In the end, he had luck, but you always needed that. A large agricultural container truck came up behind him, and he pulled over to let it pass. It provided perfect cover for another couple of miles and he stayed well back, looking beyond it until he saw the Land Rover turn off the road. He slowed, taking his time, allowing the truck to move on, and came to high walls topped by what, to his practiced eye, looked like an electronic fence. There was a gate, obviously also electronic, a small lodge and a sign that said HUNTLEY HALL INSTITUTION.

He kept on going. The walls extended for about a quarter of a mile, the grounds heavily wooded. He had a glimpse of the roof of a large house in the distance, no more, and then he came to the village of Huntley itself – very English, very traditional, cottages scattered on the main street, a stone bridge over a brook, a village store, a fuel station and a pub called the Huntley Arms.

He stopped for fuel, and a young woman served him. His English was perfect, which was how he had been trained. “I seemed to get lost in Horsham. I wanted to cut across to the Brighton Road.”

“Keep going, you’ll come to the A Twenty-three and that’ll take you all the way down to Brighton.”

“This is certainly an out-of-the-way place.”

“That’s true. Nothing much happens here.”

He followed her to the kiosk and got his money out. “What was that place I passed, Huntley Park Institution?”

“Some sort of medical outfit. People in rehab, or that sort of thing. I wouldn’t know, really. They keep to themselves.”

He noticed there were a dozen trailers scattered in the woodland at the back of the garage.

“Who do you rent those to?”

“Nobody’s staying now. Bird-watchers sometimes, people down for the shooting. We get quite busy in the summer.”

“I like this place,” he said. “Give me a card,” which she did, and he added, “While I’m here, I might as well have something to eat. Is the pub any good?”

“It’s all right. Pies, sandwiches, that sort of thing. You won’t find anyone in there now except my granddad. He’s got nothing better to do than drink beer with no one staying in the trailers.”

He gave her a dazzling smile. “I’ll give it a go.”

She was right, for when he went in the pub it was exactly what he would have expected. A stone-flagged floor, an oaken bar backed by bottles, a beamed ceiling, about twenty empty tables and a log fire on an open hearth. An old man in a padded jacket and tweed cap was seated by the fire drinking a pint of beer.

A middle-aged woman appeared from somewhere at the back of the bar, drying her hands. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Took the wrong road from Horsham and lost my way. I’ll have a beer, just one since I’m driving, and maybe you could find me a cheese sandwich. The young lady at the garage suggested I come in.”

“That would be Betty.”

“My granddaughter,” the old man called. “Harold Laker’s my name.”

“Maybe I could buy you a beer,” Ivanov said.

“A pint of bitter wouldn’t be a burden.”

“The old scrounger.” The woman smiled. “Go on, you join him and I’ll bring your drinks and the sandwiches.”

Harold Laker was eighty years old and boasted of it. He’d been born on a local farm, worked all his life in the village, and he demolished a pint and accepted another as Ivanov kept him talking.

“Of course, it wasn’t just the farming in the old days. There was the fishing, the foxhunting, though that’s long gone. The shooting’s really the only big thing left in season.”

“What kind of birds?”

“All kinds. Good pheasant, especially on the estate when Lord Faversham was alive. I used to carry his guns, load for him. Wonderful wildlife on the estate. Rabbits, hares. Not these days, mind you.”

“Why not?”

“Well, when he died, he left it to the nation, and the powers that be turned it into some sort of medical institution.”

“I noticed it when I was driving in. What goes on in there?”

“Nobody really knows, but they do say it’s for people with head problems. Never see any of them round here, mind you.” He sighed. “It was a poacher’s paradise, that estate.”

“I suppose you had your share, but not now with all that security. Electric fences, cameras at the gate.”

“And inside the grounds.”

“Really? And how would you know that?”

“Well, let’s just say if I want a bird or two or a hare or a nice pheasant, I know where to go.”

“You amaze me.”

The old man patted the side of his nose with his finger. “Mum’s the word. You don’t always need to go over a fence.”

There was cunning in his eyes, and Ivanov laughed.

“You old devil. You obviously know what other people don’t.” He rose. “Well, I must be away. It’s been great talking to you, Mr. Laker.” He went to the counter and paid his bill. “And give him another pint.”

“He can talk the hind leg off a donkey,” she said.

“Oh, he’s all right. Reminds me of my grandfather. You never know what you can learn!”

When he rode away, he took the road back to Horsham, slowing to have another look at the gates as he went past Huntley Hall. About four miles farther on, he turned into a nice quiet turnoff in some trees and called Greta Novikova, who was seated at the sitting-room table at China Wharf with Ashimov and the four Irishmen, various documents spread in front of her.

“Ivanov. What have you got for me?”

“Ferguson has definitely taken Selim to Huntley Hall, but there’s a lot more to it than that. Shall I leave it until I get back to London?”

“No, I want it now. Just let me plug in my recorder.”

When he was finished, she cut in, the recorder still on.

“What do you think?”

“About Harold Laker? He’s like my grandfather in Ukraine. A cunning old peasant. If you want my opinion, he’s known that estate all his life and he poaches it to suit himself.”

“But how? With all that security?”

“All I know is, the old bugger said when he needed a bird or two, or a rabbit or a hare, he knew where to go and, I quote, ‘You don’t always need to go over a fence.’ ”

“He’s got a way in,” she said, and there was awe in her voice.

“I’d say so.”

“You’ve done well. Come home, Sergei.”

She hung up and turned to Ashimov. “What do you think?”

“We’ll have to send one of these lads for a little chat with Mr. Laker. But first things first. Let’s have a look at those plans you showed us, Greta.”

She laid them out, Huntley Hall quite plain, and the rolling areas of woodland. “You can see where there are CCTV cameras and electronic devices in the trees at certain points. Mind you, these plans aren’t perfect.”

“Why not?” Kelly demanded.

“Because they’re based on memory. Five years ago, we had a British spy called Sharkey in our hands in Moscow, and an exchange was arranged for one of our men, Orlov, who was being held at Huntley Hall. On the odd occasion, he was allowed out for a walk in the grounds and picked up a certain amount of visual information.”

Tod said, “Sounds risky. Then I’m inclined to go with what Ivanov’s said. The old man has a way in. I think Kelly and I should go down there in the morning. We’ll put up at this trailer site Ivanov mentioned, get to know the old boy and find out his secret.”

“By breaking his fingers?”

“Oh, you always want to do things the hard way, Dermot. No, three bottles of Bushmills should do it, and he’ll turn out to be as greedy as people like him usually are.” He turned to Greta. “Ivanov didn’t sound Russian, what I heard. Does he have any kind of accent?”

“No, he was picked out because his mother was English.”

“Right, so he’s your English nephew, Dermot, who told you about the place. That’s why we’re calling in on our way to London from Brighton.”

It was Ashimov who said, “Sounds good to me, but let’s take it a step further. If in some way you can gain access to the grounds, what’s the next move?”