The wolf at the door

13

Which it certainly was, but the day was saved by Selim planning ahead and speaking in the intimate way one would to an old friend, to someone called Martha who was, it seemed, director of activities. The result was that when they arrived at ten-thirty and ran from the Mini Cooper through pouring rain to the front entrance, they were met by an attractive fortyish blonde in white slacks and a blue blazer who had a full program organized for them.

Club tracksuits were supplied. Selim went off for a massage, Holley elected to try the gym, where a muscular young man named Harry put him through a series of weight-training classes and, noting his age from the form he'd filled in, observed that he was in remarkable condition and obviously worked out.

Holley didn't tell him he had until recently been a regular user of the gym facility at the Lubyanka Prison. In any case, when he stripped off his vest, revealing the terrible bruise Ivanov's bullet had made, his explanation-that he'd slipped against the end of a steel bar at a London gym-was received with horror at the lack of professionalism that had allowed such a thing to happen.

He worked his way through a series of weight-lifting exercises and cycles and finally ended up in a sauna for half an hour, then another half hour swimming, and decided he'd had enough. He asked for a fresh tracksuit, went to the lounge bar, ordered a large scotch, and went and lay on a recliner, from which he could look out at the golf course stretching away into an infinity of rain and mist.

He had his Codex in a pocket of the tracksuit, and, when it sounded, he got it out quickly. It was Caitlin Daly. "Where are you?"

"Somewhere in Kent. What have you got for me?"

"The word from Barry is excellent. He tells me that Potanin and the other man, Bulganin, are first-rate. Bulganin and Flynn went to Quogue and sniffed round. There aren't too many people there this time of year, and with the weather, and they located the boat."

"And the Miller hit?"

"Barry said Potanin's provided him with a silenced pistol with hollow-point cartridges. He said Potanin instructed him to wait, identify his target, then shoot him up close, preferably in a crowd situation, and just keep on walking. Nobody sees a thing. Wasn't that the way Mick Collins and his boys operated in Dublin in the old days?"

For the first time, it occurred to Holley that she might be a raving lunatic. "Well, I suppose there is a certain truth to that, but let's hope for Barry's sake something else turns up. You're seeing the cell again tonight?"

"Yes, everyone's ready for action, it's all systems go."

"There's just one change," Holley said, and when Selim appeared in a robe, a towel around his neck, he put a finger to his lips and motioned him to sit.

"What would that be?"

"The woman, Monica Starling. I've decided against it. You can tell Murray his target is aborted."

Her response was immediate. "You can't do that. It was agreed."

"I've changed my mind. I'm not going to be responsible for the killing of a woman, and, if you've a brain in you at all, you'll know why. That's an end of it. My decision."

"You can't do that. I'm cell leader."

"And I'm the commander of the whole bloody plot," Holley told her. "Without me and the Russians, you wouldn't have an operation. Now you've still got one but without the killing of the woman."

Her reluctance was plain in her voice. "If that's the way it has to be."

"Don't mess with me on this, girl." His voice was hard. "I hold the cards here. I can have word sent to Potanin that it's all off, even order him to dispose of Barry and Flynn."

She was obviously shaken. "No, don't do that."

"I'll call round tonight after your six o'clock meeting and confirm this with you face-to-face. I'll be waiting in the back pew."

"All right. I understand."

He switched off his Codex and turned to Selim, who was looking grave. "Not good, I fear, whatever it is. Who is this woman, have I met her?"

"No, and you wouldn't want to. A deeply disturbed individual, but aren't we all? Now, how about some lunch? After all my exertions, I'm absolutely starving."

After lunch, Selim disappeared to indulge in a final massage of some description and an appointment in the hairdressing salon. Holley felt that enough was enough, although there was no doubt that he felt a lot better than when he'd arrived. He was sitting in the lounge bar, thinking about what had happened with Caitlin Daly, when Martha appeared to inform him that the clothes he'd been wearing when he'd arrived had all been valeted and were waiting for him in the allotted cubicle.

