HE WENT DOWN maybe ten feet, struggling, his left arm clumsy, and rose, pulling with his right, and surfaced to find Ali Selim squatting on his haunches, holding the Beretta and pointing it straight at him.

“Do exactly as I say or I’ll blow your fucking head off. Do you follow me?”

Half choking, Kurbsky nodded. “Yes.”

“Just come up those few steps and join me.”

The ladder was ancient and rusting, and stretched from the water three or four feet to the wharf. “I can’t,” Kurbsky said. “My left arm is injured.”

“Hmm. All right, you look like a serious man. I’ll believe you.” Ali tossed the end of a line down. “Loop it round and I’ll pull.”

Which he did, demonstrating his enormous strength, and Kurbsky ended up on his knees, spewing up water. Ali stood him up and did a quick search and discovered the Walther. “You’ve got taste, my friend, but a man like you would always have an ace in the hole. Ankle holder maybe?” He bent down and patted. “No? Let’s have a look at your waistband at the rear.” He found the Colt.25. “I approve, especially with hollow-point cartridges. I take care, my friend, I take care.”

“I can see that,” Kurbsky told him, thinking of the two mobile phones Ali had missed in his shirt breast pocket.

Ali said, “So your arm’s fucked? Take off your coat and prove it.”

Kurbsky did awkwardly, disclosing his heavily bandaged left arm minus a shirtsleeve. Ali nodded. “I see what you mean. What was the problem?”

“I didn’t duck fast enough. It was a knife.”

“I knew I was right about you. You can tell a fellow pro instantly-at least I can. A man like you would only be here on business.” He shrugged. “So I suppose I’d better put you back in the water permanently.” He raised the Beretta and paused, because Kurbsky’s woolen cap had come off in the water. “There’s something funny about your skull. You look like one of those Buddhist monks. Are you into Zen or something?”

Kurbsky saved his life, at least for the moment. “No, I’m into the death business. Chemotherapy.”

“You’ve got cancer?”

“Of the lung.” He started to shake from the bitter cold, standing there in the pouring rain, the visibility so bad on the Thames that you couldn’t see the other side, confronting this dangerous madman, and he knew that his life dangled from a thread.

“Lung cancer?” Ali Selim said. “That’s a bad deal. I’ve got cancer too.” He paused, looking at Kurbsky. “Oh, hell, let’s get you below and find you something warm to wear. If I’m going to shoot you, at least you’ll be comfortable. Right? Right?” And he started to laugh.

I was right, Kurbsky thought, he’s crazy as a loon. He took his time going below, clutching the banister with his right hand. There was still the gutting knife in his paratrooper’s boot and the two mobiles in his shirt pockets. Any attempt to use one of those would lead to instant death; he had never been more certain of anything in his life.

Ali Selim followed close behind, shooed him down to the end of the table, went behind the bar, and found a towel, which he tossed to him. “Go on, dry yourself a little,” which Kurbsky did. “When I’m hurting, I find cognac helps. What about you?”

“Vodka.”

“Ah, so you’re another Russkie? I might have known, with that bastard Luzhkov involved.” He put a bottle of vodka on the table and three glasses. “Help yourself.”

“Three glasses?” Kurbsky said.

“We’re expecting company, aren’t we? Come on, you wouldn’t kid a kidder.” Kurbsky had a large one and poured another. “Were you an army man?”

“That’s right, Afghanistan and Chechnya.”

“Heh, I’m half Afghanistan and half Cockney-isn’t that a hell of a mixture?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Ali Selim opened a long cupboard in the corner by the bar and rummaged, his eyes not leaving Kurbsky for a moment. He produced a navy blue linen sailing smock with wide sleeves. “Help yourself.”

Kurbsky said, “Thank you, I will.”

He pulled it on, then poured another large vodka and swallowed it down and it started to burn, and it suddenly occurred to him that there was absolutely nothing he could do about his situation.

Ali Selim said, “That Major Bounine who was with Luzhkov-is he a friend of yours?”

“You could say that.”

“I thought so, but I don’t think he likes Luzhkov.” He poured a touch more cognac in his glass. “They are coming, aren’t they?”

It would have been pointless for Kurbsky to deny it. “Yes, that was the general idea, Luzhkov is coming.”

“Well, he would be, because he wants something from me, something very important.”

“So I believe.”

Ali nodded. “You interest me. I’m not sure how you fit in.”

“Just helping a friend out.”

“Bounine. I can’t see a man like you finding much to interest him in a worm like Luzhkov.”

There was the sound of a car engine outside. “So here they are.” He poured vodka into Kurbsky’s glass and cognac in his own. “Here’s to you, my friend.” He emptied his glass. “In the end, all roads lead to hell.”

“You could be right.” Kurbsky swallowed the vodka. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

“Up on deck and we’ll greet them properly. You first.” And Ali Selim pushed him to the door of the companionway.

15

At Belsize, Katya and Svetlana sat watching the television, and the weather was even more disastrous than ever. The Thames was totally shrouded. The congestion to the Cadogan Pier had been reinforced by the rain and the motor cavalcade bearing the Big Four had arrived a little while ago. The cameras were covering the boat, but also roamed over the river, and as the commentators kept saying, it was impossible to see a thing.

“It’s a washout, if you ask me,” Katya said.

“It would appear so. I’m glad we’re not there.”

Roper was glad too, high and dry as he viewed everything on his screen. He spoke to Billy, who was wearing an earpiece.

“All the world and his wife there.”

“And all putting the booze away like it’s no tomorrow. The Vice President just made an announcement that everything’s been worthwhile and we look to the future with hope.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Roper said.

“And he remembered to thank the Prime Minister for the use of the hall and his warm support.”

“Did he remember to thank Harry for the use of the Garden of Eden?”

“Piss off, Roper. We’ll be leaving downriver in half an hour. See you later.”

TH E MERCEDES WAS parked at the end of the wharf. Bounine got out and stood looking at them. Kurbsky said, “I can’t help, Yuri, he’s already had me in the water.”

Ali Selim said, “Don’t stand there looking at me as if this is the Gunfight at the OK Corral, or I just might shoot you.”

“He means it, Yuri. I’d do as he says,” Kurbsky called.

“Get your boss out,” Ali Selim said. “And keep in front of the Mercedes so I can see you and watch your hands.”

Yuri opened the passenger door and Luzhkov got out. He stood there looking terrified, and Ali walked to the other side of the wharf, paused for a moment, as if daring someone to shoot him in the back, then turned.

“So you don’t want me to blow up the Garden of Eden. Have you spoken about it to anyone?”

“Before God, I have not, I swear it,” Luzhkov said.

“I can vouch for that,” Bounine said. “He couldn’t care less about the boat and the people on it, he told me so. It’s his future he’s worried about, both here and in Moscow. That tape could destroy him.”

“What tape?” Ali Selim turned to face Luzhkov and barked that harsh laugh. “There is no tape, you maggot. If there were, it would have me on it condemning myself. Do I look stupid?”

His arm swung up and he shot Luzhkov between the eyes, hurling him back over the edge of the wharf into the water. It was so instant, so brutal, that it took the breath away. Bounine didn’t make a move.