“Interesting,” Levin said to Chomsky. “Contact Popov and tell him to find out what he can about this development on the wharf.”

Popov worked away at painting his boat by the wharf, and in the later part of the afternoon saw the security man, Tony Small, emerge from the development and walk along to the Dark Man. Popov left his work and went across to the pub. It had just started to rain.

Small was seated in a corner booth, eating a Cornish pasty, a beer at his elbow, and reading the London Evening Standard. Popov got a beer and turned and smiled.

“Hello, again.”

Small looked up. “Oh, it’s you. How’s it going?”

“Just started to rain. Won’t help the painting. Can I join you?”

“Why not?”

Popov sat on the other side of the table. “I was really impressed with that place where you work. Somebody told me that this Salter company owns this pub.”

“They own more than that, mate. Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, own just about everything you can see from here along the riverbank.”

“Is that so?”

“Millions in development. Restaurants, gambling, you name it, they’re into it. It’s strictly legal, but it wasn’t always like that. King of the river, Harry. I should know, I spent five years with the river police. Nobody messed with Harry Salter.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe you’re working here in Wapping and don’t realize who he is.”

“No, I’m from West Sussex,” Popov said. “Had a real estate agency in Chichester. I got a nice offer to take me over from a national company. Good money, so I took it.” Sticking with the truth, he went on, “My old aunt lives in Islington. I’m staying with her and I’m doing the boat up for a friend of hers while I consider my options.”

“Oh, I see.” Small finished his beer and waved to the bar. “Two more.” He then went on to fill in Popov with details of the wicked past of the Salters.

“My God,” Popov said when he’d finished. “And now he’s finished a place like your development. Must be making a fortune.”

“He will be when he’s sold them. It’s all being talked up in the trade. He’s going to do that for a month, then kind of explode on the market. They’re all nice, the apartments, but I tell you what – you should see the penthouse. It’s fantastic. Great views of the Thames all the way down.”

“God, I’d love to see that,” Popov said. “I mean, having been in the business.” He finished his beer. “Fancy a scotch?”

“Well, that’s very nice of you. How can I refuse?”

By the time he’d accepted two large ones, mellowed by alcohol, he said, “I should be getting back. Tell you what, come and have a look.”

Which Popov did and saw everything. The two private elevators at the front, two more at the rear, the glorious penthouse spread across the top of the building, beautifully furnished, the old cargo gates jutting out over the river like terraces. It was all very impressive.

“This is wonderful,” he said.

“It’s going to cost somebody a packet.”

“I thought I saw someone going in earlier,” Popov said.

“Yes, you did. Billy Salter was showing a couple round, a middle-aged guy and an old lady. She was ecstatic about it. He’s invited them round for drinks at six-thirty.”

“It’ll be dark then,” Popov said.

“Not too dark for champagne and caviar. He’s having it brought round from the pub.”

“God, the rich know how to live.” Popov shook his head. “Thanks, Tony. I’d better get back and see if the weather allows me to continue working.”

He hurried back to the boat, eager to get his mobile out and tell Chomsky everything.

Levin, sitting with Chomsky, said, “So the Salters have invited the Zubins round to this penthouse. Why?”

“To discuss moving them in for a while?”

“Exactly. So, who else would be invited? Put your lawyer’s mind to that.”

“Ferguson and Dillon. That’s probably it.”

“They might have their minders.”

“I don’t think so. It’s only a hundred yards from the pub, and Harry, the gangster, might like to play the gracious host. I’d say he’ll have the goodies delivered beforehand, everything laid out nicely, low lights, soft music.”

“He could also have a couple of hoods prowling around, armed to the teeth.”

“So I could be wrong.”

Levin’s mobile went. It was Ashimov. “We’re at the Tangier.”

“You’ve told the Falcon to wait at Archbury?”

“Yes, but why?”

“My dear Yuri, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s never to leave anything to chance. You never know when you’re going to need to get out of somewhere in a hurry.”

“Never mind that. What’s happening?”

“I’ll call you back.”

Igor Levin lit a Russian cigarette and offered one to Chomsky, who said, “You’re having second thoughts.” It was a statement, not a question.

Levin said, “He’s an oaf, that one. He’s also a murderous bastard.”

“And Max Zubin was a paratrooper in Chechnya, and so were you.”

“True. I’m also an officer of the GRU who’s supposed to obey orders and serve his country.”

“As a lawyer, I could argue that what you’re obeying are General Volkov’s orders, which might not be what actually is right for your country.”

“Yes, I take your point. We could argue this one until the crack of doom. Book a Mercedes, draw me two AK47s from the gun room and put them in the trunk. I’ll deal with Ashimov.”

He was angry, felt pushed, but there it was, so he phoned Ashimov and said, “There you are. I know where they’ll be at six-thirty. I’ll take you there. Look for me,” and he switched off and said to Chomsky, “There are some wonderful English passports in GRU files. If I were you, I’d fill one in.”

At Holland Park, Ferguson was talking to Roper when Dillon walked in. “Good, I’m glad you could make it,” Ferguson said. “Harry’s putting himself out. Caviar, champagne. I can’t persuade this one to join us.”

“I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep in three days,” Roper said. “I’m winding down. If you want an extra guest, take Greta Novikova. She actually met them in Moscow, had breakfast with them this morning. They like her.”

“An interesting idea,” Ferguson said, and turned to Doyle. “Tell the major we’re taking her out, Sergeant, for some champagne and caviar.”

Doyle said, “I would say she won’t be able to resist, sir,” and he went out.

Roper poured a scotch. “I hope you’re carrying, Sean.”

“Always do. Why?”

“Because I still have the feeling this is not over yet.”

“To be frank, I’ve been thinking that, too.”

Dillon slipped a hand under the back of his jacket and touched the butt of the Walther in the back of his waistband.

Greta appeared fifteen minutes later in a black suit and a duster coat. “What’s this?” she asked Ferguson. “Are you trying to soften me up?”

“Not at all. It’s a social occasion, my dear, to take you out of yourself. We won’t be needing you, Sergeant, so let’s be off,” and he took her out through the door, his hand under her elbow.

At the Hotel Tangier, Levin called Ashimov’s suite, told him he was in the bar, got himself a vodka and sat in the corner. It was early evening, so no one was in the bar itself, two or three people in the lounge area. After a while, Ashimov and Bell arrived.

Ashimov was tanked up, eyes glittering. “What’s going on?”

“Keep your voice down,” Levin said. “Unless you want half the hotel to know our business.”

“How dare you speak to me like that? I’m your commanding officer.”

“I act under direct orders from General Volkov. That’s the only reason I’m assisting in this matter at all. I’ll take you where you want to go, but before we do, I’ll explain, as far as I know, the situation we’ll find there.”

“What the hell is this?” Ashimov demanded loudly.