The President turned to Ferguson. “What does your Major Roper say?”

“That the IRA link with Belov International would explain the good people of Drumore keeping their mouths shut, but as regards the deaths of Belov and the other six…” He shrugged. “They have to be accounted for one way or another.”

Blake said, “It’s as if it never happened.”

“Not quite,” Ferguson said. “Which, in part, explains my visit. Roper picked up an item yesterday, put out by Belov International. It concerns their huge development site at Station Gorky in Eastern Siberia.”

“Which is about as far as you can get from the known world,” Cazalet said.

“They announced the arrival of their great leader, one Josef Belov, for an extended visit. A photo was included.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Could have been an old photo,” Blake put in.

Ferguson shrugged. “Sure looked like him. Which brings me to another interesting thing Roper uncovered. The other year when oil concessions were up for grabs in Venezuela, Belov was in Paris putting himself about on the social scene. Except we know something else as well: he was also in Venezuela pulling a fast one on the opposition and sewing up those oil concessions.”

“Why is it I feel like applauding?” Cazalet said. “Go on, tell me. Who was the Belov in Paris? Did you have it checked?”

“Indeed we did. A French intelligence source tells us it was one Max Zubin, an actor of sorts – cabaret, that sort of thing, big in Jewish theater in Moscow. Apparently it’s not the first time he’s impersonated Belov.”

“So where is he now? Station Gorky?”

“Wherever his masters need him,” Blake said.

Cazalet nodded. “Sean Dillon has always been extremely thorough, so I see no reason to doubt that what’s left of the real Josef Belov is at the bottom of the Irish Sea off Drumore Point. So what are they playing at?”

“I’ve no idea,” Ferguson said.

“We can’t have that.” Cazalet finished his drink. “Blake, if General Ferguson agrees, I’d like you to grab a lift in his Gulfstream, go back to London with him and help resolve this puzzle.”

“That’s fine by me, Mr. President,” Ferguson told him.

“Excellent. I want this matter resolved. Now, let’s enjoy a nice dinner and you can bring me up to date on the European situation.”

Ferguson hadn’t bothered with a steward on the trip over, just his usual two pilots, Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry. They passed the coast at thirty thousand feet and started out over the Atlantic. After a while, Parry appeared.

“Our American cousins have been more than generous, sir,” he told Ferguson. “Plenty of intriguing grub in the kitchen area, champagne in the fridge.”

“What’s our estimated time of arrival?”

“We should hit Farley Field spot on four o’clock, General.”

He returned to the cockpit. Ferguson said, “I’m going to make some calls. Excuse me.”

He called London on his Codex Four, first Bellamy, the doctor in charge of Rosedene, the special medical unit maintained for Secret Security Service personnel, mainly the victims of some black operation or other. He found Bellamy in his office.

“It’s me. How’s Hannah?”

“Well, the head tests are fine, so they’re transferring her back here for continuing care. The thing is, the traumas she’s had in the last two years have really dragged her down. Her heart isn’t good – not good at all.”

“Is she receiving visitors?”

“Her grandfather and father. They’re being sensible, not overdoing it. It’s Dillon I’ve had to have words with.”

Ferguson frowned. “Why?”

“He’d be round every five minutes if I’d let him. In a funny kind of way, he seems to blame himself for Hannah being in this situation.”

“Nonsense. If there’s ever a woman who knows her own mind, it’s Hannah Bernstein. She’s always done the job because she wants to do the job. It’s everything to her. I’ll look in this evening.”

He thought about it for a while, then called Roper at Regency Square. Roper was permanently confined to a wheelchair as the result of an IRA bomb several years ago, and his ground-floor apartment was designed to enable a severely handicapped person to fend for himself. Everything was state of the art, from kitchen to bathroom facilities. His computer equipment was state of the art as well, some of it highly secret and obtained by Ferguson ’s liberal use of muscle. Roper was at his computer bank when the General called.

“So how did it go?”

Ferguson told him of his talk with Cazalet. “I’ve got Blake with me. He’s going to stay at my place for a day or two while we see if we can make any sense out of all this.”

“Blake’s got a point when he said it’s as if it never happened.”

“And that’s what Belov International is confirming by announcing Belov’s visit to Station Gorky.”

“Well, one thing is certain. You know this goes to the highest level in Moscow, and that includes Putin himself. The worldwide economics involved are simply too important. Whatever has happened, there’s bound to be a Kremlin connection.”

“Then can’t you find out what? Dammit, man, there must be traffic somewhere out there in cyberspace that has something to do with it.”

“Not that I’ve seen. Have we got anyone who could nose around at Drumore, do an undercover job? Pretend to be a tourist or something?”

“Hmm, that’s an idea. If you see Dillon, mention it to him, would you? I’ll see you later.”

Ferguson sat there for a moment, frowning, then went to the small bar and helped himself to a scotch. Blake said, “Problem?”

“Bellamy at Rosedene says Dillon’s going through some sort of guilt feeling over Hannah. It’s as if he feels responsible for her condition.”

“They’ve always had a strange relationship, those two.”

Ferguson nodded. “She could never forgive him all those years with the IRA, all those deaths. She could never accept that his slate could be wiped clean.”

“And Dillon?”

“Always saw it as a great game. He’s a walking contradiction – warm and humorous, yet he kills at the drop of a hat. There’s nothing I could ask him to do that he would find too outrageous.”

“Everything a challenge,” Blake said. “Nothing too dangerous.”

“And on so many occasions she’s been dragged along with him.”

“And you think that’s what makes him feel guilty now?”

“Something like that.”

“And where would that leave you? After all, you give the orders, Charles.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Ferguson swallowed his scotch down and looked at the empty glass bleakly. “You know, I think I’ll have the other half.”

“Why not?” Blake said. “And I’ll join you. You look as if you could do with the company.”

Dillon arrived at Rosedene in the middle of the afternoon, parked his Mini Cooper outside and went in. As he approached the desk, Professor Henry Bellamy came out of his office.

“Now, look, Sean, she’s just been moved, you know that. Give her a chance to settle in.”

“How is she?” Dillon’s face was very pale.

“What do you expect me to say? As well as can be expected?”

At that moment, Rabbi Julian Bernstein, Hannah’s grandfather, came out of the hospitality room. He put both hands on Dillon’s shoulders.

“Sean, you look terrible.”

Bellamy eased himself away. Dillon said, “This life of Hannah’s, Rabbi, I’ve said it before, you must hate it. You must hate us all.”

“My dear boy, it’s the life she chose. I’m a practical man. Jews have to be. I accept that there are people who elect to take on the kind of work that ordinary members of society don’t want to, well, soil their hands with.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Yes. She’s very tired, but I think you may say hello, show your face and then go. Room ten.”