“What else would you do with him? Take them to the convent at Ballykelly. They’re in safe hands with Sister Teresa.”

The men drove away. Beyond, by the harbor entrance, the body of Jack Casey floated up and was swept out to sea.

“What happens to him?” Greta said.

“This is my patch,” Bell said. “Everybody keeps their head down, nobody sees a thing. None of this happened. As for Casey, just on the other side of the jetty where the body’s drifting now, there’s a ten-knot bore running because the tide’s turning. It’ll take Casey out into the Irish Sea fast, food for fishes.”

“Really? How interesting.”

She left him talking to Ashimov and walked back to the pub and onward to Drumore Place. She went into the Great Hall, got herself a vodka, went and stood by the fire thinking about it, then phoned Levin, who was in the Piano Bar at the Dorchester, having a late lunch.

“Why, Greta, darling girl.”

“None of that nonsense. Blake Johnson arrived at Drumore posing as an American tourist. Igor, he’s so old he was in Vietnam. He’s fifty-five at least. He should have been in his box by now.”

“You know, my mother was English, but her mother was Irish. And whenever there was bad news, that old Irish lady would say to me, It was as certain as the coffin lid closing.”

“Well, the coffin lid’s closed tight.”

“Really?” He was laughing. “Tell me the worst.”

When she was finished, he said, “So he sends one corpse drifting out to sea, cripples another and disposes of half the ear of Ryan, the publican at the Royal George?”

“There’s more to it than that. Ryan said that when threatening him, Johnson mentioned Bell having taken over from Kelly. He also mentioned his friend Sean Dillon.”

“Oh, dear. What’s happening to the walking wounded?”

“Taken to the convent hospital at Ballykelly. The Little Sisters of Pity. They’ll keep quiet enough.”

“I should hope so.”

“Ashimov should have let Johnson nose around, have lunch and move on.”

“Well, he didn’t. He’s on a holy crusade to get the lot of them, and the chance of stiffing Blake Johnson was too good to miss.”

“What happens now?”

“I should imagine Blake has already phoned Ferguson, who will ask Dillon and the good Major Roper if the name Bell means anything to them in connection with the IRA.”

“It’s a mess,” she said.

“It’s a can of worms, my love. However, I’ll handle it. I’ll phone Volkov in Moscow, give him the bad news and cover your back as well as my own. But that’s only because I like you.”

She thought about it for only a second. He had something about him, this young man, she recognized that and took it on board.

“Right, we’ll see how it goes.”

“As far as Yuri’s concerned, if anyone gets blamed for it all coming out, it’s me not you, so keep your mouth shut.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll leave it to you.”

She switched off, went and got another vodka, and Ashimov stamped in. “What a mess!”

“It was certainly that, Yuri.”

He went and poured himself a drink. “I had him in my hand, Blake Johnson, the President’s man, the ultimate coup.”

“It would have been a greater coup to allow him to pass through empty-handed,” she said. “I told you. But you just had to give Bell the wink, didn’t you? Sometimes, Yuri – I just don’t know,” and she walked out.

In London, at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson listened to Blake, then called Dillon and Billy into his office. He gave them an account of what Blake had told him.

“Bloody marvelous,” Billy said. “That’s put the bastards in their place. What do you think, Dillon?”

“So there’s a new bunch in power from the Provisional IRA. And some guy told Blake that Belov was in Russia. Where does that get us?”

“Maybe if we traced that Bell person they mentioned. Does the name mean anything to you?”

Ferguson shook his head. “I’ll give it to Roper. He might find something.”

“What about the murder inquiry?” asked Dillon.

“Still proceeding, Sean.”

“Then maybe I should have a look myself.”

“I’d really rather you didn’t.”

Dillon shrugged. “I’ll get on, then.”

Outside, he paused at his desk, only for a moment. Billy said, “What are you going to do?”

“What do you think? I’ll see you later,” and he went out.

“Wait for me, Dillon,” Billy called, and went after him.

On the phone to Volkov, Levin explained everything that had happened. He waited while Volkov considered the matter. Finally, he said, “I agree with you, Igor, Major Ashimov has been foolish in this matter. Dillon is far from being an idiot. He’s probably already made the link between the nurse and the IRA. Now this thing at Drumore. With Roper’s assistance, Dillon may hunt down the Bell connection sooner than you think.”

“What should I do?” Levin asked.

“Watch them all carefully, Igor. One day soon we’ll need to make hard decisions, and we’ll need to know what – and who – our liabilities are.”

Levin went into the Dorchester, but instead of going up to his suite, he went into the Piano Bar. It was half busy, cheerful and sophisticated as usual. He sat on one of the banquettes, ordered a glass of champagne and glanced at the newspaper. At that moment, Dillon and Billy walked in.

The bar manager, Guiliano, approached. “Mr. Dillon, a pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“I’ll have the usual and the boy here orange juice. And if you don’t mind it, I’ll give you a tune on Liberace’s grand piano there, before your usual pianist comes in.”

“It’d be a pleasure,” Guiliano said.

Levin slipped on his earpiece. He could hear them perfectly.

“So what’s new?”

“I’m leaving it to Roper for the time being. Let’s see if this Bell thing hangs together. If anybody can find the answer, it’s Roper.”

“Oh, dear,” Igor murmured, as Dillon walked down to the piano, opened it and started to play. “We can’t have that.”

As he got up, Dillon seemed to look across at him. Levin smiled and called, in his finest public school voice, “ ‘As Time Goes By,’ old man. Never fails.”

He walked out and went upstairs. Billy went to the piano. “Who was that?”

“God knows,” Dillon said. “I think I’ve seen him somewhere before, but for the life of me I can’t remember where. Good idea on the music, though,” and he started to play the tune.

Upstairs in his suite, Levin opened the file he’d received in Moscow, found a number and rang it. When there was an answer, he said, “George Moon?”

“That’s right.”

“The midnight bell is ringing.”

Moon said, “That’s fine by me.” Silly buggers, all this code stuff, he thought.

“I’ll see you in half an hour at the Harvest Moon pub in Trenchard Street. I’ll recognize you. Be alone.”

“Fine by me. Side entrance. There’s a light like a moon over the door. A moon for a Moon – fitting, right?”