He found perfection. Even his tie had been pressed, the shoes shined. He returned to the bar lounge to find Selim still in a robe but with his hair trimmed and looking suspiciously black.

"You've had a dye job," Holley said.

"And you, my friend, look like a whiskey advert. For a man of forty-nine, you look remarkably fit, Daniel. It's not fair."

"Not much in life is," Holley told him. "Let's have a coffee, then you go and change, and I suggest we make tracks."

Selim waved to the barman as Holley's Codex sounded. Lermov said, "There you are, Daniel. Time we talked, I think."

"Where are you?"

"Moscow, but soon to leave for the Prime Minister's plane."

"Well, that's nice for you, so close to the seat of power. But remember Icarus. His wings melted and fell off when he flew too close to the sun."

"Ah, you obviously enjoyed the benefits of a classical education."

"Of a grammar school education, Josef, in my case the Leeds variety. What do you want?"

"Daniel, you mustn't go round shooting people, it won't do."

"So you heard about that? From your pet poodle Chekhov, I suppose!"

"Yes, and I know about the incident when Ivanov turned up at the church and tried to force you into the car. He was wrong."

"Glad you agree. But about yesterday's incident, I would point out he shot me first. I'm only speaking to you now thanks to the genius of the Wilkinson Sword Company, which made my bulletproof vest."

"I accept all that, but you've certainly had your revenge. Half an ear gone."

"Well, let's say he's made his mark in the world. I should imagine he'll look satisfactorily grotesque."

"You're a hard man, Daniel, even harder than I'd imagined."

"What you see is not what you get with me, Josef. You should have realized that just as you should have realized what Peter Ivanov is really like under that pretty uniform. He's broken your specific orders in this matter. We were to be voices on the Codex, that's all. He violated that by showing up at the church and yet again by making Chekhov take him to Bolt Hole. What was that all about?"

"I could ask the same of you. Who was your mysterious companion, of the Arabic persuasion?"

"You knew I'd need the services of a banker and weapons supplier, and that was he. I was interested after my discussions with Chekhov about Bolt Hole. It occurred to me that it might offer some sort of temporary sanctuary. He keeps a substantial motor yacht there. In such a vessel, France would be only a short run across the English Channel in time of need, if you follow me. After all, who knows how this thing will end?"

"I see your point. So you and your friend were simply assessing the situation?"

"And completely astonished when Chekhov and Ivanov appeared. The rest, as they say in a mystery novel, you know."

"So to come to what's important, everything is set for tomorrow?"

"Absolutely. You can tell the Prime Minister, if you like."

"I don't think so. I'm a cautious man. I like to be sure. I'd rather wait until it's actually happened and then surprise him."

"Of course, Josef, but do tell Ivanov to do as he's told."

"I already have. I don't suppose there's anything else you need?"

"Not that I can think of. Safe flight, enjoy New York. I trust it will be a memorable visit for you."

"In more ways than one," Lermov told him.

Selim had waved the waiter away and sat there throughout the entire conversation. Now he beckoned the barman back and repeated the order.

"Did you get all that?" Holley asked.

"A trifle one-sided, but what you were saying was interesting. I presume that the person you were talking to is Ivanov's superior?"

"Very much, and just appointed Head of Station for the GRU in London, Colonel Josef Lermov, to be precise. They lost his predecessor in the Thames. Lermov pulled me out of the Lubyanka to try and find a solution to the problem Putin had dropped into his lap. You'll be thrilled to know he's about to leave Moscow as part of Putin's entourage, flying with the great man to New York where he will speak at the United Nations tomorrow night."

"Daniel, I have got beyond being astounded at anything in this business." Selim waved the barman away after he placed the tray on the table. "I suggest we have our coffee and then go back to London, where I presume the final episode will take place. Not long now, I suppose, that's one good thing. The suspense is killing me. What next?"

