“But you think I’d better actually do some gardening now and then, to fit my cover story, right?”

“Right,” she said with relief. “I’ll just show you the garage and the equipment and we’ll go back to Svetlana.”

Downstairs she pressed a button, and the garage door lifted. There was a riding mower, garden tools of every description, and a small Ford van in dark green. “It doesn’t look like much, but I use it as a general runaround. It’s been in here for years. Just use it as you see fit. The right documents are in the glove compartment, and they include Henri Duval’s name. The key’s in there also, and a hand control to let you in or out at the front gate.”

“Excellent.” He smiled. “Let’s go back to the conservatory and help Svetlana finish that bottle of champagne.”

SHORTLY AFTER THE news came out of the bloodbath at St. Mary and All the Saints, Ferguson had spoken to Roper. “It’s like Belfast on a bad Saturday night in the old days. The Prime Minister and the Cabinet Office are not pleased.”

“People like Basayev shouldn’t be allowed in our country just because they’ve got a few hundred million or a billion or so and it suits the City of London and the Treasury.”

“That’s as may be, but it doesn’t look good in the papers.”

“Oh, dear, I’m heartbroken, I really am.”

“So who’s responsible? Have you spoken to Lord Arthur Tilsey?”

“As a matter of fact, I have, and the Security Services are just as mystified as the rest of us.”

“It’s the Russians. It’s got to be. They tried to collar Basayev in Moscow. That’s why he fled here in the first place. Have you had words with Special Branch at Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, and the word under the counter is the killings are definitely the work of a professional hit man who knew what he was doing. Basayev really asked for it, advertising to the world that he liked to visit his wife’s memorial at that church every morning.”

“It’s got to be the Russians. Putin will be over the moon.”

“That’s what Kurbsky said.”

“What’s he got to do with it?”

“We watched Basayev in that television appearance last night. After all, Kurbsky was the other side in Chechnya. When I spoke to him today at Belsize, he suggested the SVR as a possibility.”

“Do you think that?” Ferguson asked.

“Too direct. As we know better than anyone, they used to give their dirty work on contract to the IRA, or some Muslim faction or other like Al Qaeda. They like to be able to blame someone else.”

“True enough. And due to Britain’s kindness in operating an open-door policy these days, there are an awful lot of real asylum-seekers here, real victims, any one of whom might have relished the thought of shooting that animal.”

“And perhaps did,” Roper said.

“Well, to other matters. It won’t have escaped your attention that the American Vice President, Grant Hardy, is in Paris at the NATO meeting.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it on the news, and seen Blake Johnson with him. He said in an interview that Blake would be coming to London to discuss NATO matters with the Ministry of Defence. Does that involve you, Charles?”

“Amongst others. But it raises the question again of when we can tell Blake and President Cazalet about Kurbsky.”

“You gave your word, Charles, to preserve his anonymity. Therefore, the choice is his, not yours.”

“Is he coming in?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Do me a favor and raise the matter with him, that’s all I ask.”

“Consider it done.”

“Where’s Dillon?”

“He’s gone to stay with Monica for a few days in Cambridge.”

“How the mighty are fallen.”

Roper poured a scotch and tapped into the news of the Basayev investigation. The fact that he and his chauffeur had both been armed had leaked and was being made much of. The Russian ambassador had denied any involvement in the matter, and so had Moscow.

So, with no more story, television had to fall back on fill-in stuff, clips from the war coverage in Chechnya, Basayev in the thick of it, dirty and unkempt and thoroughly ruthless. What was bad wasn’t just the carnage of war, but the bodies tumbling into open graves, filmed for real as machine guns did their deadly work, actual footage of Basayev standing there gloating like some Nazi. It was to be expected that he was a hate figure to the Russian Army. And yet Kurbsky had seemed curiously indifferent.

On impulse, Roper tapped into Kurbsky’s details again, particularly his war record with the Black Tigers. There were his decorations, and God knows, there were enough of them. Six in all, and a short citation with each one.

On the 5th of February, 1995, this officer, with no previous parachute training, jumped with his men over the Kuba Plateau in an attempt to apprehend General Shadid Basayev. The mission failed, but Lieutenant Kurbsky and Sergeant Yuri Bounine succeeded in rejoining the army, the only survivors of the unit.

Roper sat there looking at it, and Sergeant Doyle came in with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich. “There you go, sir.”

“Tony, what if I told you I had a man who dropped into action by parachute without any parachute training? What kind of man would do that?”

“A bleeding loony, sir, or a bloody hero. I remember one example I read about: the biggest paratroop drop in history, Arnhem in 1944. One of the outfits lost their doctor with a broken ankle just before boarding, and another young doctor who had no training took his place. They strapped on his chute in the plane and he did the business.” He paused at the door. “Some people will do anything for a laugh.”

He went out and Roper sat there, then tapped in “Sergeant Yuri Bounine.” Decorated twice, once for the same operation as Kurbsky. Transferred to GRU. Present rank Major. Commercial attaché at the Dublin Embassy.

He phoned Kurbsky. “Where are you?”

“Sorting a few things out in my new quarters over the garage. I spoke to that guy at the local shop up the road. He’s Indian-Hitesh Patel. An interesting guy, actually-a fourth-year medical student minding the store while his parents are in Bombay.”

“What are you up to this evening?”

“I thought I might come and see you. Is that okay?”

“I’m certainly not planning on going anywhere else. The television’s been full of the Basayev shooting. Some of the old footage from the Chechen war shows him in a less-than-flattering light. Was that your opinion, too?”

Roper knew something, it was obvious from his tone. The finest way of handling that was to tell the truth. Kurbsky said, “He was a vile, sadistic monster, evil in every way. Even the Devil would reject him from Hell. And am I happy that somebody shot the bastard? I couldn’t be more delighted.”

“Well, that’s plain enough.”

“By the way, Katya’s given me a Ford van of the kind gardeners use, to help with my cover. It’s green, and I’ll give you the number.”

Roper took it. “I’ll see you later, then.”

They rang off. Kurbsky sat there, then called Bounine and found him in his quarters. “It’s Alex, Yuri. How did Luzhkov take it?”

“He was terribly put out at first, but phoned Putin on his special number. The Prime Minister was delighted and apparently approves of you making fools of Ferguson’s people. Luzhkov says he’s going to leave contact with you to me, because I’m the only person you trust.”

“That’s good, but I have Roper to contend with-a difficult man to fool. Tell me, Yuri, if you bring up your career details on computer does it show the London posting?”

“No, that’s classified information because of the peculiarities of the job. It’s word of mouth only. As far as my records are concerned, I’m still commercial attaché at Dublin.”

“Excellent. I’ll speak to you whenever.”

“Just a minute. Something’s come up and it affects someone who’s a friend of Ferguson and his people.”