KAT YA HAD TWEAKED the film a certain amount, but it was pretty much the same as she had first shown to Svetlana, Dillon, and Monica at Chamber Court. She talked it through, and when she was finished, said, “Let’s show it once more, I think, so that Alex really gets the idea.”

There was silence when she finally froze on the final image of what he had become, standing there in hospital scrubs.

“Very impressive,” Kurbsky said. “An audacious plan.” He turned to Svetlana. “What do you think?”

“It would be wonderful if it gave you the chance to stay at the house, at least for a while, so that I could get close again, get to know you.”

“Let’s analyze the situation. If the GRU thinks I’m in London, they’ll try and seek me out. On the other hand, the last thing they’d want to do is advertise the fact of my presence here. They’d prefer to kidnap me or kill me in some unobtrusive way.”

“All that makes sense,” Ferguson said.

“So I don’t think they’ll bring in the heavy artillery. They’ll wait and watch. If I become wretched Henri Duval, the walking ghoul, dying of lung cancer, racked by the effects of chemotherapy, the odd-job man living over the garage at the house, it’ll be so different from what they expected to find that eventually they’ll just move on. Of course, if it doesn’t work and they sniff me out, I can always do a runner.”

“So you’re up for it?” Dillon said.

“The sooner the better. To make such a fundamental change in me so quickly will vastly increase our chances of success.”

Ferguson was excited. “That’s it, then, people.” He turned to Katya. “When do you want to start?”

“As soon as possible. I’ve brought my makeup box in the car, my hairdressing essentials, certain drugs I want him to take. I understand you keep a wardrobe of assorted clothing and footwear here as a backup for your operations.”

“We certainly do, and anything extra that you need, we can get.”

“Excellent.” She kissed Svetlana on the cheeks. “Go now, love, back to the apartment. Billy will take you. He’ll make sure you get anything you need.”

“Gold room service,” Billy said, gave her his arm, and took her to the door. She stopped him and turned, looking at Kurbsky. “I’m afraid, Alexander, that in finding you again, I will lose you.”

He blew her a kiss. “You will never lose me again, Babushka, I swear it.”

They left. Katya said, “Right, the stuff from my car, and you, Monica.” She nodded. “Yes, you can assist me. It will be good to have you there.” She turned to Ferguson. “But no one else. This must be understood.”

She turned and walked out, with Kurbsky and Monica following.

The wardrobe area at Holland Park was rather theatrical, when you considered it, filled with walk-in wardrobes containing a wide selection of clothes, even uniforms. There was a screen high up in the corner, and when Katya switched it on, it showed the final image she had frozen on the viewing theater set, the lost-looking hopeless creature in hospital scrubs.

She made Kurbsky undress and put on cotton pajama trousers, and he sat facing the mirrors, the hair wild, the beard tangled. “You look like Sir Francis Drake getting ready to sail out against the Spanish Armada, doesn’t he, Monica?”

“Is that so?” Kurbsky said. “Romantic tosh!”

“Shut up and take these.” She opened a box and shook out two large pills. He examined them. “What are they?”

“You don’t need to know.” She poured a glass of tap water. “You will take two each day. You will notice a darkening under the eyes, which will look like bruising. This will help in the illusion that you are on chemotherapy. They work very quickly.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m in theater. It’s my business to know.”

He shrugged and washed the pills down. “Now what?”

“A sheet about his shoulders, Monica.” She turned to a selection of scissors. “So now I shall be Delilah and you Samson, I think. The beard first.”

SHE WAS VERY expert, and quickly reduced the beard to the point where she was able to go to work with an electric razor. The clear chin and mouth really made a difference to the appearance. Then she started hacking the long hair off in handfuls. He made no complaint, even when she obviously hurt him, and finally it was reduced to a stubble. Now she spread foam over the skull, massaging it into the face also, and went to work with the electric razor again.

Finally, she produced a cutthroat razor. “Good God, not that as well?”

“It’s necessary, believe me.”

And she was right. It had changed his appearance totally. The skull, the cheekbones well pronounced over hollow cheeks. She applied some sort of cream, massaging it under the eyes and into the scalp. “It’s making things darker already. In a little while, it will be even darker, but the drug is more permanent in that way. It helps with the haunted look.” She turned to Monica. “What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. It’s just not the same person.”

“And we haven’t even started on dress. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

TH E WARDROBES WERE as big as small rooms, and the three of them explored. “What am I supposed to look like?”

“A street person, someone on welfare, a struggling student. In all these personas, there is a constant. You’re on chemotherapy and you have lung cancer. Roper has inserted you into the Royal Marsden Hospital ’s cancer records. If anyone checks, you’re there. He did the same at London University, where you took an English degree. You’ve worked for the Daily Express and the Mail. It says so in their records. Born in Torquay in Devon to a French doctor and an English mother. You lived in Paris for ten years, then your father was killed in a car accident-again, that’s all a matter of record-and your mother and you returned to England. You understandably have a tendency to a French accent.”

“What’s happened to her?”

“Breast cancer four years ago.”

“I feel as if I should take it personally.” He started working his way through clothing. He finally settled on a drab-olive-green T-shirt and pulled it on. Next he discovered some baggy olive-green trousers with big patch pockets.

“Ah, the military look,” Monica said.

Katya said, “Not really. The kind of people I’m talking about wear stuff like this all the time. It’s extremely cheap. The sort of thing you can pick up in surplus shops.”

He found a pair of French paratrooper boots next, which fitted well, and a large three-quarter-length combat jacket of some sort, once again with capacious pockets.

“I may not have much, but even on the street I’ll need a bag of some sort.” Katya, rummaging on a high shelf, had the answer. Also olive green, it was a good size and had grab handles or a cross-body strap if preferred. She passed it to him, and he examined it. The interior base had an inside zip, providing, in effect, a secret compartment.

“This will do me.”

“Change of underwear, extra T-shirt, socks?” Katya said.

“Now you’re spoiling me.” He slung the bag by the body strap across his chest and worked his way along the shelves. He found a black woolen hat and pulled it over his skull. “Will I do?” he asked Monica.

“I suppose so, if you want a job on a building site.”

He continued to search, found a reasonable pair of leather gloves, and put them in the bag. His back was turned, and as he rummaged further, he found a couple of black knitted ski masks staring up at him with empty eyes and wide mouths. He hesitated, then stuffed them in the bag too, along with a couple of British Army Field Service wound packs from a stack he found on the shelf.

Katya said, “Is that it?”