"I'm expected in Kilburn at round seven o'clock by the lady I was talking to before."

"This is important?"

"Very much so, and also unpleasant, but it has to be done."

"You know, the time I have spent with you has been like a movie," Selim said. "Your story, all the things happening to you, I see only through your eyes and what you choose to tell me, but it's always only part of the story. I don't see what the others in your life do, except in that singular episode involving Chekhov and Ivanov. It's as if you were living life in a film noir seen only from your point of view, inhabited by cinema ghosts, and you are one of them."

"The entire story told in one hour and forty minutes," Holley said. "Just like Bob le flambeur."

"And look what happened to him," Selim replied, and he got up and went off to get dressed. Selim dropped Holley off at the hotel. "You're sure you don't want to borrow the car?"

"No, I'll be fine with a cab."

"As usual, I don't know what it is you have to do, but I trust it will go well. If you're free later, come and see me. The big day tomorrow may make you restless tonight."

"I know." Holley grinned. "The suspense is killing me now." Selim drove away, and Holley, discovering it was only four-thirty, borrowed an umbrella from the doorman and went around Mayfair for forty minutes, rain-walking in a private and enclosed world under the umbrella, but all he was doing was putting off the bad moment, he knew that, and he returned to the hotel and went up to his suite.

He half undressed, taking off his shirt so that he could put on his bulletproof vest again. He strapped on the ankle holster, decided against the Walther PPK for now but slipped the flick-knife into his left trouser pocket. So he was prepared, for it had to be done, though he was not looking forward to it.

He told the cabdriver to drop him at Kilburn High Road and walked through to the park, passing Hope of Mary Hospice and Refuge at half past six. He stood there, umbrella raised against the interminable rain, then walked back to the church through the darkness, left his umbrella in a corner of the porch, and went in.

He stood in the gloom, at first by the door where religious pamphlets of one kind or another were displayed. There was a selection of prayer cards of various kinds, all at a price to help church funding, and there it was, that special "we who are ourselves alone" card. He helped himself, meticulously dropping a couple of pound coins into the box provided. He went and sat on the end of the rear pew and waited.

It was very quiet, the church smell, the guttering candles, but there was no one by the confessional boxes, and the lights had been turned off, probably to save on the electricity bill. There was a gloomy, medieval atmosphere about the place that some might have found menacing, and, in the darkness, things creaked.

A door banged from the direction of the sacristy, and she appeared by the altar and walked towards him, an old khaki trench coat over her shoulders. Her steps echoed hollowly.

He stood to greet her. "So there you are, Caitlin. You've done what I asked?"

She stared at him, proud and bitter. "If it's what you want, then let it be so. I'll not pretend to like it. That she shot dead one of our own while working with Ferguson is a known fact, and I think it's illogical to treat her differently because she's a woman."

"It's what I need, Caitlin, it's as simple as that. So you give me your word that Murray has your orders to abort?"

She crossed herself. "I swear it on my soul, and I'll swear it on anything else you wish-the Bible, if you like."

"I'll be content if you swear it on your own symbol of the prayer most precious in your life above all things." He held up the card. "Swear it on this."

"I swear before God and with all my heart that I have spoken to Patrick Murray in front of his comrades, who can confirm that his mission concerning Monica Starling is aborted."

She held out the card to him, and he said, "No, I'd prefer you to keep it."

"Then if you don't mind, I'll take my leave of you," Caitlin Daly said. "A great day tomorrow, God willing. Will we see you in the evening?"

"I think not," Holley said. "I'll leave it to you and the cell. Saturday will be the day to see what's been achieved."

As he turned to go, she caught his arm. "You still don't truly believe in all this, do you?"

His laugh was harsh and genuine. "A bit late in the day to ask me that sort of question. I stopped believing in myself years ago. Once you've made a discovery like that, it's difficult to believe in anything else, but it's your day if it's anybody's. I'll leave it to you and contact you on Saturday morning."

