"I can't do everything through you, Caitlin, it'll just be too cumbersome and ineffective. Besides, I've just arranged for someone to monitor them and see to their general welfare. He'll make sure they're all right."

She did as he asked, and he wrote the information down. "When is your meeting?"

"Six tonight."

"Do you want me there?"

"Not really, Daniel. I've been their leader for so long, and the cell is a tight unit psychologically. I think it would be better if you told me what you wanted them to do, and I'll pass it on."

"Fine. I'll allocate the tasks and get a taxi up to the church later this afternoon to give them to you. That means if they do say yes, you can tell them what's expected of them. If they say no, then simply put the stuff in your office shredder. I'll phone you when I'm on the way."

"Daniel, are you sure?"

"Time is going to be very tight. Friday will be a big day and night both here and in New York. If you're going to get anywhere with them, remind them of their years of serving the cause, appeal to their patriotism. Ferguson and his people are the enemy. You've got to sell it."

"I will, Daniel."

As he sat going over a mental progress report, he realized the one issue he hadn't done anything about was the Kurbsky mystery. He looked at his watch. He had time for just a quick look. He left the hotel quickly, hailed the first cab he saw, and told the driver to take him to Belsize Park. He soon found Chamber Court, the residence of Kurbsky's aunt, Svetlana. It was a substantial detached property, early Victorian from the look of it. There was a front gate and a side gate, each with an intercom, but you couldn't see through the gates, and the walls were high, and it looked like an electronic security system ran along the top.

He kept on walking at a steady pace, aware that he was very probably on camera, and then a strange thing happened. The side gate opened, and a man in overalls emerged. He was completely bald, his cheeks hollow, the eyes sunken and staring. Obviously, someone on chemotherapy. It seemed cruel to think it, but he looked like a walking ghoul.

The poor sod, Holley thought, as Alexander Kurbsky ignored him and went into the corner shop on the other side of the road.

Holley kept going and found Abbey Road, increasing his pace and turning up his collar as it started to rain lightly. According to the files, Kurbsky's aunt lived in the house with her companion, Katya Zorin, British born but of Russian extraction. When the original plan had been put in place, Kurbsky had told Luzhkov that his aunt was to be left alone, that he would not visit her because he didn't want her in any way to be involved with the plot that had brought her nephew to London. In all the material Holley had studied, there had been no indication that anyone connected with the GRU had made any attempt to check the situation. Could Chamber Court have been housing Kurbsky all along, perhaps under Ferguson's protection? It was an intriguing thought, just as intriguing as the poor wretch he had just seen. Possibly an odd-job man of some sort.

He continued along Abbey Road, caught a cab at Swiss Cottage, and told the driver to take him to the Albany Regency. There was work to be done.

He sat drawing up the specific plans of action for Caitlin Daly. The number one target was Ferguson. He had that dinner at the Garrick Club, and Henry Pool was the obvious choice there. Pool had been in the private-hire business for several years, and his luxury Amara limousine was already preapproved by the Ministry. It was up to him to discover a way of being Ferguson's driver on Friday night. One of the small explosive devices Caitlin had hidden in the wine cellar would suffice to do the job, aided by an electronic remote control or possibly a pencil timer.

Miller and Johnson in New York were down to Barry and Flynn.

The Salters-he was helped there by the fact that, unusually for such a successful pub, it closed at eleven o'clock, and its comparative isolation would mean it would take time for emergency services to get there. An arson attack after midnight. He wrote down the name John Docherty, and suggested he proceed on foot so that the noise of a vehicle at that time in the early hours would not be noticed in the pub. He mentioned that an old Ford van parked outside the shed had a key in the ignition.

Monica Starling. She would leave Corpus Christi College at seven o'clock and drive six miles to the Raintree House. A photo from Holley's laptop was printed, and he assigned the task to Patrick Murray, the long-distance truck driver. It shouldn't be hard to run Monica Starling's vehicle off a country road.

Finally, Alexander Kurbsky. Something was not right about Chamber Court, he felt it instinctively, and the strange inhuman being he'd seen coming out of the side gate didn't seem right either. So that task he suggested for Matthew Cochran. Cochran would have to get over that wall to discover if it was tenanted only by the two women or not.

He produced each task on a separate sheet and put them together in an envelope with no address on it, as a precaution, and his mobile sounded. He answered.

"It's me, Ivanov, I'm calling from the Embassy. What's happening?"

"I've been busy, that's what's happening. I really haven't got time to talk now."

"Don't give me that. I'm in charge of you until Colonel Lermov gets here on Saturday. I've spoken to Chekhov. He tells me you've contacted the Daly woman and she's interested, but what's all this about New York?"

Holley was angry and bitterly regretted having been so open with Chekhov. "None of your business, sunshine. Don't interfere. If you screw things up, I'll kill you, I swear it."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me. Now, be a good boy. You know the rules. We never meet, I'm in charge, and I keep you informed on the telephone."

"Fuck you, you bastard."

"Why, Peter, I didn't know you cared."

Holley switched off. He might have known. That was the trouble with the military, always wanting to show what big stuff they were, always stealing the good work some junior officer had produced and passing it off as their own.

He pulled on his raincoat, stuffed the large envelope in a plastic bag, and went out in search of a cab.

It was late afternoon now, shadows drawing in, and close to five. He was just in time. It would give her a chance to look at his plans. He called her from the High Street in Kilburn.

"I'm here. You don't need to spend time with me. I'll just pass you the envelope."

"Wait for me in the church. I'll walk from the presbytery and come in through the back door."

He did as he was told, pushed the great front entrance open and ventured in. There were five or six people over on the right waiting by the confessional boxes. He stood at the back, and she appeared outside the sacristy and waved, and he went to join her.

She pulled him in, took the envelope, and opened it. "I'll give it a quick read." She finished the sheets in five minutes and put them back in the envelope. "It all seems to make sense. I'm sure Pool can sort something out with the car. He once told me he's very well in with the Ministry. It's a starting point anyway."

"Good."

"What about Roper and Dillon? I don't see them here."

"We haven't got enough manpower at the moment. But we can take them soon. For Roper, I thought we'd blow up the Holland Park safe house. The man in the wheelchair never seems to leave it these days."

"And Dillon?"

"I'll shoot him. He's a loner, which simplifies things. Someone alone in the street on a rainy night, someone behind…" He smiled, and she took a step back.

"Someone walked over my grave when you said that."