"How soon could you arrange all this?"

"Twenty-four hours. I assume you'll handle your end. It may not be forever, General, but I can promise they'll be safe on Heron Island. With luck, we'll take care of the threat between us in a few weeks, and then we can think again."

"Thank you, old friend," Ferguson told him. "I'll be back to you."

Roper had, of course, heard everything. "Sounds good. Are you going up to see them now?"

"Yes, I think so. One less problem if they agree," and Ferguson went out.

His Daimler was back and, with it, Martin, his usual driver, and they drove to Belsize Park. Ferguson, going through everything that had happened, still had not found a solution when Martin parked in the mews beside Chamber Court at the side entrance of the high stone wall. Ferguson announced himself to the intercom, and the gate buzzed and swung open.

The garden was beautiful-rhododendron bushes, cypress trees, plane trees, more bushes surrounding a lovely curving lawn. As he advanced towards the conservatory, Bounine stepped out of the bushes, wearing overalls, holding a baseball bat menacingly in his hand.

"It's General Ferguson, you idiot." Kurbsky emerged from the trees, a sad, gaunt figure, with the skull and the haunted face of someone on chemotherapy, although, in his case, he took drugs to make him look that way.

"What's up?" Ferguson asked.

"We've had an intruder," Kurbsky said. "Yesterday, after supper, we were going to watch television with the ladies. I stepped out of the conservatory to have a smoke and thought I heard something over by the garage, so I went to investigate. Someone jumped me, a man in a bomber jacket and jeans. He was closer to the garage than me and made the security lights come on."

"What happened?"

"He pulled a flick-knife and sprung the blade, so I smacked him about a bit. He was on the ground after I took the knife, so I relieved him of his wallet, and I moved over to the garage security lights to inspect it. Bounine came out on the terrace and called, which distracted me. The guy scrambled up, ran like hell, and got over the wall."

"Were the ladies alarmed?"

"Obviously. The security alarms sound inside the house. But they were easily reassured. Russian women are tough as nails."

"The wallet, were the contents interesting?"

"Not particularly. Fifty-four pounds, a Social Security card, and a credit card, all in the name of Matthew Cochran."

"Did he live in Kilburn?"

"No. Close, though. Camden Town. Sixty Lower Church Street."

"And that's it? Nothing like: 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone'?"

"The prayer card," Bounine said to Kurbsky. "You forgot that."

Kurbsky frowned, and said, "Why, is it important?"

"It means you are all in great danger. Let's find the ladies, and I'll spell it out for you," and he led the way along to the terrace and the conservatory.

In the Victorian conservatory, crammed with plants, there was silence when Ferguson finished talking. Kurbsky had produced Cochran's wallet and taken out the prayer card, which lay on a small iron table beside it.

Svetlana Kelly, Kurbsky's aunt, sat in a wicker chair. Katya Zorin, Svetlana's partner, a handsome forty-year-old with cropped hair, who was an artist and theater scene designer, sat close to her, holding the older woman's right hand.

"These are terrible things you tell us, General. Such violence is too much to bear."

"But it must be faced, my dear. The prayer card was involved with all these attacks I've just discussed, except for the business involving Monica Starling. It's hardly a coincidence, and, when I come here, I find this." He picked up the prayer card and held it high. "I repeat, you are in great danger if you stay here, or stay in London for that matter. I think you should take the Americans' offer of sanctuary."

"To leave my home is a terrible prospect. All my beautiful things. The world is so untrustworthy these days." Svetlana was distressed.

Ferguson threw down the card. "You've heard the full story. Blake is in the hospital badly wounded, four of the cardholders are violently dead, the attempt to burn down Salter's pub could have killed everybody in it." He turned to Kurbsky. "Please, Alex, just go, and take them with you, and leave us to hunt down whoever is behind this."

Kurbsky bent down and kissed Svetlana on the head. "He's right, babushka, my decision. We go, and we go tonight, is this not so, General?"

"You'll take the Gulfstream from Farley Field. Nobody will know you have gone."

She was weeping now, and Katya kissed her on the cheek. "All will be well, my love. Alexander is right. We must go."

Ferguson said, "I'll make a deal with you, Svetlana. It's important for Alex to go if there are strange and wicked people stirring, but you needn't worry about your paintings or your antiques. I'll arrange for a caretaker to live here and take care of them, all right? Now I must go."

Kurbsky walked to the gate with him. Ferguson opened it, and turned. "It really is the smart move until we get to the bottom of all this."

Kurbsky said, "I'm sure you're right. It's just that I've never been very good at running away."

"On this occasion, you must think of the women. I'll see you off from Farley. Roper will be in touch to confirm the timing."

As Martin got out of the Daimler, Ferguson said, "I'll sit beside you." Martin got the door open, it started to rain, and Ferguson scrambled inside. The big man slid behind the wheel and drove away.

"Thank God, that's sorted," Ferguson said.

"Things looking a bit better, General?" Martin inquired.

"Not really," Ferguson said. "Actually, the road ahead looks pretty bloody stony, but there it is." He leaned back, called Roper, and filled him in. "So the intruder at Belsize Park definitely makes their departure a top priority."

"I'll organize it at once. And that man Kurbsky tangled with-Matthew Cochran, wasn't it? Camden Town, Sixty Lower Church Street. We should check on him, too."

"You're right. See to it."

When Roper made the call, Dillon and Billy were in a bar on Camden High Street. Dillon had suggested a luncheon sandwich, but the truth was, he was thinking ahead, about what was waiting for him in Kilburn. Billy suspected that Dillon needed a drink and went along with the suggestion, though Billy never drank. He was a bit alarmed, though, when the Irishman downed his second large Bushmills. Then Roper called.

Dillon obviously couldn't put it on speaker in the pub, so he listened, then said, "Okay, we'll handle it. We're in Camden High Street now." He relayed to Billy what Roper had just told him. "We'll go and look this guy Cochran up. Do you know the address?"

"No, but the Sat Nav will," Billy said. "So let's move it."

They twisted and turned through a number of side streets, finally reaching one called Church. There was no number 60, and beyond the street was a vast site, obviously cleared for building. There was a convenience store on the corner called Patel's, freshly painted, incongruous against the old decaying houses.

"Wait for me," Dillon said, and got out of the Cooper.

The store was crammed with just about everything you would ever need, and the stocky Indian in traditional clothes was welcoming. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I was looking for an address-60 Lower Church Street."

"Ah, long gone. Many streets were knocked down last year, and Lower Church Street was one of them. They are to build flats."

"I was looking for a man named Matthew Cochran who used that address."

"But I remember number 60 well, it was a lodging house."