He went out, and she said to herself, "I thought so." There was a slight creak as one of the doors opened in a confessional box, and a man came forward holding a pistol in his right hand. "You heard all that, Patrick?"

"I could have shot him easy."

"Don't be stupid. What would we have done with the body? It would have ruined everything."

"So what happens now? Does what you told me in front of the others still hold?"

"Of course not. Go back to the original instructions and kill the bitch. Now, go on, get out, and keep this to yourself."

He withdrew, the door banged, and it was so quiet, only the Virgin Mary floating in a sea of candlelight, watching her. She looked down at the prayer card. She tore it into little pieces, her face quite calm, then walked back to the sacristy. Although not of the faith himself, Daniel Holley had seen enough of how important Roman Catholicism was to Irish women to believe that the oath she had given him, sworn on the Virgin herself, would be binding. The memory of his years with his beloved mother was enough to convince him. In the cab during the return journey, he felt considerable relief. He called ahead and told Selim he was on his way. A certain burden had been lifted, and it showed when he got to the shop and rang for entrance.

Selim bustled out wearing his black duster coat. "I could tell by your voice that you are a different man. Am I correct?"

"Yes, I have to admit I'm much relieved."

"Excellent. Five minutes to go for the eight o'clock show at the Curzon. They're showing Alain Delon and Belmondo in Borsalino."

"Gangsters again?" Holley said.

"Of course, and why not? Hurry, my boy. We'll just make it."

The film was as stunning as it had been the first time Holley had seen it, decades ago. Later at Al Bustan, they discussed it. "More than any other filmmakers, the French have portrayed the romance of the gangster, have been able to make him a genuine antihero, and there is a certain nobility to such characters," Selim said.

Holley shook his head, "You've been reading too many film magazines, Selim. The one thing that all such films have in common is the ending. Your antihero, usually on his back in some street, a gun in his hand, in the act of dying if not already dead. Where's the nobility in that?"

"But this is not always so, Daniel. You, my boy, are still here despite all the odds, the samurai for real."

"But consider the price, Selim. Has it been worth it? I think not." He got up and reached for his coat. "I'll see you in the morning."

He went out into the narrow street, turning up his collar against the rain, lighter now but still there. He felt a strange content, probably because of the way the problem with Caitlin Daly had resolved itself, and was reasonably satisfied with the way things were going. He assumed that Harry Miller had already departed for New York. What he didn't know was that the Gulfstream carried an additional passenger, one Sean Dillon, who had persuaded Ferguson at the last minute that he should go.

For the moment, all Holley wanted was sleep, for tomorrow would be one of the most important days in his life, and, arriving back at the hotel, he went straight up to his room and turned in.

He had the dream again, if anything more intense than ever, Rosaleen with him an even shorter time, leaving him quite quickly, assuring him that she would return but never doing so. There was the same sense of panic as he ran through those narrow streets and towering buildings in the black-and-white world. This time, it wasn't just the feeling of loss where she was concerned, it was experiencing the sensation that he was the only person in that dark world, and for the first time he struggled and came awake.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, aware that he was totally alone and always would be, that was his eternal truth and something he'd better face, so he got up, showered and shaved, put on his ankle holster, just in case, and went across to Shepherd's Market.

Selim insisted on making scrambled eggs and toast for them, and Holley sat there in the kitchen watching him cooking. It was absolutely delicious, and he said so, and Selim beamed happily.

"If I learned one great thing from the English when I was at Oxford, it was the art of making perfect scrambled eggs on toast, for it is a great art. Did you know that Ian Fleming is said to have virtually lived on scrambled eggs? He once said in an interview that he could eat them at any time, day or night."

"Selim, you're a good friend, and I know what you're doing. You're trying to take my mind off things, and, yes, I need that. If things go right, they'll start happening in the late afternoon New York time. The other things will happen here late tonight. I am on standby, if you like. It's other people who will actually go to war. The woman that was proving difficult? She is actually in charge of what's happening. I planned things, it's as simple as that. While others go into action, I have to stand back and wait for the result."

