Miller came in, ready to go. "What have you got there?"

"Something you missed in the wallet." The card was creased and obviously old, and Dillon held it to his nose. "Candles, incense, and the holy water."

"What in hell do you mean?" Miller held out his hand, and examined the card.

"So Barry is a Catholic, so what?"

"Such cards are very rare. They go back in history to Michael Collins, the Easter Rising. The card begs the Virgin to pray for 'we who are ourselves alone.' The Irish for 'ourselves alone' is Sinn Fein."

Miller stared at the card, frowning. "And you think that's significant?"

"Maybe not, but Barry is an Irish name, and you told me that after you shot him he said, 'They didn't say it would be like this.' "

"That's true, but he claimed he didn't know who'd hired him, even when I threatened to put one through his other knee."

Dillon shrugged. "Maybe he lied in spite of the pain." He took the card from Miller's fingers and replaced it in the wallet.

Miller said, "Are you saying there could be a smell of IRA here?"

Dillon smiled. "I suppose anything is possible in the worst of all possible worlds. You were right not to kill him, though. He'll stick like glue to the story of being the victim of a mugging. He wouldn't want the police to think anything else."

"And the IRA connection?"

"If there was one, it's done them no good at all." He put the wallet in his inside pocket. "An intriguing present for Roper when we get back to London. Now can we get moving? Putin awaits us."

At the UN that evening, there was no sign of Blake Johnson, which surprised Dillon because Blake had said he'd be there, but maybe he'd decided he just had better things to do. Vladimir Putin said nothing that he had not said before. The usual warning that if the U.S. went ahead with a missile defense system, the Russians would have to deploy in kind, and implying that the Russian invasion of Georgia was a warning shot. Delving deep into history, he warned the U.S. about overconfidence in its military might. "Rome may have destroyed Carthage, but eventually it was destroyed by barbarians."

"That's a good one," Miller murmured.

"I know," Dillon said. "Though I don't know if equating Russia with the barbarians is really a good idea for him."

Putin then moved on to Britain, turning to look at the British Ambassador to the UN as if addressing him personally. Britain was guilty of granting asylum to some who had been traitors to the Russian people. London had become a launching pad to fight Russia. In the end, it seemed impossible to have normal relations anymore. And on and on.

Many people sitting there obviously agreed with him, and there was applause. The British Ambassador answered robustly, pointing out that the British Security Service had identified Russia as a menace to national safety, the third-most-serious threat facing the country, after Al Qaeda terrorism and Iranian nuclear proliferation.

At the champagne reception afterwards, Miller said, "The trouble is, Vladimir Putin is dangerously capable. Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya, not to mention his career with the KGB."

"I agree." Dillon nodded. "But, in a way, the most significant thing about him is that he's a patriot. He believes what he says. That's what makes him the most dangerous of all." He nodded towards the Russian delegation, who were hanging on Putin's every word as he spoke to a Hamas representative. "Anyone of special interest over there?"

"Actually, there is," Miller said. "The scholarly looking man with the rather weary face and auburn hair."

"Gray suit, about fifty?"

"Colonel Josef Lermov, new Head of Station for the GRU at the London Embassy. At least, that's the whisper Ferguson's heard. He only told me yesterday and pulled out Lermov's photo."

"I see," Dillon said. "So they've given up on finding his predecessor, dear old Boris Luzhkov?"

"It seems so."

"It's hardly likely they would have succeeded, considering he went into the Thames with a bullet between the eyes. Ferguson had the disposal team fish him out the same day," Dillon told him.

"Ashes to ashes?" Miller said.

"If he couldn't take the consequences, he shouldn't have joined. Lermov is coming this way."

Lermov was. Even his smile seemed weary. "Major Miller, I believe? Josef Lermov." He turned to Dillon and held out his hand.

"So nice to meet you, Mr. Dillon."

"How flattering to be recognized," Dillon told him.

"Oh, your reputation precedes you."

Miller smiled. "How's Luzhkov? Still on holiday?"

Lermov gave no sign of being fazed. "I understand he is in Moscow being considered for a new post as we speak."

"What a shame," Dillon said. "He loved London. He must regret leaving after all those years."

"Time to move on," Lermov told him.

"And his number two man, Major Yuri Bounine? Was it time for him to move on?" A loaded question from Miller if ever there was one, considering that said Yuri Bounine, having defected, was being held by Ferguson in a secure location in London.

Lermov said patiently, "He is on special assignment, that is all I can say. I can only speak for my own situation in London and not for Moscow. You spent enough time serving in British Army intelligence to know what I mean."

"Oh, I do." Miller beckoned to a waiter. "Now join us in a glass of champagne, Josef? We could celebrate your London appointment."

"Most kind of you." A brief smile flickered, as if he was amused at Miller's familiarity.

Dillon said, "It isn't vodka, but it will do to take along." He raised his glass. "To Vladimir Putin. That was quite a speech."

"You think so?" Lermov said.

"A bit of a genius, if you look at it," Dillon said.

Miller smiled. "Definitely a man to keep your eye on."

Lermov said, "Your friend, Blake Johnson, I expected him to be here, too. I wonder what's happened to him? Ah, well, I suppose he's moved on also." He smiled that odd smile and walked away.

At Mercy Hospital on the Upper East Side, the man known as Frank Barry lay in a room on the fifth floor, where he had been prepped to get the bullet out of his knee. His eyes were closed, and he was hooked up to everything in sight, the only sounds electronic beepings. A young intern entered, dressed for the operating room, a nurse behind him. He raised the sheet over Barry's left knee and shuddered.

"Christ, that's as bad as I've seen. This guy's going to be crippled." Barry didn't move. "He's been thoroughly prepped, I take it."

"The anesthetist on this one is Dr. Hale. The guy was in such agony, he was begging for mercy. Mind you, I caught him making a phone call earlier in spite of the pain, so I confiscated it. It's on the side there. He said his name is Frank Barry and he lives in the Village. Mugged in Central Park."

"Just when I thought it was safe to go there," Hale said. "The police have been notified?"

"Nobody's turned up yet, but they've been told he's going into the OR, so I suppose they think they can take their time."

"Okay," the intern said. "Twenty minutes." He went out, and the nurse followed him.

It was quiet in the corridor. The man who emerged from the elevator at the far end wore green scrubs, a skullcap, and a surgical mask. He took his time, checking the names on doors almost casually, found what he was looking for, and went in.

Barry was out, there was no doubt about that, as the man produced a hypo from his pocket, ready charged, exposed the needle, and injected its contents in Barry's left arm. The man stood there, looking down for a moment, noticed Barry's mobile phone on the bedside table, picked it up, and turned to dump the hypo in the wastebasket. The door suddently opened, and the nurse came in.