“You bastard, I’ll smash your skull.”

Kurbsky’s hand swung up, he fired, and the lower half of the youth’s left ear disintegrated. He screamed, and plucked at his ear, blood oozing between his fingers. He fell back against the wall.

Kurbsky said, “You never learn, people like you. Now clear off and find a hospital.”

He walked away, swallowed by darkness. The youth cried, “You fucking bastard,” then turned and stumbled away.

KURBSKY CAME OUT of the darkness and walked along Cable Wharf. On his left was the panorama of London on the other side, lights gleaming everywhere, the sound of distant traffic, a pleasure boat sailing by, all lit up. He came to a multistoried development of what looked like exclusive apartments, but the Dark Man standing beside it was a typical river pub that obviously dated from Victorian times. There was a car park and, beyond, several boats moored at the jetty. He went to the entrance, paused, then went inside.

It wasn’t particularly crowded. The bar was very Victorian: mirrors, lots of mahogany and marble. The beer pumps were porcelain. The Salters were sitting in a corner booth, two hard-looking men leaning against the wall behind listening to the conversation. As he discovered later, they were Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, Harry Salter’s minders. Nobody noticed him, and he hesitated and turned to the bar, where an attractive blonde was serving. She looked curiously at him, as did two or three customers standing enjoying a drink together.

“What’s your pleasure, love?” she asked.

“Vodka, if you please, Madame.”

“Tonic?”

“No, as it comes.”

She put the glass before him and he took off his woolen hat. She winced perceptibly. “Are you all right, love?”

“Absolutely.” He took the vodka straight down.

Billy appeared. “Henri, my old friend, we’d just about given you up. You’ve met our Ruby, Mrs. Moon? She’s captain of the ship, keeps us all in order. Henri Duval, Ruby.”

She seemed uncertain, and Kurbsky said, “You have been very kind, Madame.”

Billy whisked him away, and she watched as Harry greeted him, and Baxter and Hall were introduced, and then Billy returned. “Another large vodka for him and a scotch for Harry.”

“Is he all right?” she said. “Or does he have what I think he has?”

“Answering your first question, he gets by, and yes, he has lung cancer. He’s on chemotherapy at the Marsden.”

“So he’s French?”

Billy proceeded to give her Henri Duval’s background, which included his lack of relatives. “He normally lives in Torquay, but he needed to be in London for the treatment. His mother was a cousin of Harry’s.”

“I see. I feel so sorry for him.”

“Well, you’ve got a good heart, Ruby, we all know that.”

She took the drinks across and said to Kurbsky. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Billy’s been telling me all about you. When you feel like something to eat, let me know. Steak-and-ale pie tonight.”

“Sounds marvelous,” Kurbsky told her.

“We’ll all have a go at that,” Harry said.

Ruby nodded and went away, and Baxter and Hall drifted to the other end of the bar and joined two men drinking there.

Harry nodded at the vodka. “Should you be drinking that in your condition?”

“I’ve checked it out. It varies with people.” He took it down, Russian style. “I suppose it reminds me that there’s still a real me lurking around inside.”

“I take your point,” Billy said. “How’s it going?”

“So far so good. I walked down from the safe house, hailed a cab. Dropped off in Wapping High Street.”

“And walked down here?” Harry asked. “You’ve got to watch that,” Harry told him. “What with all those streets empty and waiting for the developers, you get some funny people hanging around.”

“Not that I noticed,” Kurbsky said.

“Anyway, it does seem to be working?” Billy asked.

“So it seems. Take Ruby, she was troubled. I had a cabdriver who asked me if I was okay. He said I didn’t look too well.”

“Yes, well, he was sorry for you.”

Kurbsky didn’t even smile. “I’m not used to that, but Katya Zorin would be pleased. It’s all working out exactly as she had hoped.”

“And where’s it all going to end, that’s what I’d like to know,” Billy said.

Kurbsky shrugged. “Don’t ask me, I’m just passing through.”

Ruby waved from behind the bar, and Harry said, “That’s enough for now. Let’s have you in the back parlor for a big slice of Ruby’s steak-and-ale pie. You’ll love it, believe me.”

AROUND TEN, Kurbsky decided he’d had enough and said he’d order a taxi back to Holland Park, but Billy wouldn’t hear of it and insisted on taking him in his scarlet Alfa Romeo.

“It’s no hardship-I like driving by night, particularly after midnight. I find it calming, locked in tight in your very own world.”

“And rain,” Kurbsky said. “There’s something special about that, the windscreen wipers clicking back and forth. It’s hypnotic.”

Billy said suddenly, “When I finished On the Death of Men, I felt such a sense of loss, I started again at the beginning straightaway.”

“I’m flattered.”

“It’s the truth. I may be a gangster, but one day years ago, I was in some waiting room when I found a paperback about famous philosophers. It bowled me over. I loved that stuff, then Dillon came into our lives spouting the same ideas.”

“Dillon was that important to you?”

“Harry, me, and the boys were handling a hot package from Amsterdam on one of my uncle’s riverboats. Diamonds from Amsterdam. There was a police sting. We’d have gone down the steps for ten years, only Dillon diverted the package.”

“What happened then?”

“He worked for Ferguson and drew us in. We’ve never looked back. To be honest, Harry’s made millions out of development.”

“So who needs to rob banks?”

“Something like that.”

They drew up at Holland Park. “Are you coming in?” Kurbsky asked.

“Just give Roper my love, and good luck tomorrow.”

Kurbsky got out, watched the Alfa Romeo drive away. It was quiet, and he turned and walked to the Judas in the main gate, was about to speak into the voice box when the Judas swung open. He stepped inside, walked forward, and it closed behind him.

Roper was seated in his usual spot, gazing at the screens. He turned. “Did you have a good night? Tell me about it.”

Which Kurbsky did, sitting down and helping himself to another vodka. “There is one thing,” he said. “People do look at me, because I’m unusual…”

“Or because they recognize you for what you are, an outpatient on chemotherapy, which means cancer. Most people know that, if only because it’s a staple of medical soaps on television. They feel sorry for you.”

“Or uncomfortable. There were fifty or sixty customers in the bar just before I left, and I’ve got the feeling a number of them were happy to see me go.”

“I know what you mean. It’s like people not wanting some soldier who’s lost a leg in Afghanistan swimming in the local pool.”

“Human nature,” Kurbsky said, glancing up. “Just a moment, what’s that?”

“A late-night news program.”

“It said something about Shadid Basayev, or maybe I was wrong.”

“You weren’t. General Shadid Basayev, a Chechen general. He’s been granted asylum. It was on about an hour ago. I recorded the program because there was an end piece I needed on Al Qaeda. Hold on, I’ll rewind. Here we go.”

There was some footage from the first Chechen war, the general in a tank, then inspecting men at some hill station, a burly man with a brutal hard face and the cheekbones of some Mongol warrior. His uniform was understated, the cap crumpled, the military shirt of a common soldier, a worn leather coat, boots. As he walked along the front rank, men turned their faces toward him.

“That’s a nice touch,” Roper said.

“Yes, Nazi style. He introduced it to his men.”