"And if it does not produce the expected success, one supposes Mister Big at the Kremlin gets to blame you?"

"So what do I do? The day stretches ahead."

"Care to return to my favorite spa? I could phone Martha and book us in overnight."

Holley was going to say no and then thought, Oh, why not? He could get the verdict there as well as anyplace else. And should the news turn out to be bad-well, he was really going to need that massage. At the club, things were very much as they had been before, even the weather was the same, late-winter cold and miserable rain. Sitting in the lounge bar at four o'clock in the afternoon on his own after a strenuous round in the gym, Holley received his first voice from the outside world. A call from Chekhov.

"Where are you?" he demanded.

"None of your business," Holley told him. "I'm staying out of the way, that's all you need to know. Everything is in place, so I've stepped back, leaving Caitlin Daly to strut her stuff as cell leader."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"She's earned her spurs, Max. Everyone knows what they've got to do. Ferguson, the Salters, Kurbsky, New York-it's all out of my hands now."

"You seem to have skipped Monica Starling," Chekhov said.

"Because I've taken her off the agenda."

"A sudden attack of conscience?"

"I have no difficulty killing on behalf of a woman, as you well know. But I've never actually killed one, and I don't intend to start now."

"And Caitlin Daly must have hated that."

"How did you know?"

"Think Red Brigade, or go back further, to the French Revolution. She'd have helped female aristocrats up the steps to the guillotine with a smile on her face."

"I think you're being a little hard there, Max. What's the boy wonder up to?"

"They've sewn up his ear. It's covered by a substantial dressing and surgical tape, so you can't see how much damage has been done, but it must be considerable."

"I meant it to be."

"I'm surprised he isn't still in his bed in the sick bay, but he's up and round and glaring at everyone like the Devil himself. I saw him in the canteen with Kerimov, who has dressing taped across his left hand and wears a black sling. It's the only time I've visited the Embassy in the past few days."

"Not that you'd tell me, but has he said anything about me?" Daniel asked.

"As I said, I stick to the plan and stay away from the Embassy as much as possible, which was the order. He hasn't phoned me since the confrontation. But, Daniel, this is why I phoned you-I wanted to let you know that Lermov's been in touch."

"When was this?"

"An hour or so ago. He's arrived in New York. He asked after Ivanov and suggested I should call you."

"Concerned about my welfare, no doubt?" Holley laughed.

"Keeping tabs on me, more like. He spoke to me yesterday just before they left Moscow. Asked me to stop shooting people and inquired about how things were going, but I assume he would know anyway because I've kept you informed. It did occur to me that you might have passed it along to him."

"But, my dear Daniel, what is one to do?"

"That's for you to decide. Survival's the name of the game where you're concerned, I can see that, and I don't hold it against you. You can't harm me because I don't trust you for a minute, Max, not even for a little bit."

"Now, that's hard, Daniel," Chekhov told him.

"Yes, isn't it?"

Daniel cut him off, and Selim appeared in a robe. "Just checking. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Get back to work," Holley told him. "You've got to think of those pounds."

He waited for the next call, but it was an hour before it came. Lermov said, "I won't ask you where you are. A man of secrets, I think. Is everything still in place?"

"Absolutely. I'm standing back while Caitlin Daly savors her hour of glory."

"No problems, then?"

"One change of plan. I decided to abort the attack on Monica Starling."

"Yes, I heard about that. Did it cause any problem?"

"It wasn't well received, but it's my decision."

"Very noble of you. So now we wait. I wish you luck, Daniel. If you can bring this off, it will be the coup of a lifetime."

Holley sat there, thinking about it. So Chekhov must have been in touch with Lermov the minute he'd put the phone down, which explained Lermov knowing about the Monica Starling business. Well, that was all right. He was reminded of the old Mafia saying: "Keep your friends close but your enemies closer."

