Levin was there, of course, his one mistake, his face quite clear. “We’ll keep this,” Billy told Ruby. “You stay quiet and we’ll stay quiet, okay?”

“Men.” She shook her head. “Piss off, Billy.”

Driving away, Dillon said, “There’s something about our man. It’s as if I know him.”

“Not me,” Billy said. “But the Russian link is cool.”

Dillon’s mobile rang, he answered it, then switched off and turned. “That was Ferguson. He’s at the Holland Park safe house with Roper, and now your uncle.”

“Harry? What in Christ for?”

“Somebody cut the brakes on the Bentley. He and Joe Baxter ended up hanging over the edge of the wharf. It’s a miracle they survived.”

“This is beginning to stink, big-time,” Billy said.

“You don’t have to tell me. Just get us there.”

At the Holland Park safe house, they were all assembled. It was a bad business all round. They’d just run the tape through and found Levin entering the Harvest Moon. They established that he didn’t mean a thing to anyone.

“So where are we?” Dillon asked.

“This is a serious situation,” Ferguson said. “The death of Superintendent Bernstein, followed by what happened to Blake in Drumore and now the attacks on Major Roper and Harry Salter.” He shook his head. “Billy could have been with you, Harry, it could have been both of you.”

“Just wait till I get my hands on them,” Salter said. “Just wait.”

There was silence. Dillon lit a cigarette. “Well, I’d say it’s more than a coincidence that four members of the Prime Minister’s private army have been targeted, Charles. That only leaves you and me. Blake was extra.”

“Exactly, so the sooner we discover the identity of the gentleman on the security tape, the better.”

Dillon said, “Show me a picture of him on your computer.”

“Happy to oblige. There is one thing I wanted to run by you. The name Bell. I’ve come across one. A Liam Bell, once Chief of Staff to the PIRA, in the Maze Prison for some years. Retired some time ago. Lives in Dublin?”

“The schoolteacher?” Dillon said. “That’s what they used to call him. He was retired years ago. I thought he was dead.”

Dillon thought about it some more and said to Ferguson, “If Roper can give Billy the details on Bell, you could send him over in the plane from Farley Field tomorrow. See if he’s around. Is that okay with you, Billy?”

“Sure, but what about you?”

“Things I’d like to check out here. Is that all right, Charles?”

“I’ll make the arrangements.”

Miles away in Siberia, in his suite in a hotel on the Station Gorky development, surrounded by snow, Max Zubin spoke to his mother, Bella, in Moscow. She was as vivacious as usual, slightly loud.

“What are they doing to you?”

“Not much. Shaved my beard.”

“I bet you look ten years younger.

“What about you?”

“They treat me well. I have a big black car with a driver. He hangs around downstairs. I can go anywhere. The supermarket, the theater, the Bolshoi.”

“Well, you couldn’t exactly run away. They’ve got me.”

“And they’ve got me, too, so you can’t run away. What’s going to happen, Max?”

“I don’t know. Volkov spoke to me yesterday. He said I might have to turn up in Moscow again and play my part.”

“Well, whatever else you are, you’re a fine actor, my son.”

“From you, that’s the ultimate compliment. I love you, Mama.”

“And I love you, my son. God bless.”

Ferguson spoke to Blake and brought him up to speed. “There’s something going on here and we don’t know what it is.”

Blake said, “The name Bell, I’ve got that right, no question.”

“Well, we’re all on the case now.”

“I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll speak to the President.”

When Blake went into the Oval Office a few minutes later, Cazalet was by the fire, smoking a cigarette, Murchison, his flat-coated retriever, at his feet. The dog was the most intelligent Blake had ever known. He’d often suspected it of talking to the President. On a famous occasion, it had hurled itself at a waiting assassin and saved Cazalet’s life. Clancy, as usual, hovered.

“Well, I’ve said it before, Blake, but you’re a remarkable man. Three members of the Provisional IRA, one dead and two down? Amazing!”

“They were going to give me the deep six off a fishing boat, Mr. President. I decided otherwise.”

Cazalet said, “Clancy, scotch and soda. Can you believe this?”

“Absolutely, Mr. President. If you can get a Navy Cross in Vietnam at twenty-one, that means you can handle yourself.”

“Hell, you did the same thing in ’ninety-one in Iraq,” Blake said. “Mind you, Iraq was pussy.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I might just spill your drink.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t do that to a superior officer, Sergeant Major.”

“Stop the war games, we’ve all been there.” Cazalet toasted Blake. “Ferguson is right. Superintendent Bernstein murdered, you attacked, Major Roper. There seems to be a vendetta against Ferguson’s group. Do you think I should speak to the Prime Minister?”

“There’s not much he can do, Mr. President. I suspect that, as usual, it’s all down to Dillon.”

“Well, good luck to him,” and Cazalet toasted Blake again.

Levin phoned Ashimov at Drumore Place and got Greta first. “How are you doing?” she asked.

“Bloody awful.” He told her what had happened.

“Not so good.”

“Where’s Ashimov?”

“Playing snooker with Bell. He left me the phone. Said he didn’t want to be bothered.”

“Oh, dear, let’s hope Blake Johnson doesn’t appear on the scene again.”

“I wouldn’t mention that if I were you. I’ll transfer you.”

Ashimov said, “So, what’s happening?”

Levin went into detail, finding he was rather enjoying it.

Ashimov said, “This isn’t good, Captain. You disappoint me.”

“Well, the bloody IRA must have disappointed you with their botched job on Bernstein and their total incompetence in the Blake Johnson affair. The idiots I used for Roper were on your list. The Salters’ Bentley was just bad luck.”

“You’re making excuses,” Ashimov roared.

“Take it up with Volkov. I have. When I’ve something to say, I’ll phone. Good-bye.” He put the phone down.

Dillon stayed on with Billy, had a cup of tea in the kitchen while Roper worked away at his computer. They went to check on him when he called out, “Have I got news for you!”

They found him at his computer bank, and on the screen was Igor Levin.

“So, who is he?” Dillon asked. “A Russian?”

“Oh, a strange hybrid.”

Roper went on to describe Levin in detail.

When he was finished, Dillon said, “So, he’s appointed as a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy. We all know what that means.”

“What?” Billy asked.

“In the old days, KGB,” Roper said. “But our boy is GRU, Russian Military Intelligence. Flew in two days ago. Staying at the Dorchester.”

“He’s what?” Dillon said, and gasped. “Christ, I’ve seen him there in the Piano Bar. He was at the mortuary. He was even at the Dark Man.”

“But the Dorchester?” Billy said. “The Russians must be paying their agents well.”

“No, Billy,” Roper said. “He’s a rich man in his own right.” His fingers danced on the keys. “His father was a military attaché at the London Embassy, his mother English, his grandmother Irish. Is there no end to him?”

“Apparently not,” Dillon said.

“Big war hero, languages. Christ, he went to Westminster School for a few years.”

“A man of parts.” Dillon nodded. “Billy, would you take me round to my place at Stable Mews? I do believe I have a staff passkey for the Dorchester. We’ll pay his suite a visit.”

“Not without me, you won’t,” Roper said. “A hotel as outstanding as the Dorchester doesn’t give out room numbers to anyone. I, on the other hand, can penetrate most systems.” His fingers danced again. “Six-ten,” he said.