"If you were here, I would embrace you, my friend," Max told him. "That's the most entertaining thing I've heard in years."

"Glad to oblige. Call Potanin now and tell him to get things moving in New York. I'm relying on you."

"The instant we hang up. What about Kurbsky?"

"I've got one of Caitlin Daly's people investigating the house in Belsize. I've been to have a look. There's something strange there, but I'm not sure what," Holley told him.

"Surely Kurbsky couldn't have been hanging out there. It's too obvious."

"I saw a weird guy coming out, a ghoul, God help him, obviously on chemotherapy."

"That couldn't be Kurbsky. He certainly doesn't have cancer."

"I'm not saying it was him. I just have a hunch about the place, that something's not quite kosher. Anyway, let's get moving. Let me know how things go."

But Chekhov did not immediately call Potanin. He stood there thinking about it, then he sighed deeply, murmured, "I suppose I'd better," and called his contact number for Lermov in Moscow.

The Colonel answered at once. "I wondered when I might hear from you. How's Holley getting on?"

"Quite brilliantly," Chekhov told him. "I've got to say, Josef, he's a remarkable man. Here's the state of play at the moment."

He quickly went through everything Holley had told him, and when he was finished Lermov said, "He certainly works fast."

"So I should go through with it, call Potanin in New York and tell him to give Barry and Flynn any help they need?"

"Of course you should go through with it! This could be an extraordinary coup. Let me know everything-everything!-as it happens, even when I'm with Putin."

"I will, of course," Chekhov told him. "What do you think of this unfortunate business with Ivanov?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Chekhov told him, delighting in it, because he resented Ivanov's assumption of command and had come to realize that he didn't like him anyway.

Lermov said, "Stupid boy. I had high hopes of him, but there you are. I'll make my displeasure clear when he tells me."

"If he tells you," Chekhov said.

"Oh, he'll tell me all right, Max. I'll see to it."

At Shepherd's Market, the awnings out against light rain, Daniel and Selim enjoyed a late supper at a restaurant called Al Bustan. It was crowded, a constant buzz of conversation washing over them, but they had a certain privacy in the corner booth where they were sitting.

"Food is poetry to the people who run this restaurant," Selim told him, and sipped his wine. "You are calmer now, I think?"

"Because things are coming together," Daniel said. "But you're right about the food. Though anything would taste good after five years of the cooking in the Lubyanka. It's nice here." He looked around the restaurant. "It reminds me of Algiers."

And that made him think of Shabwa and the desert training camp and all that came since, and his mood darkened.

"What is it, my friend?"

Holley told him. "Nothing was ever the same when they'd finished with me. Algiers and Malik and the business became all I had."

"And now you think you have nothing?"

"In a way. I've been more disappointed than I'd hoped."

"We are all in the hands of Allah. He is responsible for all things."

"Then He willed me to exact a terrible vengeance on those four men who murdered that young woman. That deed changed me entirely. A different man took my place, and still does."

"This is too sad, Daniel, we must think of something better. Have you some time to spare tomorrow or are you trapped by your affairs? I have a small car in a garage I rent not far from here. A Mini Cooper. We could go out for a drive. Have lunch."

Holley thought about it. It wasn't a good idea, but, really, everything was in motion. New York was in play. The others had their orders. Any remaining communication would be by phone anyway.

"All right, let's do it," Daniel said. "And I'm remembering something about Chekhov. He has a country place called Bolt Hole, located in an interesting part of West Sussex. Salt marshes, lots of sea, a causeway reaching out to a low island with an ancient house. I've seen it on television."

"It sounds fun. Does he go there a lot?"

"I don't think so. He told me he was refused permission for a helicopter pad, so he has to drive."

"So what? We could get to West Sussex in two hours. I have friends nearby." Selim shook his head. "These oligarchs, they are worse than Suleiman the Magnificent. Shall we take that as definite?"

"Absolutely," Holley told him. "We'll leave at ten."

"Then I suggest an early night." Selim raised his hand and called to the waiter for the bill.

Holley undressed and put on a robe, and Caitlin came on the Codex. "I've heard from Barry, and he's heard from Potanin. He said he's going to meet them tomorrow, with a friend of his named Bulganin. He suggested Barry take Miller and Flynn do Blake Johnson."

"Fine. Quogue should be pretty straightforward, but Miller is more difficult," Holley said. "Barry shouldn't underestimate him. Miller's a killer."

"God willing, he prevails," she said.

"Or Allah," he told her. "Same difference."

He poured a nightcap and went and stood at the window, watching the late-night traffic pass. Max Chekhov hadn't got back to him, but he'd clearly kept his promise and passed the details to Potanin. Chekhov probably had a woman or two keeping him busy, not that it mattered. He'd done his job. He wondered how Ivanov was managing to explain his sergeant's unfortunate accident. He'd bet anything Ivanov found a way to absolve himself of any blame. He looked at his watch. He probably should call Lermov himself, but it was too late now, three in the morning in Moscow. It could wait, and he went to bed.

For many years, Holley had had a recurring dream about Rosaleen Coogan and the events of that night. It lasted for a period of three or four weeks, usually during times of great stress and activity. It had not been much of a problem during his years of imprisonment, but now, and for the first time in a while, it surfaced.

It was always the same, a strange black-and-white landscape remarkably similar to film noir, buildings rising into the night streets, and she was there at his side, the only other person in a dark world, and she said she was going and would be back but never did, never came back again, and the streets were like a maze in the darkness as he ran from one place to another and never could find her. The strangest thing of all was trying to wake from that dream. It took an incredible physical struggle, and he would lie there in bed, soaked in sweat and trembling, and feeling a heartbreaking sense of loss for Rosaleen and the fact that she was gone, never to be found.

This time, lying on the bed of his suite in the Albany Regency Hotel, it was different. Somehow, Lady Monica Starling had become part of that dream, she was there with Rosaleen, and it was them both that Daniel was running around seeking, and he suddenly knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that no matter what anyone said, or wished or argued, that she'd killed a Provo herself, there was no way he could be a party to killing her, and Rosaleen would have agreed with him.

It somehow gave him a lightness of being, a calm happiness, call it what you like, but it was there for a moment, clear and profound, as if he had been touched by something. He felt a strange sense of peace, a kind of release, as he went to turn on the shower. He could take the men, but not Monica, and Caitlin and all the rest of them would have to accept that. He started to get dressed but then stopped, and decided it was better to be dressed for action, you never knew what might come up. He put on the nylon-and-titanium bulletproof vest first, which was capable of stopping a.44 round at point-blank range. A white shirt and formal tie covered it, and, once he'd pulled on his trousers, he fastened the holster to his right ankle. When he left the hotel, borrowing one of its umbrellas, in his black suit and black raincoat, he looked like a thoroughly respectable City professional man.