He closed his eyes, dozing, and after a while there was a tap on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes and found Harry standing there in his white uniform.

"We're ready for you in the pool now, Mr. Grimshaw, all those special exercises. Lots to do."

Holley got up and followed meekly, for it was filling the time admirably until the final act of the drama. And so time wore on and the evening came, and then it was time for bed. He slept lightly, too much on his mind, braced for the calls, until finally he was fetched awake by his Codex. He glanced at the bedside clock and saw it was two in the morning. "Daniel," Chekhov said. "I've had a call from Potanin in New York. It's not good."

"Tell me."

"The business at Quogue, Ivan Bulganin was observing from a clump of trees. He saw Flynn shoot Johnson as the boat came in, but Johnson managed to shoot him in return. Flynn went into the water. Bulganin couldn't do anything about it except get the hell out of there, and, as he left, he heard the sound of emergency vehicles arriving."

"And Frank Barry?"

"Miller left the Plaza to go for a walk in Central Park. Barry followed him, and Potanin stalked them. Barry tried to jump Miller, and Miller had what looked like an ankle holster. He shot Barry in the knee and walked away. Potanin couldn't risk any involvement and cleared off."

"Christ, what a bloody cock-up."

"I haven't finished. Barry called in on his mobile from Mercy Hospital. He told Potanin he'd better get him out or else."

"And what did Potanin do?"

"Sent Bulganin round dressed as a doctor and stuck a hypo in him. Some nurse arrived, he punched her and got clean away."

"A total disaster," Holley said.

"It could have been worse. Barry's dead, and Bulganin made sure to pocket his mobile. There's no connection to Belov, or to us."

"Well, that's something, I suppose. Have you informed Lermov?"

"Not yet, but I obviously must. He's at a late dinner at the UN."

"Hardly a good time."

"I understand he's coming back to London tonight."

"Yes. He won't want to confront Putin with this kind of news, but you should tell him, if only to cover yourself," Holley said.

"And Ivanov?"

"He'll find out anyway."

"What about the woman? Has she called? Do you know how things are going here?"

"I told her I'd contact her in the morning, but I meant a more civilized hour than this."

"Well, I think you should tell her about New York as soon as possible."

"You're right, I suppose. I'll call you back. In the old days, they sometimes killed messengers who delivered bad news." Holley's laugh had a certain grimness to it.

"Not nice, Daniel, not nice at all. You'll put me off my breakfast."

Holley got out of bed, put on a robe, then went and sat in an easy chair beside a window that overlooked the terrace and called her. She answered almost instantly.

"Is it you, Daniel?"

"Yes, Caitlin."

She seemed to hesitate, then carried on. "Is there news from New York yet?"

"Where are you?"

"I came over from the presbytery. There's no one round in the church at this time of the morning. I've locked myself in the sacristy."

"Sitting down, I hope, because I've had my friend Chekhov on with news from his security people in New York, and bad news it is."

"Go on," she said in a strangely calm voice.

So he told her.

When he was finished, she said wearily, "Well, God wasn't on our side, that's for sure."

"What happened in London?" Holley said. "Tell me the worst."

"Ferguson and Pool and the limousine. A premature explosion before they got in. Pool had a remote control, so he must have mishandled it, and he was closer to the Amara, so he was killed and Ferguson was simply blown over. Hardly singed, let alone killed."

"And the Salters?"

"I drove Docherty down there myself and hung round to see how he got on. He seemed to get in the pub all right, but after a while there was a disturbance, and he came running out with somebody after him. He got in that old van you mentioned, started up, and drove straight along the jetty into the Thames. I don't know what went wrong. He must have panicked. I got out of there fast and came back here."

"A total failure. Barry and Flynn dead in New York, Pool dead, Docherty very probably. What happened to Cochran?" Holley asked.

"I think we may have struck gold there. He got in the garden and was disturbed by a man who beat him up pretty thoroughly. He said he looked like some ghoul in a horror movie."

