“Like hell you do,” Kelly said wildly. “We got Selim and Ferguson. I bet you don’t know that. It was a good payday, Sean. Go to hell.”

He switched off and said to Tod, “Put your foot down.”

Tod did as he was told. “What’s happened?”

Kelly told him.

Tod said, “What now?”

“We get to Dunkley and move the hell out of here.”

“As long as Smith’s there.”

“He’ll be there,” Kelly said grimly. “He wouldn’t dare not to be.”

“You’d better let Ashimov know.”

“I suppose so. I’d like to leave him to rot in hell, but there’s Belov to consider. He’s got a long arm, that one.”

After a lengthy afternoon at the Ivy, Ashimov and Greta had called in at the Old Red Lion in Farley Street and were sitting in a booth by the fire when his phone sounded. They’d been laughing over a shared joke, and he was still laughing when he put the phone to his ear.

“Ashimov.”

As he listened, the smile vanished and his face was terrible to see. “So that’s it? You’re not even sure about Ferguson? And Fahy’s spilling his guts to Dillon?”

“Jesus, man, we got Selim for you. He was the main priority, and Ferguson’s damaged, I swear.”

“And now you’re running for it?”

“Flying for it, and if you’ve got any sense, you’ll do the same. We’ll see you at Drumore.”

“Oh, you’ll see me at Drumore, all right.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Ashimov. Drumore is my patch. You need me and you need my friends. Since the Peace Process, the Brits haven’t been able to lay a finger on us in the Irish Republic. You’d do well to remember that. You need us!”

He rang off, and Greta demanded, “For God’s sake, what is it?”

He explained. When he was finished, she said, “It could be bad, right?”

“Could be? How the hell do you think Belov’s going to take it? Especially after what Fahy’s no doubt blurted out to Dillon? My career, my association with Belov, are on the line.” He punched a number into his phone. “Archbury? Connect me with Captain Kelso.”

“You’re going?” she said.

“I think it would be the smart thing if we both went.” Kelso’s voice came on. “It’s me,” Ashimov told him. “I’ve got Major Novikova with me. We should be with you in forty-five minutes. Immediate takeoff, destination Ballykelly.”

“What about Belov?” she said. “We’d best get it over with.”

“I suppose so.” He called Belov at the castle on his private mobile and was answered at once.

“Yuri, I’ve been waiting. How are things?”

“Good news and bad news.”

He went over events very briefly. There was a long pause, and Belov switched off without a word.

The rage in Ashimov was obvious. “Ferguson’s people, his whole enterprise, have been nothing but trouble ever since Manhattan, and this Dillon has been a stone in my shoe. It’s all gone down the toilet, the years of kowtowing to Belov, doing his dirty work. He doesn’t make allowances, Greta, it’s how he is.” He rose, took her arm roughly. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

“To the embassy?”

“No way. Straight to Archbury. I’m taking no chances. I’m not even calling in at my place.”

At Huntley Hall, the duty medical officer had done his best with Ferguson’s left shoulder. The bullet had plowed through close to the edge.

“It’s Rosedene for you, General,” the young Medical Corps captain said. “It’s a decent patching job I’ve done, but you could do with a scan, and Professor Henry Bellamy is far better at embroidery than I am. You’re going to need some good work. AK rounds really leave a mark.”

“And you would know, Wilson?”

“Six months in Iraq, sir. The second injection I’ve given will hold you to London, but don’t disturb the sling. Let me help you with your jacket.”

Which he did, and Ferguson said, “And Dr. Selim?”

“Bagged and awaiting the disposal unit, General.”

“Let’s get him to the North London crematorium. The latest incinerators don’t take much more than an hour, and all that’s left is six pounds of gray ash. Do you mind your work for my department after Iraq, all the Official Secrets stuff?”

“Good God, no, sir, it’s infinitely more interesting.”

“As long as you can accept the importance of what we do. We’re at war, too, you see, Captain.”

He walked out into the hall and found Dalton and Miller. Dalton said, “The disposal team just collected Dr. Selim, General.”

“Good, then we can get back to London.”

In the back of the Land Rover, he called Dillon, who had driven back to Roper’s place in his Mini car. They’d spoken earlier when Dillon had phoned Huntley Hall in a panic after Kelly’s claim to have gotten Ferguson as well as Selim. The General had just been about to undergo treatment in surgery, so not much information had been exchanged.

“Just tell me everything, Sean, so I get the full picture.” Which Dillon did, and Ferguson said, “My goodness, Ashimov’s got plenty to answer for.”

“All done on Belov’s behalf with Belov’s power and money behind him, and Roper’s hunch is that Belov’s at Drumore.”

“An interesting pattern. He not only wanted Selim shut up for good, but the rest of us – me, you, Major Roper. Even the Salters.”

“Well, we did spoil the plot to assassinate President Cazalet, and then there was Baghdad. With a few other things that happened, I guess we screwed up things big-time for Belov.”

“I suppose the only person who seems to have avoided his wrath is Superintendent Bernstein. You’ve told her what’s happened?”

“Haven’t been able to. Both Roper and I have been trying, but there’s been no response on her mobile phone.”

“What on earth’s going on?”

“It’s all right, General. I got through to her grandfather, who told me she’d gone to the wedding of an old friend in Windsor this afternoon. That’s what people do at weddings, they switch off.”

“Well, keep trying. Ashimov’s still out there someplace.”

At Dunkley, there was rain and fog and things were down and Smith was sweating, taking the biggest chance of his life. At any other time, he would have aborted, but he knew what Kelly’s people might do to him back home if he failed.

In the Transit at the side of the airstrip, Kelly and Tod waited, listening to the sound of the Navajo as Smith made one pass and then two.

“The bastard,” Kelly said, as the sound faded again. “He’s doing a runner.”

“Give him a chance, Dermot. This weather is bad news. Maybe you’d like him to crash?”

There was the sound of the engines again, and at the controls, Smith went lower and lower, despairing at the gray cotton wool that seemed to surround him, and then suddenly, at four hundred feet, the runway appeared and he bounced down. It was one of the worst landings of his career, but he’d made it. He taxied to the far end, turned, and Tod drove toward him in the Transit. He and Kelly jumped out and Smith left the cockpit and opened the Airstair door. Kelly led the way in.

“You fuck, what were you trying to do, frighten us?”

After him, Tod helped Smith wrestle with the door. He put a hand on Smith’s shoulders. “You did well.”

“I just took ten years off my life, Tod, never again. I’ve had it, I mean it. You can keep your money in future.”

He was into the cockpit and back to work, the plane hurtling along the runway and rising into the fog, as Tod sat across from Kelly and fastened his seat belt. Kelly had a bottle of whiskey out and swallowed from it.

He laughed wildly. “We did it. We did it, and we got away with it.”

“Actually, it’s Smith who’s gotten us away with it.”

“He’s being paid, isn’t he?” He offered the whiskey bottle. “Have a drink.”

“I don’t think so.” Tod lit a cigarette. “I need my head clear for Drumore. For little things like Belov and Ashimov.”

“I can handle them, Tod. I can handle Ashimov. We’ve survived worse things than those two. They need us more than we need them.” He raised the bottle. “Up the IRA.”