. "We're going to have a little discussion. I wouldn't argue with Sergeant Kerimov here. He doesn't like it, and he's bigger than you."

Holley walked towards the car, where Kerimov, large and lumpen, stood on the other side waiting to get behind the wheel. He looked formidable. "Come on, get in." Ivanov opened the front passenger door. "I'll sit behind you."

Kerimov was smiling when he eased behind the wheel. Holley leaned down as if to sit on the passenger seat, pulled the Colt from his ankle holster, and shot Kerimov through the back of the left hand. He cried out, tried reaching for his gun with his right hand, and Holley rapped him across the head. Kerimov slumped across the wheel.

"Oh, dear, you'll have to get him in the backseat and drive him somewhere. Better not make it an emergency room. They call the police to a gunshot wound. Of course, there's always the medical facility at the Embassy," Holley said.

"God damn you," Ivanov told him.

"Next time, I'll kill you, remember that. Especially if I find you've come back here and interfered with Caitlin Daly."

He walked briskly away and left them to it.