“And so?”

“It was by the rail track. Turgin is Ivanov.”

“So Kurbsky killed Ivanov? What’s Moscow doing about it?”

“Putting out a story of rogue elements in the military, deserters.

It will be embellished when the other two bodies turn up, as they surely will. False papers, of course. A chambermaid who serviced their rooms, a Ukrainian named Olga Soran, has already been visited by our people in Paris and sent home on the first plane available.”

“So what happens now? Are you going to try and speak to Kurbsky?”

“I think we’ll leave him to settle in. They’ve undoubtedly taken him to Ferguson ’s headquarters in Holland Park. That’s where they will debrief him.”

“And then what?”

“Who knows? They could keep him there in complete comfort and privacy for as long as they like.”

“But he won’t want that, a man like Kurbsky. He’ll get too restless.”

“I agree. We must wait for Kurbsky to contact us. Charles Ferguson is an extremely clever man, Bounine. Kurbsky is a problem to which a solution must be found. There won’t be a quick one, so we wait, but this doesn’t mean a holiday for you, my friend. This is your first posting here, so use your time wisely. Take Oleg as your driver, he knows the city. He’s been here two years. Get him to show you the sights, as it were. You’re Major Bounine now. Use your authority.”

“Thank you, Colonel, I’ll do that.” Bounine turned and withdrew.

IT WAS JUST after six when Kurbsky returned to the computer room. Roper sat there alone, music playing softly. “Cole Porter?” Kurbsky said. “You like that kind of music?”

“It’s a comfort,” Roper told him. “How do you feel?”

“The sleep did me good.”

Roper reached for the whiskey. “A drink?”

“Not at the moment. The Salters invited me to call in at their pub, this Dark Man on Cable Wharf.”

“The first joint Harry owned. He’s got millions in property now. So you fancy spreading your wings?”

“Billy said it would be like testing the water.”

“He could be right. Past the Tower of London, Wapping High Street, down to the river.”

“I remember Wapping well. Those two years I spent with Svetlana at the university, I got to know the city backwards. Seventeen to nineteen is exactly the right age for that, and already I’m remembering it all. Tell me about this place we’re in now.”

“Local people think we’re some sort of sanitarium. Of course, people in the business, like Boris Luzhkov, know very well who we are, but we’re protected by all sorts of security-double blinds, secret exits and entrances, the works.”

“So I could simply walk out?”

“If you want to. Two hundred yards past Holland Park to the main road, plenty of cabs cruising, and the world’s your oyster.”

“And it would be all right?”

“Not for Alexander Kurbsky, but okay for Henri Duval. If you want to test the water, my friend, do it.” He lit a cigarette. “What is it you want? You’ve jumped over the wall, you’re free.”

“Am I really?” Kurbsky shook his head. “In personal terms, I look on myself as the invisible man, because no one sees the real me. I could write about that and what it’s like.”

“That’s certainly an interesting thought. I would think it would make an extraordinary book.”

“But first, I must experience it.” Kurbsky stood, picked up his bag, and slipped the carrying strap over his head so that the bag was on his right thigh. “I’ll tell you later.”

“You surely will. I’m part of the furniture. The Judas gate opens automatically when you approach because I’ve punched you into the system.”

WHICH IT DID. He stepped through and found himself on a quiet street, most of the properties Victorian, some walled, others in sizable gardens. It was dark now, streetlamps glowing, lots of parked cars, everything perfectly normal. The main road was extremely busy. He stood at the edge of the pavement and flagged down a black cab and told the driver to take him to Wapping High Street.

He sat there, looking out at the busy streets, the evening traffic, the buzz of what was still the greatest city in the world, remembering so much from his youth. He was aware of the driver glancing at him in the mirror occasionally and decided to say something, trying for just a hint of a French accent.

“You know the Dark Man on Cable Wharf at Wapping?”

“I certainly do.” The driver was obviously a Cockney.

“Just drop me off at the High Street end. I want to go to a shop there.”

“Fine by me. Watch it walking down to the Dark Man. It’s a great pub, but some of the streets leading down there are a problem. Bloody kids and their knives. The world’s gone mad. It’s all the drugs, I reckon.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that.”

The cabbie’s eyes flickered over him again. “Are you okay, mate? You don’t look too well.”

Kurbsky decided to go all the way. “Chemotherapy. It takes its toll.”

“Cancer? Christ, mate, I’m sorry. It must be bloody rough.”

He obviously felt subdued and said nothing more, all the way to the Tower of London and farther into Wapping High Street. He finally pulled in at the sidewalk under a streetlamp and Kurbsky alighted and leaned down to pay him.

The driver gave him his change. “Take care, mate.”

He drove away hurriedly, and Kurbsky turned and discovered a dress shop, mannequins in the window. There was also his reflection in a mirror, looking like a ghoul.

“My God, Alex, where did you go?” he said softly, walked a few yards, and came to a lane with the sign that read “ Cable Wharf ” above it. It was dark and somehow sinister, the streetlamps of the old London gaslight pattern, some broken. He didn’t feel the slightest fear, though. For one thing, he had the bone-handled gutting knife inside his right boot. He started to walk down.

IT HAD OBVIOUSLY been an area of thriving warehouses in its day, but most of them were decaying now and boarded up, waiting for the developers. He walked along the center of the street carefully, aware of voices up ahead and some sort of fire. As he got closer, he saw what it was, an old trash can with rubbish of some kind burning away in a courtyard behind a broken wall.

Two youths drinking from bottles were standing beside the fire, taking turns to kick an old ragged tramp who lay whimpering on the ground. There was an old woman in a beret and a layer of coats, a bag on the ground, its contents spilled. She was very drunk and crying.

“Stop it, you’ll kill him.”

The youths were laughing, and the tallest one shoved her away. “Piss off, you old cow.” He turned and kicked the man in the head again.

Kurbsky stood and watched. The youth said, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

“She’s got a point,” Kurbsky said, and unzipped the false bottom of his bag. There were two Walthers in there, and the one that had killed the GRU men on the train had some surgical tape he’d found in the bathroom around the butt.

The youth reached in his anorak, produced a flick knife, and sprang the blade. “My friend’s got one too,” he said as his companion produced a similar weapon. “Let’s see what you’ve got in the bag.”

“My pleasure.” Kurbsky took out the Walther from the train and hit him across the side of the head. The youth dropped his weapon with a cry of pain and fell on one knee, his friend backed away, and Kurbsky picked up the knife, closed the blade, and put it in his pocket. “This is a Walther PPK, the real thing, not an imitation. It has a fantastic stopping power.” He fired at a tin can among the rubbish, there was a dull thud, and the can jumped in the air. “Imagine what that could do to your knee. Now go away very fast.”

The undamaged one said, “Come on, for Christ’s sake, he means it.” He darted away up toward the High Street while the woman was piling her belongings into her bag and the old man was getting to his feet. The youth Kurbsky had injured had fallen to his knee again, and the old couple moved past him surprisingly fast. He came up slowly, a brick in his hand.