The television footage helped him find Basayev’s wife’s grave quickly too. It was neat enough, a curve of speckled marble rising in the center to a portrait of a handsome, dark-haired woman in a circle of glass. “In Memoriam Rosa Rossi Basayev. Never Forgotten,” was the inscription in gold lettering, followed by a date.

Kurbsky stepped back to the other side of the path, where there was a marble doorway, a bench across it, a standing cross behind. He sat down, opened his bag, and found the silenced Walther. He cocked it and held it by his side, remembering Kuba, the monastery, and what Basayev had done so long ago. He felt calm, quite detached, and it was quiet, just the rain rushing down. Maybe Basayev wouldn’t come after all, but that was all right. He could come back.

THE MERCEDES pulled in at the front of the church. The chauffeur had served under Basayev in Chechnya, had been his driver for years. He had an umbrella on the floor beside him, which he took with him as he went to assist his master. He opened it and handed it to Basayev as he got out.

A few yards from the church on the corner of a side street, a young woman sat under a canopy with flowers for sale. “The usual, Josef, bring them to me,” Basayev told him.

He turned into the side path to the cemetery, and Josef got another umbrella from the back of the car and approached the girl.

BASAYEV WAS QUITE close to his wife’s memorial before he noticed Kurbsky, and he slowed. “What are you doing here?” He spoke in English. “What do you want?”

“You,” Kurbsky told him in Russian. “It’s been a long time since Kuba. Remember the monastery, the courtyard, the nine Black Tigers who weren’t dancing on air because you’d butchered them before you hung them up? It was raining then, too.”

“What in the hell are you talking about? Who are you?”

“Alexander Kurbsky, and don’t tell me that name hasn’t meant something to you over the years. Remember the cellar in the monastery where you persuaded me to surrender? You gave me your word, one soldier to another, that the articles of war would be strictly observed at all times, then you butchered nine of my men.”

At that moment, Josef came around the corner with the bunch of flowers in one hand, the umbrella in the other. “Here I am, boss,” he said in Russian.

Basayev turned and shouted, “Help me, Josef, he’s going to kill me.”

Josef dropped both the flowers and the umbrella and drew a pistol. Kurbsky, with no option, shot him in the heart and turned to find Basayev already scrambling away through the gravestones. He shot him in the back of the head, fragments of bone and brain spraying out as he fell on his face. He walked back up the path to Josef, still dying, and finished him off with a head shot.

He stood listening for a moment, but everything was still, no evidence of any disturbance, thanks to the silenced Walther. It was now that his examination of the street maps paid off. He walked quickly to the other end of the cemetery and found what he was looking for, another gate leading out to a quiet backstreet, and he started to walk through Mayfair, one street after another.

He felt no elation, no satisfaction. It was not needed. Shadid Basayev had been responsible for carnage and butchery and the ethnic cleansing of several thousand people. Thanks to the stupidity of society, he had been rewarded with many millions and the right to live in luxury in the best part of London. Now his account was closed.

AN HOUR LATER, he stopped in a small square with a garden and benches. There was no need to tell Roper and company about what he’d done. On the other hand, Moscow would be delighted to hear of Basayev’s assassination, and he had Tania to think about, after all. It would be to his credit.

He used his encrypted mobile to reach not Luzhkov but Bounine, and got him straightaway. “Yuri, it’s me, Alex. Where are you? Can you talk?”

“In my office.” Bounine was surprised. “Yes, of course I can talk.”

“Did you see Shadid Basayev on BBC television last night?”

“I sure did. The scum.”

“Tell me, does he have a chauffeur named Josef?”

“Yes, Josef Limov. He served under him in Chechnya. He’s been his personal hit man for years.”

“Ah, that’s good, I don’t need to feel bad about killing him.”

Bounine said, “Killing him? Are you crazy?”

“I hope not. I’ve just shot him dead in the cemetery at St. Mary and All the Saints, along with Basayev, of course. He was my primary target. You know he said he liked to look in on his wife’s memorial every morning? I thought I’d say hello.”

“Alex, there hasn’t been a word of this on radio or television.”

“Because they haven’t found the bodies yet.”

“But how could this happen? Is this something to do with Ferguson ’s people?”

“They don’t know a thing about it, and that’s how it stays.” He lied now. “I’m very happy living in the safe house at Holland Park. I have an arrangement where I’m allowed out for a break on my own. They trust me completely.”

“So you’re going back in there?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Tell Luzhkov I’ll be in touch again when I feel like it, I don’t want him trying to call me. This should make him look good in Moscow, don’t you think?”

“What about your aunt?”

“What do you mean? The whole idea was to guarantee my anonymity so that no one except Ferguson’s people know I’m here. Svetlana is the last person I’d want to involve. I don’t want her bothered, Yuri, you understand me?”

He clicked off, and at the other end Bounine shook his head and smiled slightly. “Christ Almighty-Basayev. I hope he rots in hell.” He got up and went off to find Luzhkov.

KURBSKY WALKED FARTHER until he finally came to Oxford Street. He was thinking of Svetlana and Katya now. It was time he made his way to Belsize Park, and then he came to a large bookstore, the windows full of displays and deals, and there was On the Death of Men. It was a new edition from his London publisher. On impulse he went in the store, took off his woolen hat and put it in his pocket, then wandered around a little before approaching the counter.

The assistant he chose was a long-haired young man of studious appearance and intense. “Can I help you?”

Kurbsky put on his French accent. “There is this novel, On the Death of Men by Alexander Kurbsky. I’ve read it in French, but I see you have a new edition in English? I would enjoy comparing the two.”

The young man turned away and was back in a moment with a copy. “An excellent idea. I suppose it could be argued that to really get the essence of it, one should read it in Russian.”

“I see your point,” Kurbsky said. “Have you read it?”

“Good heavens, yes, who hasn’t? A remarkable man.”

He had the book in his hand, and Kurbsky said, “The French edition I read had no photo.”

“This one has, a most excellent one.” He showed it to him.

Kurbsky nodded. “He looks like quite a character.”

The young man smiled with real enthusiasm. “I only wish we could get him in here for a book signing. They’d be queuing round the block. Will you take it, sir?”

“Certainly.” Kurbsky paid cash and, playing his role to the hilt, said, “I’m going in for more therapy. Reading it will help pass the time.”

The young man’s face clouded. “I hope things go well for you.”

“So do I.”

He went out, dropped the book in his bag, and pulled his woolen hat back on. It was the ultimate test and he had passed it. Time to report in at Chamber Court. He decided to go on the underground and made for the nearest station.

IT WAS AROUND that time that Father Patrick Meehan, after an hour of hearing confession in St. Mary’s, went into the vestry, found an umbrella, and went out through the side door to have a smoke. He had managed to get his consumption down to five a day. A desperate struggle, but he was trying hard. He lit up, turned into the cemetery, and almost fell over Josef.