It was raining quite hard, not that it mattered. Nothing mattered now. It was as if his whole life had been for nothing and he kept on going in the general direction of the Houses of Parliament.

Grace, driving along Millbank, was astonished to see him walking along the pavement. She tried to pull in, but the traffic was extremely heavy, and then he crossed the road to the other side and there was nothing she could do, stuck for a moment in a long jam of traffic.

He was some distance ahead now and she tapped the wheel nervously and then the traffic started to move. At the same time a delivery van moved out of a parking space and she swerved into it. She locked the car hurriedly and ran along St. Margaret’s Street and entered Parliament Square.

She paused, looking everywhere desperately, then saw him on the corner of Bridge Street. She ran even faster now and reached the corner to see him on the other side of the street approaching Westminster Underground Station. He entered with a number of other people and she dodged her way through traffic and crossed the road.

Curry didn’t have a destination. He simply took a pound coin from his pocket, put it in the appropriate slot, took the ticket that came up, and went through the barrier. He went down the escalator with a large queue of people, walked along the corridors below, just another face in the crowd until he came out onto the station platform. There was quite a crowd, people standing shoulder-to-shoulder, and he pushed his way through to the front and stood at the edge of the platform.

The whisky had done its work now. It was not that he was drunk, just totally numb, no feeling at all. There was the roar of a train approaching, a blast of air, and then a voice calling.

“Tom! Wait for me!”

He half-turned and saw Grace Browning trying to push through the crowd toward him and then he turned back and as the train emerged from the tunnel, stepped off the platform in front of it.

It was no more than forty minutes later that Hannah Bernstein’s computer buzzed in her office at the Ministry of Defence. She got up from her desk, crossed to the printer, and tore off the strip of paper and read it.

“My God!” she said and called, “Dillon? Where are you?” Then she knocked on Ferguson ’s door and went in.

Ferguson, at his desk, looked up. “What is it?”

At that moment Dillon joined them. “It’s the professor, Tom Curry,” Hannah said. “I had a general call out to Central Records Office to update me if anything new turned up on him as I did with the others. It seems he just stepped in front of a train at Westminster Underground Station.”

“Dead, presumably?” Ferguson asked.

“Oh yes. Immediate identification from the wallet in his jacket. The police officer in charge radioed it in to CRO. When it entered their computer, it referenced to my inquiry.”

“Sweet Mother of God.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “And why would he do that?”

“Rupert Lang, perhaps,” Ferguson said. “They lived together for years, Dillon. Perhaps Lang’s death was a blow he simply couldn’t take.”

“So where does it leave us, sir?” Hannah asked.

“Two down, one to go,” Dillon said.

“Two,” Ferguson told him. “There’s Belov at the Embassy, remember.”

“What will you do about him, sir?” Hannah asked.

“Leave him to stew for a while. Always difficult, this diplomatic immunity business.”

“And Grace Browning?”

“Whichever way you look at it, she’s on her own now,” Dillon put in.

“I’m afraid so,” Ferguson said. “I almost feel sorry for her.”

“Jesus, you old sod,” Dillon said. “You never felt sorry for anyone in your life.”

Ferguson ignored the remark. “She won’t have heard about Curry yet. Of course, the media will catch on to the fact that he lived with Lang for years and draw their own conclusions.”

“Very convenient when you think of it,” Dillon said. “Now if only Grace Browning would break her neck on that motorcycle, everything would be wrapped up nice and quiet. You could invite Yuri Belov to come over instead of going home to bread queues in Moscow. Lots of juicy information to be obtained there.”

“You’re a callous bastard, Dillon,” Hannah told him.

“He’s right, of course,” Ferguson observed. “In the circumstances, I think I’ll turn the screw on her,” and he picked up the phone.

Grace Browning, back at Cheyne Walk was drinking a cup of hot and very sweet tea, sitting at the table, trying in the most cold-blooded way to assess the situation. The phone rang and she picked it up.

Ferguson said, “Brigadier Charles Ferguson here, my dear. I think you know who I am.”

“What do you want?” she said calmly.

“I’m sure you’re aware, as it has been prominently featured in all news bulletins, that your good friend Rupert Lang died earlier today in a tragic accident.”

“Yes, I know about that.”

“What you won’t yet know is that your other good friend, Professor Tom Curry, died under the wheels of a train at Westminster Underground Station within the past hour.”

Grace took a deep breath. “That’s shocking news.”

“Yuri Belov is, in effect, locked up at the Soviet Embassy, which leaves only you. The game’s over, I’m afraid.”

“And what game would that be, Brigadier?”

“I always did say you were a brilliant actress. That’s why I got my aide, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, to get us tickets for the King’s Head tonight. You will be appearing, I take it?”

“I’ve never missed a performance in my life, Brigadier.”

“I’m looking forward to it. I’ll tell you what I think of it afterwards.”

Hannah said, “She could decide to run.”

“I don’t think so,” Ferguson said, “but if you want to keep a discreet eye on her, do so. She knows Dillon, so you’ll have to take care of it yourself.”

“I’m on my way,” Hannah said, picked up her shoulder bag, and went out.

“Full of enthusiasm,” Dillon said. “That’s what I like. God save us, but the women are taking over the world.”

No alcohol, she needed a clear head. She made another very hot cup of tea, went into the drawing room, and looked out at Cheyne Walk. Lots of traffic and plenty of cars parked. Somebody out there would be keeping an eye on her, she took that for granted now, so she would have to be very, very clever. The one important thing was her firm intention of still keeping her date with destiny at Drumgoole Abbey. She owed it to Tom and Rupert if for no other reason. She lit one of her rare cigarettes, pacing up and down, and then it came to her, the perfect solution and devastatingly simple.

Yuri Belov was in his office at the Soviet Embassy when the phone rang. Grace said, “Yuri, it’s me. You’ve heard about Rupert?”

“Unfortunately yes.”

“I’ve more bad news. Tom flung himself under a train at Westminster Underground Station this afternoon.”

“Dear God!” Belov said.

“And they’re definitely onto me,” Grace said. “I had a cryptic phone call from Ferguson. He’s coming to my final performance at the King’s Head tonight with Dillon and this Bernstein woman.”

“Get out, Grace, while you can,” he said urgently.

“No way. I’m sticking to the plan. You see, I’m taking a chance. I’m betting on the fact that they don’t know anything about Sunday. Rupert could have told them – although I’m sure he wouldn’t have – Tom’s dead. That means it’s all still in place, Carson at the airfield at Coldwater, the flight to Kilbeg. Will your people definitely leave a car there?”

“All taken care of, but Grace, this is madness.”

“Not really, I’ve worked it out very carefully. There is one thing I need to know. There’s no chance of Ferguson ringing you up to offer you a deal? I mean, some of your people have come over in the past. Lots of information in return for a comfortable asylum.”