Hannah felt wretched. “I’m sure that’s been very nice for you.”

“Yes, he’s called round two or three times since Henry’s been away with his friend.”

There was a pause, her breathing heavy. Dillon said, “And who was that?”

“Oh, I can’t remember his name. Very strange, Russian, I think. He had a terrible scar right down from his eye to the corner of his mouth.”

Dillon said sternly in Arabic, “Have you told me everything, old woman? Do you swear to this, as Allah commands?”

She looked fearful and replied in Arabic, “There is no more. I don’t know his name. My son said he was a Russian friend. That’s all I know.”

Hannah said, “I don’t know what you’re saying, Dillon, but leave it. She’s frightened.”

Dillon smiled, suddenly looking devastatingly charming, and kissed Mrs. Morgan on the forehead. “There you are, my love.” He turned to Hannah and led the way out.

Outside, she said, “What a bastard you are. What were you saying?”

“Just checking if she was telling the truth.”

“Right, let’s go.”

“I’m not ready yet, Hannah.” He nodded to the corner shop at the end of the street. “Let’s have a word down there. The Russian gentleman with the scar interests me. Maybe he’s been in.”

They walked down the pavement toward the shop, and behind them, Greta Novikova turned her Opel into the street and drove away.

The sign on the shop window said M. PATEL. Dillon nodded. “Indian, that’s good.”

“Why, particularly?” Hannah asked.

“Because they’re smart and they don’t screw around. They’ve got a head for business and they want to fit in. So let’s see what Mr. Patel has to say and let’s use your warrant card.”

The shop was neat and orderly, and obviously sold a bit of everything. The Indian behind the counter reading the Evening Standard was in shirtsleeves and looked about fifty. He glanced up, smiling, looked them over and stopped smiling.

“Can I help?”

Hannah produced her warrant card. “Detective Superintendent Bernstein, Special Branch. Mr. Dillon is a colleague. We’re pursuing inquiries, which involve a Mrs. Morgan who lives up the street. You know her?”

“Of course I do.”

“Her son’s away,” Dillon said. “ New York, I understand?”

“Yes, she did tell me that. Look, what is this?”

“Don’t fret, Mr. Patel, everything’s fine. Mrs. Morgan is friendly with a Dr. Ali Selim. You know who he is?”

Patel’s face slipped. “Yes, I do.”

“And don’t like him.” Dillon smiled. “A Hindu-Muslim thing? Well, never mind. Sometimes when he sees Mrs. Morgan, he has a friend with him. Bad scar, from his eye to his mouth. She thinks he’s Russian.”

“That’s right, he is. He’s called in to buy cigarettes, sometimes with the Arab. Selim calls him Yuri. They were in yesterday.”

Hannah glanced up at the security camera. “Was that working?”

He nodded. “I was busy, so when the tape stopped, I didn’t run it back. I took it out and put a fresh tape in.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “I’m sure you have a television in the back room. Get us the tape and we’ll run it back.”

Patel proved accommodating; he closed the shop for a while and ran the tape through for them. Finally he stopped.

“There they are.”

Hannah and Dillon had a look. “So that’s him?” Dillon said. “The Russian.”

“Yes. And I’ve remembered something else,” Patel said. “One day, he was on his own and his mobile rang and he said, ‘Ashimov here.’ ”

“You’re sure about that?” Hannah asked.

“Well, that’s how it sounded.”

“Good man, yourself,” Dillon said. “You’ve helped enormously.”

Patel hesitated. “Look, is Mrs. Morgan in trouble? I mean, she’s not fit to be out, but she’s nice enough.”

“No problem,” Hannah said. “We’re just pursuing some inquiries.”

“And I know exactly what that means with you people.”

Dillon patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, old son, we’re the good guys.”

They went out and walked toward the Mini. “Yuri Ashimov,” Hannah said. “Interesting.”

“Let’s go and see what Roper makes of it,” Dillon told her.

At Monk Street, Greta linked her digital camera to Ashimov’s television and ran the photos of Dillon and Hannah.

“There you are. The Welfare officer, I assume. I’ve no idea who the man is.”

Ashimov swore softly. “But I do. My God, Greta, you’re onto something here.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Last year, when Baron von Berger of Berger International was killed in that plane crash, and Belov took over his oil concessions and put me in charge of general security… I started going over all of Berger International’s previous security records. Did you know that Berger was in a state of open warfare against a man named General Charles Ferguson? Have you heard of him?”

“Of course I have,” Greta said. “He runs that special intelligence outfit for the Prime Minister.”

“Gold star for you, Greta.” Ashimov pointed to the last picture on the screen. “That’s Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein, Ferguson ’s assistant.”

“Good God,” Greta said.

Ashimov flicked to Dillon. “And this gentleman – this one really is special. Sean Dillon, Ferguson ’s strong right hand, and once the Provisional IRA’s top enforcer. For twenty years or more, the British Army and the RUC couldn’t lay a hand on him.”

“And now he works for the Prime Minister? That’s unbelievable.”

“Well, it’s typically British. They’ll turn their hands to anything if it suits.”

“So where does this leave us?”

“With Ferguson ’s outfit checking Mrs. Morgan, whose son was supposed to have a go at President Jake Cazalet in New York and has now disappeared, or so it would seem. Would you say the appearance of Dillon and Bernstein at her front door was a coincidence?”

“Not for a moment. What do you intend to do?”

“I’ll alert Dr. Ali Selim, naturally. We’ll take it from there. I’ll show them the photos.”

“And Belov?”

“He left this sort of thing in my hands, but I keep him informed.” He smiled. “He’s not involved, Greta my love, you must understand. He’s too important. As regards operations at what you might call the coal face, I’m in charge.” He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “Trust me.”

Soon after, he was standing by an old jetty around the corner from the Queen Street Mosque, overlooking the river. He leaned on a rail smoking a cigarette, enjoying the landscape, the views, the boats passing. Selim appeared after a while, a handsome bearded man wearing a Burberry raincoat, an umbrella guarding him from the rain.

“Yuri, my friend.” He smiled. “You said it was urgent. Why not call at my office at the mosque?”

“Not again,” Ashimov told him. “I’ve got news for you. Our friend Morgan’s trip to New York would seem to have disappeared into a black hole.”

“How unfortunate,” Selim said calmly.

“Listen.” Ashimov went through everything.

Afterward, Selim said, “We can’t be certain he met a bad end. That’s supposition, surely?”

“Ali, my friend, if Ferguson ’s lot are involved, particularly this Dillon, then the end is as certain as the coffin lid closing.”

“You consider the man exceptional, it would seem.”

“And for good reason. He’s a man of many skills. An experienced pilot, for instance, and linguist. Russian and Arabic, for example.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Besides his years with the IRA, he worked for the PLO as a mercenary, and for the Israelis in Lebanon in the old days.” Ashimov lit a cigarette. “He kills at the drop of a hat, this one.”

“Oh, in a dark street on a rainy night, I’m sure he’s as susceptible to a knife under the ribs as anyone.”

“My dear Ali.” Ashimov smiled. “If you believe that, you’ll be making the worst mistake of your life.”

Selim said, “So what about Mrs. Morgan? If they’re sniffing around there, she could be saying the wrong things.”


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