“Exactly,” Belov said. “But always fantasy, always except for that alley in Belfast. That was real and earnest, razor-sharp. I should imagine that afterwards on reflection it must have seemed like one of your finest performances.”

“Very perceptive, Colonel, but one stipulation. If I don’t like the sound of something, I don’t do it.”

“But of course, my dear.” He smiled at the other two and raised his glass. They all followed suit. “To us, my friends, to January 30.”

Back in London, she was free for most of March. She went to Ian McNab’s gym three times a week and bought herself a BMW motorcycle, which she used to explore parts of the city she’d never been. Toward the end of the month she was asked to do Hedda Gabler at the National and started five weeks of intensive rehearsals. It was in the third week that Curry asked if they could all meet and she invited them to Cheyne Walk.

As Grace handed round coffee, Belov said, “I’m having problems with the KGB here in London, not that they call themselves that since the breakup of things in Russia. The latest title is Federal Service of Counter Espionage. At the moment, the London Station is being run by a Major Silsev. Here’s his photo.” He passed it across. “A crook of the first water, involved with the Russian Mafia. Illegal trading in weapons, various currency rackets, drugs – particularly drugs.”

She examined the photo and passed it to Lang. “He looks mean.”

“He is.” He passed her another photo. “Frank Sharp, one of the most notorious gang bosses in the East End of London, intends a deal with him at the moment. If Sharp meets his terms, Silsev will bring in heroin with a street value in excess of a hundred million pounds.”

“Why should you mind? I didn’t think you were in the business of doing good,” Grace said.

“I take your point. In my own defense, I hate drugs, and people who trade in them disgust me, but the feud between my people of the GRU and the KGB, or whatever name they choose to call themselves, is of prime importance. The kind of money Silsev would make from this deal would give them too much power.”

“I see.”

“My sources at the Embassy tell me that Silsev and Sharp are to meet tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock at the Karl Marx Memorial in Highgate Cemetery.”

“I know where that is. I’ve been there.”

“It’s face-to-face stuff, no one else allowed, so Sharp won’t have his minders with him.”

There was a short silence. Grace Browning turned to the others. Curry’s face was pale and even Rupert Lang looked grave.

“Moment of truth, my friends,” she said and turned back to Belov. “How do you want it done?”

It was raining hard when the Mercedes Limousine drew up by the main gates of Highgate Cemetery shortly before four o’clock on the following afternoon.

The man in the chauffeur’s uniform at the wheel said, “Sure you don’t want me to come, guv?”

“No need, Bert, this guy’s kosher. Too much in it for him not to be. Give me the umbrella. I won’t be long.”

He got out of the car, a large, fleshy man of fifty in a dark blue overcoat, put the umbrella up, and went in through the gates. Dusk was already falling and what with the rain, the cemetery was deserted. He followed the path through a jumble of graves, monuments, and marble angels. There were trees here and there and it was all rather overgrown. Sharp didn’t mind. He’d always liked the place, had always liked cemeteries if it came to that. Up ahead was the monument with the huge head, Karl Marx.

Sharp stood looking up at it, took out a cigarette, and lit it. “Commie bastard,” he said softly.

Major Silsev stepped round from the other side. He was small, eyes close set, wore a trilby hat and raincoat, and like Sharp held an umbrella.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Sharp.”

“Yes, here I bleeding well am,” Sharp told him. “Wet and cold and I don’t like all this cloak and dagger stuff so let’s get on with it.”

At that moment an engine roared into life, and as they turned a motorcycle emerged from a clump of trees and came toward them, the rider wearing black helmet and leathers.

“What the hell?” Sharp cried as it skidded to a halt.

Silsev turned to run, but Grace pulled the Beretta from the front of her leather jacket and shot him in the back.

“Bastard!” Sharp cried and his hand came out of his overcoat pocket clutching a revolver. Before he could raise it, she shot him between the eyes and he went down. Silsev was still twitching. As she moved past, she leaned over and finished him with a head shot.

A few moments later she emerged through the main gate, a dark and anonymous figure as she drove past the Mercedes, where Bert sat behind the wheel reading the Standard.

She moved through the evening traffic of Highgate Road into Kentish Town and then to Camden, finally turning into a yard in a side street near Camden Lock. There was a large truck, the rear door open, a ramp sloping up inside. As she ran the motorcycle up and put it on its stand, Curry, behind her, closed the yard gate.

He didn’t say a word, simply stood waiting while she stripped off the leathers and helmet, revealing jeans and a tee shirt underneath. He opened a hold-all bag he was carrying and offered her a nylon anorak and a baseball cap and she put them on quickly.

“Right, let’s get out of here.” Curry closed the truck door and opened the gates. “Belov’s people will clear up.”

She handed him the Beretta and he slipped it in the hold-all. “Everything okay?”

“If you mean did I kill Sharp and Silsev, yes. What with Ashimov, London ’s not going to be a favored KGB posting.”

“I expect not.” They were approaching a telephone kiosk. He said, “Give me a minute.”

A few seconds later the news desk at the Times received the call claiming responsibility for the deaths of Major Ivan Silsev and Frank Sharp by January 30 as a direct response to their involvement in the drug trade.

Curry paused on the corner of Camden High Street and hailed a cab. “You all right?” he asked.

“Never better.”

“Good. Rupert’s got tickets for Sunset Boulevard. We’re eating at Daphne’s afterwards. Does that suit?”

“Fantastic. Just get me home. As a great writer once said, a bath and a change of clothes and I can go on forever.”

A cab slid in to the curb and he opened the door for her.

When Grace entered the piano bar at the Dorchester, it was just before seven. Guiliano, the manager, met her with pleasure, kissed her hand, and took her down to the far corner beside the piano where Lang, Curry, and Belov waited. She looked quite spectacular in a black beaded shift, black stockings and shoes.

Belov waved off a waiter and started to pour from a bottle of Cristal champagne. “You look wonderful.”

At that moment Guiliano came up. “The late edition of the Standard. I thought you might like to see it. A double shooting in Highgate by some terrorist group. Isn’t it terrible? Not safe to be out these days.”

He walked away. Rupert Lang laughed; even Tom Curry was having difficulty. Belov raised his glass, looked at Grace, and she smiled slightly.

“What can I say after that except, to you, my friends,” and he toasted them.