“Yes, it is. But we made some contingency plans, we’ll be all right. The main thing is that you’re still on board. Is that understood?”

McGuire looked baffled. “Right, Major.”

“It isn’t so much what I say, it’s what the man in Dublin says. The Provisional IRA will take care of the cleanup here. There’ll be a new team to take over from Kelly and you’ll be a part of it.”

“If you say so, Major.”

“I do. Now go to the kitchen and see if you can find some spare keys for the cars.”

“On my way.”

McGuire went out and Ashimov went along to Belov’s study and sat behind the desk with the satellite phone and rang a Moscow number. It was astonishing the clarity of these things, he thought, and also thought of Greta, surprised at how angry he felt.

A voice said in Russian, “Volkov. Who’s this?”

“Ashimov at Drumore. We have a problem.”

“Explain.”

When he was finished, Volkov said, “That’s certainly inconvenient, but our backup plans are in place. You’ll need to come to Moscow for a meeting at once.”

“Of course. Send a jet for me.”

“You’ll make the new arrangements with the IRA?”

“No need – everything’s still set.”

“Excellent. The death of Belov would be very inconvenient to our business plans.”

“Of course.”

“Another performance from Max Zubin would be in order, I think.”

“I agree.”

“On the other hand, the fewer people who know, the better. The locals should not be told that Belov is dead.”

“You mean I should withhold the information from the IRA?”

“That would seem sensible.”

“All right.”

“Good. I’ll arrange the plane. See you soon.”

Ashimov switched off the phone, put it down and that’s when he received the shock of his life. He looked up to find Greta Novikova standing in the doorway, Patrick Ryan’s arm around her, and he was amazed at the feeling of joy that flooded through him. He had never been a man to feel much emotion for anyone and surprised himself by rushing round the desk and embracing her.

“Greta, I can’t believe it. I heard what happened.” He kissed her, then held her at arm’s length. “My God, what happened to you?”

“I can’t believe I’m here,” she said. “What about you?”

“Salter thought he killed me, but I was wearing body armor. Belov? Murphy?”

“Gone,” she said. “It’s a miracle I’m here,” and she explained about the blast.

There was blood on the left side of her head and he examined it. “It’s not too bad, but it might need a couple of stitches. We’ll get that fixed by the good sisters at Saint Mary’s near Ballykelly.”

“The Sisters?” She was bewildered.

“They’re a nursing order. Belov does a lot for them.”

Ryan had gone away and now returned with the kitchen first-aid box. He rummaged in it and produced a large bandage, and Ashimov patched her up. McGuire was hovering in the background. Greta staggered a little and Ashimov caught her.

“Take it easy. I’ll take you upstairs to your room so you can change.”

“What for?”

“We’re going to Moscow. A plane is coming to pick us up.” As he led her out, he said to the other two, “Wait for me.”

In Dublin, Liam Bell sat in the sitting room of his apartment in a warehouse development. He was reading the evening paper, his spectacles giving him the look of a schoolteacher, which, in his youth, he’d been. Many years of dedicated service to the IRA had take him as far as Chief of Staff. He’d resigned a year earlier to nurse his wife through terminal cancer and another had taken his place in the command structure. Now he was bored out of his mind and thirsting for action – any kind of action – and his phone rang and presented him with some.

Ashimov said, “Mr. Bell? Yuri Ashimov. Several years ago, you made a promise that we could call you if needed.”

“You still can.”

“Do you know a man called Sean Dillon?”

“Indeed I do. If that bastard’s on your back, you’ve got trouble.”

“Listen to me. Would you be prepared to move in here with, say, half a dozen IRA men? I’d make it worth your while.”

“I thought you had Dermot Kelly and his boys?”

“Not any longer.”

“What happened?”

Ashimov gave him a version of events that excluded any participation by Belov. “Anyway, a general cleanup is in order. You can rely on Patrick Ryan. He’s a good man.”

“I was two years in the Maze Prison with him. He’s one of our own.” Bell laughed harshly. “What a bastard Dillon is. I’ve had my brushes with him. Anyway, I’ve phone calls to make, recruiting to do. You can leave it with me.”

“And the disposal of the corpses?”

“I’m an expert in that department.”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

Ashimov walked through to the terrace and found Ryan and McGuire standing by the body of Kelly.

“Poor old Kelly,” McGuire said. “He never knew what hit him.”

“And that’s a fact.” Ashimov took a silenced pistol from his left-hand pocket and shot McGuire in the side of the head. He went down like a stone, and Patrick Ryan jumped back, hands raised, fear on his face.

“No, for God’s sake.”

“Not you, you fool.”

“But why?”

“Because he knew Josef Belov is dead and that doesn’t suit me or those involved with me in Moscow. Listen here. You know Liam Bell, an old friend, I think.”

Ryan was astonished. “Of course. I was in the same cell at the Maze Prison with him.”

“I’ve spoken to him in Dublin. He’ll be here within hours with a crew. He’ll take over everything Kelly was responsible for, and he’ll take care of this lot.” He stirred McGuire with his foot. “They’ll do a satisfactory disposal job.”

“I see.”

“He’ll expect you to fit in, you know.”

“I could do that,” Ryan said slowly.

“I want you to be my eyes and ears. I’ll make your fortune, Patrick, put the Royal George in your name. Would you like that?”

Ryan’s face lit up. “That would be grand.”

“One thing. Nobody, not even Liam Bell, must know that Belov went down on that boat. It was just Tod Murphy as far as Bell knows.”

Ryan took a deep breath. “Right, I’m your man.”

“Good. McGuire should have some keys in his pocket. Get them, would you?”

Ryan fished them out.

“Excellent.” They walked through to the hall and Greta came down the great stairs in a fawn coat and black trouser suit, a traveling bag slung over one shoulder. “You look better, a lot better. Let’s get moving. I’ll be in touch, Patrick.”

They went out and Ryan waited. He heard one of the cars start up outside and then move off.

It was very quiet, too quiet, but he’d taken a step on the kind of journey from which there was no going back.

The convent looked more like a country house than anything else, but inside it was a very different story. The nuns were a nursing order, the Little Sisters of Pity, and Belov had put a great deal of money into the place, a couple of operating theaters, all sorts of medical facilities. The result was a facility that was of great benefit to the local farming community, and a further enhancement of the Belov name.

The Mother Superior, Sister Teresa, was a general surgeon. She saw Greta at once in reception, gave her a cursory check and frowned. “You have been in the wars. What happened?”

Ashimov said quietly, “She was in an accident.”

Greta, improvising, said, “It was so stupid. I was on a fishing boat moored in the harbor, and I slipped stepping over the stern and fell.”

“Several feet. That’s not good.”

“I fell into water. Such a fool.”

“Well, your head’s going to need a stitch or two, and I think we’ll give you a quick scan.”

“Do we have time for all that?” Greta asked Ashimov.

“You can come and watch through the surgery window, but not if you smoke,” Sister Teresa said, and led Greta out.

Ashimov went outside to think things over and he did smoke. In fact, he smoked several, going back over events. He should have been dead, but he wasn’t, thanks to Belov’s gift of the titanium vest. Ferguson would have been behind it, because of what happened to Bernstein, the Salters and Dillon, always Dillon. Now Belov was dead. He thought of their years together in Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya, and this was what it had come to. Well, they would all pay, he’d see to that.