"The chemotherapy man," Holley told her. "I walked past the house yesterday, to check it out from the outside, and saw him emerge from a side entrance."

"Another man, Cochran said, came out of the house on the terrace and called: 'Are you all right, Alex?' "

"Alexander Kurbsky, it has to be, and the other guy would be Yuri Bounine. What happened?"

"This Alex relieved Cochran of his wallet. He was distracted by the arrival of his friend, so Cochran managed to run for it, scrambled over the wall, and got away. He also heard women's voices, and one did call out: 'Alexander, are you well?' "

"That's it," Holley said.

"Not quite, Daniel." She was silent for a moment. "We even lost when I lied to you."

In a way, he knew what was coming, and said, "Spit it out."

"Monica Starling." She took a deep breath and told him. "So there you are, and God's curse on me for what I did. She's all right, though."

"And how in the hell would you know?"

"Murray dumped the truck into a tree farther along and went back through the wood along the side of the road. He watched police and ambulance at the scene. There was an old boy with her who'd been bandaged up, but she seemed fine."

"No thanks to you," Holley told her.

"So what happens now?" she asked wearily. "I suppose the Russians will be interested to know that Kurbsky is alive and kicking, if that weird-looking man really is him."

"I'd stake my life on it. I think this strange appearance is just a very clever disguise. If you look at photos of Alexander Kurbsky, he's a long-haired, bearded cavalier of a man, a swagger to him. It was an absolutely brilliant idea on the part of whoever thought it up to disguise him as the exact opposite."

"So you'll pass the information on to the Russians? What would they do? Kidnap him, I suppose?"

"To do that, they'd have to lay hands on him, and I very much doubt that's going to happen. Charles Ferguson and his friends have just experienced a personal and very organized series of attacks. They're not going to take any chances." Holley shook his head. "Ferguson is going to fear the worst when Kurbsky reports in. He'll make arrangements to get him and the women out of there and pack them off to somewhere safe and secure. Perhaps out of the country."

"Where do you think?"

"Oh, who the hell knows? They're very close with the Americans, they'll probably help. One thing you can be certain about, it will happen today and very quickly."

"So what now?"

"I'll not run out on you."

"I'm glad to hear it. Just before everything hotted up last night, I had a strange call from a man who asked me if I knew where you were. He said he was a Captain Ivanov."

"What did you do?"

"I was up to my eyes with everything. I said I didn't know what he was talking about, and he laughed in a very nasty way and said maybe he should come and see me. I closed down on him. Who is he?"

"I told you I had the Russians behind me in this and asked if it bothered you. You said it didn't and that they were a means to an end. Peter Ivanov is a GRU captain. He's turned out to be a truly bad man. He doesn't like me and thinks he should be the one running things, not that there's much left to run. I'll deal with him."

"Where are you?"

"In the country. I'll be back in town soon. Look for me, girl. Keep the faith."

He sat there, thinking about it. A bloody mess it had turned out to be and still only three o'clock in the morning. Well, no point going back to bed now. He called Selim, who answered groggily.

"Whoever this is, go away."

"It's me, Selim. Stop fooling round. We need to talk. Meet me downstairs in five minutes."

He had actually been sitting in the lounge for fifteen minutes when Selim emerged, looking rumpled.

"So tell me what's so important."

Holley did, from the beginning to the shambles it had now become. Selim listened with a kind of awe. "My dear boy, can this be so? It's better than the midnight movie. What happens now?"

"Charles Ferguson will move quickly to get Kurbsky and those with him to somewhere safe-and that's the end of it."

"The Big Boss in the Kremlin will be disappointed, and I have a feeling Lermov will feel you've let him down."

"Well, that's too bad… And if he thinks I'll go back to the Lubyanka, he can think again."

"Fighting talk, that's what I like to hear. Let's see if there's anyone round to give us breakfast, Daniel, and then we'll get back to town and see what's happening."