Rose House Nursing Home was a discreet establishment in Holland Park. It had once been the town mansion of some turn-of-the-century millionaire and stood in two acres of gardens behind high walls. In a lounge area on the second floor, Belov and Rupert Lang drank coffee and waited. Finally a door opened and a small cheerful Indian walked in in green surgical robes.

“This is Dr. Joel Gupta, the principal of this establishment,” Belov said to Lang. “How is he, Joel?”

“Very lucky. The Beretta fires 9-millimeter Parabellum. At close quarters, enough to take a man’s arm off. It only chipped the bone, passed through flesh. He’ll be fine, but I want him in for a week.”

“When can we see him?” Belov asked.

“He’s woozy right now. Give him half an hour, then five minutes only. I’ll see you later.”

Gupta went out. Lang said, “He seems on your side.”

“I knew him in Afghanistan,” Belov said. “Helped him come to England. Don’t get the wrong impression. He helps me out on the odd occasion. Most of the time he specializes in drug addiction. Does fine work.”

“So what went wrong tonight?” Lang asked.

“My dear man, do you really want to get into this any more than you have to?”

“I’m already up to my ears,” Lang said. “And Tom Curry is the best friend I have in the world.”

“But you’re in the Government.”

“So?”

“And Curry, like me, is a committed Communist. We believe that we are right and you are wrong.”

“But I often am,” Lang told him. “I’m sure you’ll lead me to the guillotine when the moment arrives, but I take friendship seriously, so what about Tom? What went wrong?”

“Colonel Boris Ashimov went wrong. He’s Head of Station at the London Embassy for the KGB. As you know, GRU is Military Intelligence and we have our differences. I hadn’t realized how deep they were until tonight.”

“He set you up?” Rupert Lang said.

“So it would appear. If it hadn’t been for the Savoy affair, I’d have gone personally.”

“But instead, poor old Tom takes the bullet.” Rupert Lang wasn’t smiling. His eyes glittered, there was a wolfish look to his face. “I took a bullet myself once. Not nice.”

“Of course,” Belov said. “One Para. Bloody Sunday. You were a Lieutenant then.”

Just then a nurse appeared. “He’s surfaced. You can go in now if you like.”

Curry managed a weak smile. “Still here, am I?”

“For a long time yet,” Rupert Lang told him.

Curry turned to Belov. “What went wrong, Yuri?”

“It would appear Ashimov set me up. Ali Hamid was supposed to knock me off. Unfortunately I sent you. For you, that is, not for me. However, we must cover the trail as much as possible, give an explanation for Hamid’s death. He’s a known terrorist. Both Scotland Yard and MI5 will find that out soon enough.”

“What would you suggest?” Lang asked.

“Someone should claim credit for his death.” Belov nodded. “That would take care of things nicely.”

“Like the Provisional IRA?” Curry demanded.

“No, something new, something to confuse them all.”

“You mean an entirely new terrorist group?” Rupert Lang asked.

“Why not?” Belov smiled. “Bloody Sunday, wasn’t that January 30, 1972? What if I put a call through to the Times claiming credit for Hamid’s killing on behalf of January 30? That would certainly give the anti-terrorist units at every level something to chew on.”

“Rather like that Greek group we read about,” Lang said. “November 17. Yes, I like it. Should muddy the waters nicely.”

“Of course,” Belov said. “You see, Mr. Lang, because of the cause I serve and Tom here, chaos is my main interest in life. Fear, uncertainty, and chaos. I want to create as much of all these things as possible in the Western world. Then gradually the cracks begin to show and finally the system breaks down. Ireland, for example. We don’t take sides, but we do actively help to keep the whole rotten mess going. A civil war, a descent into madness, and then our friends, and there are many in Ireland, take over.”

“Another Cuba, only in Britain ’s backyard,” Lang said. “Interesting.”

“I’ve been very frank,” Belov said. “But it doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“Very little in this life does, old sport.”

“Fine. I’ll take care of this January 30 thing then.”

It was Curry who said, “And who takes care of Ashimov? He’s got to kill you now, Yuri, no choice.”

“Yes, someone should sort that bastard out.”

Rupert Lang opened the briefcase beside the bed and took out the Beretta. He said to Belov, “Fifty thousand dollars in there. I believe it’s yours. I’ll keep the Beretta. Just tell me where and when.”

There was a moment’s silence and Curry said, “You can’t be serious.”

Lang smiled that strange wolfish smile again. “I killed three people on Bloody Sunday, Tom, and two others elsewhere during my service in Ulster. Never told you that. Secrets, you see, just like you.” He turned to Belov. “Another job for January 30. First this Arab, then the Station Head of the KGB in London? That should really make the Security Services squirm, and I should know. I’m on half the Committees.”

He killed Colonel Boris Ashimov with absurd simplicity a week later on a rainy morning in Kensington Gardens. Belov had timed it for him. Every morning at ten, Ashimov walked in the gardens whatever the weather. On that particular Thursday it was raining heavily. Rupert Lang, enjoying a coffee in a café opposite Kensington Park Gardens, was not expecting Ashimov to appear. But the man carrying an umbrella over his head filled the description Belov had given him. Ashimov turned into the Bayswater Road and entered the gardens. Lang got to his feet and went after him.

He followed him along the path, keeping well back, his own umbrella raised. There was no one about. They reached a clump of trees at the center of the gardens, and Lang quickened his pace.

“Excuse me.”

Ashimov turned. “What do you want?”

“You, actually,” Rupert Lang said, and shot him twice in the heart, the silenced Beretta making only a slight coughing sound. He leaned down and put another bullet between Ashimov’s eyes, then put the Beretta in his raincoat pocket, moved rapidly across the gardens to Queen’s Gate, crossed to the Albert Hall, and walked on for a good half mile before hailing a cab and telling the driver to take him to Westminster.

He lit a cigarette and sat back, shaking with excitement. He had never felt like this in his life before, not even in the Paras in Ireland. Every sense felt keener, even the colors when he looked out at the passing streets seemed sharper. But the excitement, the damned excitement!

He closed his eyes. “My God, old sport, what’s happening to you?” he murmured.

He arrived at the St. Stephen’s entrance to the Commons, went through the Central Lobby to his office, and got rid of his umbrella and raincoat and put the Beretta in his safe, then went down to the entrance to the House and passed the bar. There was a debate taking place on some social services issue. He took his usual seat on the end of one of the aisles. When he looked up he saw Tom Curry seated in the front row of the Strangers’ Gallery, his left arm in a sling. Lang nodded up to him, folded his arms, and leaned back.

Half an hour later the London Times news desk received a brief message by telephone in which January 30 claimed credit for the assassination of Colonel Boris Ashimov.

In the three years which followed, Curry maintained a steady flow of confidential information of every description, aided by Lang. They made only three hits during the period. Two at the same time, a couple of IRA bombers released from trial at the Old Bailey on a legal technicality, who proceeded on a drunken spree that lasted all day. It was Curry who charted their progress until midnight, then called in Lang, who killed them both as they sat, backs to the wall, in a drunken stupor in a Kilburn alley.