He tried another approach, accessing individuals, and struck it lucky. The George Cross Database came up with Major Giles Roper. It was all there, the George Cross and Military Cross, his service in Ireland, the Portland Hotel bomb, the final explosion that had left him in a wheelchair. Apparently, he now worked in the computer industry.

“Computer industry, my arse,” Kurbsky said softly. “But what a man.”

But that was all he could find on Ferguson and his crew. For want of something better to do, he tapped in “Monica” and reviewed her life. Her photo was excellent, and he smiled. A remarkable lady, and he liked her.

Finally, he typed in “Svetlana,” something he had never done, and was amazed at the wealth of information. There was an early photo from the Moscow days of her and Kurbsky and Tania, his father in KGB uniform. A few lines on these early days and much more about her defection and London marriage. A list of her London stage appearances. A photo of Kelly, a mention that her companion was now the artist Katya Zorin, and then a whole page on her famous nephew.

Kurbsky clicked into “Katya Zorin” and discovered her life in theater and art. There was a photo of her and Svetlana, obviously taken recently. He smiled, touched, and switched off.

LACEY AND PARRY appeared at Holland Park and found Roper. “The boss has filled us in. Dillon and Billy are going to snatch somebody important in Paris Wednesday night and spirit him away,” Lacey said.

“One Henri Duval, according to the passport,” Parry added, “though if you believe that, you’d believe anything.”

“Absolute top priority,” Lacey said.

“As big as it gets.” Roper drank a little scotch and lit a cigarette.

“Well, if you say that, I really do believe it,” Lacey said. “So let’s look at France.”

Roper brought it up on a screen, focusing on Paris. “It can’t be Charles de Gaulle or any of the small airfields operating in the Paris area.”

“Look, aren’t you being a bit overcautious?” Parry asked. “A quick in-and-out. What’s wrong with that?”

“Total anonymity. Ferguson wants this man swallowed whole. It must be as if he’s never been.”

“It’s not a kidnapping, is it?” Lacey asked.

“Absolutely not. He wants to disappear into the depths of France -that way, his own people might think he was still in France, simply hidden away somewhere.”

“So Dillon and Billy pick him up by car and whisk him off somewhere,” Lacey said. “Overnight to another part of the country, where we’ll be waiting at some suitable airfield to fly out to the UK.”

Roper enlarged the map. “What about Brittany?”

“Lots of places we could use there, fly out across the Channel Islands, Isle of Wight, straight up to Farley Field. Long way to go, Brittany.”

“Not if you went by rail. There’s a line all the way down to Brest marked on the map.”

“And Brest is a hell of a long way,” Parry said.

“I’m not suggesting you go all the way. The line goes through Rennes, for example. That’s not far from Saint-Malo, the Channel Islands, Jersey. I’ll bring up flying facilities for that area.”

There were several. Lacey and Parry murmured together and finally made a choice. “ Saint-Denis. There’s an excellent flying club there. They have a tarmac runway to attract business travel, so jets can get in.” Lacey nodded. “We could do that. We could drop Dillon and Billy at Charles de Gaulle Wednesday morning, then fly down to Saint-Denis and overnight.”

“Now for the train.”

Roper tapped his requirements in and sat back. “There you are. Overnight for Brest, departing midnight. Apartments available, first class, can seat four.”

“Well, there you are,” Lacey told him.

“What plane will you use?” Roper asked.

Lacey looked at Parry. “What do you think?”

“Gulfstream’s too flashy. Let’s go for the sober look. The old Chieftain turboprop. Plenty of legroom, great seats.”

“I agree.” Lacey turned to Roper. “A done deal. You take care of your end, we’ll fix up Charles de Gaulle and Saint-Denis, and we’re in business.”

Parry added, “Could it get rough in Paris for Sean and Billy?”

“Let’s put it this way. They’re up against people who will do everything in their power to stop them.”

“Duval must be very important.”

“When you recognize him, remember to forget you’ve seen him.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Dillon and Monica accompanied Svetlana on a day out by invitation. They went in an old Ford station wagon, Katya driving, the weather brooding.

“The time of year, my dears,” Svetlana said. “But I wanted you to see Holly End. It meant a great deal to Alexander when he was here. He used to go down for the weekends with Kelly all the time. Katya loves to paint there.”

“When the weather is right,” Katya told them.

They went through the city to Greenwich, following the river. Monica said, “ London seems never-ending.”

“It all changes quite soon now,” Katya said, and she was right, for beyond Gravesend, with the rain that had threatened starting to pour, they moved into a bleak landscape of fields and marshland edged by mudflats swallowed up by the waters of the Thames estuary.

Way beyond, half glimpsed through the mist and rain, ships moved out to sea. Katya said, “Look, way over there on the horizon is something you seldom see these days. A lightship, permanently moored on chains.”

“So strange, this place, and so close to the city,” Dillon said. There were reeds now higher than a man, the road a raised causeway, and they came to a village of a dozen old-fashioned seaside wood bungalows, mostly painted green, with corrugated iron roofs. It looked totally desolate, not a soul in sight.

“Who on earth lives here?” Monica asked.

“No one, my dear,” Svetlana told her. “They are holiday homes for rent. People get their supplies from Gravesend or perhaps Rochester.”

“And you must remember to fill up with petrol there, too,” Katya said.

“But who on earth would want to holiday here?” Monica laughed.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dillon said. “It takes all sorts. Dickens wrote about Gravesend and Rochester, as I recall.”

“Bird-watchers come here all the time,” Katya said. “For people who like that sort of thing, it’s a paradise. In the old days, very ancient times, there were Saxons here, then outlaws of one kind and another hiding in the marshes. Closer to our own times, certainly in the time Dickens knew it, there were smugglers.”

They came to a track on the right, turned along it, and arrived at a five-barred gate bearing a painted sign: “Holly End.” They entered a large farmyard, surfaced with shingle, fronting a barn and a two-story farmhouse that was surprisingly large. It had a slate roof and shuttered windows.

Katya turned off the engine, got out, found a key, and opened the blue painted front door. “I’m only here to check the place,” she said. “But come in, by all means. There’s a pub at All Hallows, quarter of a mile away. We’ll lunch there.”

Dillon helped Svetlana out, gave her his arm, and they went inside. The hall was dark, and there was a smell of damp. “Four bedrooms upstairs,” Katya said. “Sitting room to the left, kitchen to the right, and bathroom directly ahead. It’s an ugly bitch of a place during the winter, and everything’s covered, so there’s not much to see.”

She went upstairs, and Dillon and Svetlana went into the sitting room. The furniture had all been covered by old-fashioned gray drapes. “Like shrouds, aren’t they? One could imagine a corpse on each chair,” Svetlana said.

Dillon laughed. “It’s being so cheerful keeps you going, I can see that.” He helped her across to the kitchen, which was normal enough, though old-fashioned, and she sat at one of four chairs at a large wooden table. “And Kurbsky loved this place?”

“Always, even in weather like this. It was the marsh he liked, plowing through the reeds, he and Kelly with shotguns looking for wildfowl.”