His coded mobile rang and he answered. It was Volkov. “The plane should be with you in about thirty minutes. Has anything else happened?”

Ashimov told him of Greta’s astonishing escape.

“That’s good news. She could be of great use.”

“Liam Bell is organizing things in Dublin as we speak. I’ve taken steps to ensure that he isn’t aware of what really happened. To Belov, I mean. There’s only one man left who knows, besides myself.”

“And who would that be?” Ashimov told him. “Let’s hope your judgment proves sound. I’ll see you soon.”

Ashimov lit another cigarette. Volkov was one of the few men who impressed him. A man of mystery way beyond the reach of any Russian government organization. He smiled slightly. He was like Ferguson, in a way. Yes, a Russian Ferguson responsible only to the President.

He threw the cigarette away as a plane roared overhead, obviously coming in to land at the runway Belov had ordered to be laid at the development there. As he went back into reception, Mother Teresa returned with Greta.

“Five stitches, I’m afraid, but I’m good at embroidery. No fracture, but considerable bruising. You must take care, my dear.”

“My thanks,” Ashimov told her. “But we must go. That was our plane landing.”

“Glad to have been of help. Give my regards to Mr. Belov.”

“I certainly will.”

He took Greta’s elbow and led her to the car. “Are you all right?” he said as he helped her in.

The patch on the side of her forehead was neat enough, and she touched it. “I had a local anesthetic. I feel tired more than anything else.”

He got behind the wheel. “You can sleep on the plane. Moscow next stop.”

March in Moscow was much as to be expected. The snow had seemed to be on the verge of clearing, but was back again when they landed, a light powdering only, but crisp and cold. A limousine was waiting, a Mercedes, and they drove away instantly to the Belov International townhouse, a place of some splendor, but they had barely settled in when Volkov called.

“I need to see you at once. Bring the Major with you.”

“Where, exactly?”

“The Kremlin, of course.”

Ashimov switched off and turned to Greta. “How are you feeling?” She’d slept like a log on the plane. “Any better?”

“It was worse in Chechnya. Not too good in Iraq, either, come to think of it.” She smiled. “I’ll be fine, Yuri.”

“So you feel up to a visit to the Kremlin?”

Her eyes sparkled. “My, but we are moving in dangerous waters. How exciting.”

“Then let’s go.”

Snow was falling lightly as they drove through the streets, past the massive entrance to the Kremlin, moving through side streets, until they emerged at an obscure entrance at the back. They were passed through a series of checkpoints manned by uniformed guards, but never once questioned, simply waved through at each one until they reached a small courtyard behind high railings and halted at steps leading up to an archway. They went up, the door opened and a hard young man in an excellent suit appeared.

“A pleasure to see you again, Major Ashimov.” He inclined his head to Greta. “Major.”

“We’ve met before?” Ashimov asked.

“Chechnya, some years ago, but I was a very junior officer. You wouldn’t remember. My name is Igor Levin. This way, if you please. General Volkov is waiting.”

He led the way through gloomy corridors and back stairs, finally opening a door leading to a much larger and more ornate corridor. There were gilt mirrors, portraits from another age, fine carpeting.

“I must say, this is beautiful.”

“I imagine that Tsar Nicholas thought so, too,” Levin said.

They came to an ornate door, where a burly individual, again in an excellent suit, was seated in a high chair. A machine pistol was on a small table beside him. He didn’t stand and didn’t speak.

“We like to be prepared for any eventuality,” Levin said.

“Even in here?” Greta said.

“Especially in here.” He opened a door and ushered them in without announcement and stood at the back of the room, which was quite stunning, very French. Its paneled walls were beautifully painted with formal scenes of the seventeenth century, and there were portraits of the same period, a magnificent fireplace with a real fire, or so it appeared, an exquisite mirror above it. Chairs and a settee decorated the room, but the really striking thing was the huge desk in the center and the man who sat behind it. He had looked up as they entered and was nothing like Greta had expected. He was perhaps sixty, hair decidedly thinning, wearing wire spectacles of an old-fashioned type, a neat suit in navy blue, a dark tie. He could have been the manager of an insurance office, this man who, according to what Ashimov had told her, wielded such power. When he spoke, his voice was not much more than a whisper.

“My dear Ashimov, so you made it in one piece again?”

“My luck is good, Comrade.”

“I’m never too sure whether you should call me that any longer.”

“Old habits die hard.”

Volkov stood up, came round the desk and shook hands with Greta. “Your luck is also good, Major.”

“Yes, Comrade.

There was a power to him, she realized that now, and as he continued to hold her hand, it flowed through her. “More than luck, I think. I believe in God, you see, like my blessed mother before me. Everything is for a purpose.” He patted her hand. “But I am a poor host, and for a beautiful and brave young Russian woman who has gone through the ordeal you have, there is only one remedy. The finest vodka we have.” He said to Levin, “Igor, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not, Comrade General.”

“Igor,” Volkov told him gently, “I have told you never to use my title publicly.”

“I am suitably chastened, Comrade General.”

“Hopeless. Come, we sit by the fire and talk. Igor always seems to see the lighter side of life despite having served in Afghanistan with the KGB at nineteen, then the paratroopers in Chechnya. He was in the GRU when he fell into my hands, and now he’s one of my security guards. Took a bullet for me once.”

“There’s nothing like KGB training,” said Ashimov.

“Yes. Now let’s sit by the fire. I’ve things to say.”

Levin opened a cupboard and produced an ice bucket containing a bottle of vodka and frosted glasses.

“You will join us, Igor. Just one, though. You must remember your trigger finger.”

The vodka was sublime and burned its way down. “Excellent,” Volkov told them. “Damn Ferguson and damn the Prime Minister. Another, Igor, and then we’ll get down to business.”

They sat by the fire and Volkov began. “This is the situation. Since the end of the Iraq war, Belov International has continued to prosper. Since the vote for democracy in Iraq, the prospect is very real of the oil industry there returning to full flow, indeed to achieve a level of production beyond all expectation, and we are in the middle of it. We’re talking a company worth fifteen billion and rising.”

“That would be staggering,” Greta said.

“And nothing must be allowed to put such success at risk. In other words, Belov can’t die. Igor will take you to see Max Zubin tonight. We’ll ship him off to Station Gorky to settle him in, let the world know where he is and slip him back when necessary.”

“Which will totally confuse Ferguson and company in London,” Ashimov said, “Dillon having reported back on a successful mission.”

“And we mustn’t forget President Cazalet and that Blake Johnson man of his. They always exchange information with their British cousins,” Volkov pointed out.

Greta said, “But after Dillon’s report, they’ll know the Belov in Siberia is false.”

“Yes, but Ferguson can’t afford to disclose it – admit that his agents, acting on behalf of the Prime Minister, conducted a slaughter in the Republic of Ireland, a sovereign state. Where a highly important Russian citizen happened to be at the same time.”