Chapter 2

Ferguson hadn’t bothered with a steward on the trip over, just his usual two pilots, Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry. They passed the coast at thirty thousand feet and started out over the Atlantic. After a while, Parry appeared.

“Our American cousins have been more than generous, sir,” he told Ferguson. “Plenty of intriguing grub in the kitchen area, champagne in the fridge.”

“What’s our estimated time of arrival?”

“We should hit Farley Field spot on four o’clock, General.”

He returned to the cockpit. Ferguson said, “I’m going to make some calls. Excuse me.”

He called London on his Codex Four, first Bellamy, the doctor in charge of Rosedene, the special medical unit maintained for Secret Security Service personnel, mainly the victims of some black operation or other. He found Bellamy in his office.

“It’s me. How’s Hannah?”

“Well, the head tests are fine, so they’re transferring her back here for continuing care. The thing is, the traumas she’s had in the last two years have really dragged her down. Her heart isn’t good—not good at all.”

“Is she receiving visitors?”

“Her grandfather and father. They’re being sensible, not overdoing it. It’s Dillon I’ve had to have words with.”

Ferguson frowned. “Why?”

“He’d be round every five minutes if I’d let him. In a funny kind of way, he seems to blame himself for Hannah being in this situation.”

“Nonsense. If there’s ever a woman who knows her own mind, it’s Hannah Bernstein. She’s always done the job because she wants to do the job. It’s everything to her. I’ll look in this evening.”

He thought about it for a while, then called Roper at Regency Square. Roper was permanently confined to a wheelchair as the result of an IRA bomb several years ago, and his ground-floor apartment was designed to enable a severely handicapped person to fend for himself. Everything was state of the art, from kitchen to bathroom facilities. His computer equipment was state of the art as well, some of it highly secret and obtained by Ferguson’s liberal use of muscle. Roper was at his computer bank when the General called.

“So how did it go?”

Ferguson told him of his talk with Cazalet. “I’ve got Blake with me. He’s going to stay at my place for a day or two while we see if we can make any sense out of all this.”

“Blake’s got a point when he said it’s as if it never happened.”

“And that’s what Belov International is confirming by announcing Belov’s visit to Station Gorky.”

“Well, one thing is certain. You know this goes to the highest level in Moscow, and that includes Putin himself. The worldwide economics involved are simply too important. Whatever has happened, there’s bound to be a Kremlin connection.”

“Then can’t you find out what? Dammit, man, there must be traffic somewhere out there in cyberspace that has something to do with it.”

“Not that I’ve seen. Have we got anyone who could nose around at Drumore, do an undercover job? Pretend to be a tourist or something?”

“Hmm, that’s an idea. If you see Dillon, mention it to him, would you? I’ll see you later.”

Ferguson sat there for a moment, frowning, then went to the small bar and helped himself to a scotch. Blake said, “Problem?”

“Bellamy at Rosedene says Dillon’s going through some sort of guilt feeling over Hannah. It’s as if he feels responsible for her condition.”

“They’ve always had a strange relationship, those two.”

Ferguson nodded. “She could never forgive him all those years with the IRA, all those deaths. She could never accept that his slate could be wiped clean.”

“And Dillon?”

“Always saw it as a great game. He’s a walking contradiction—warm and humorous, yet he kills at the drop of a hat. There’s nothing I could ask him to do that he would find too outrageous.”

“Everything a challenge,” Blake said. “Nothing too dangerous.”

“And on so many occasions she’s been dragged along with him.”

“And you think that’s what makes him feel guilty now?”

“Something like that.”

“And where would that leave you? After all, you give the orders, Charles.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Ferguson swallowed his scotch down and looked at the empty glass bleakly. “You know, I think I’ll have the other half.”

“Why not?” Blake said. “And I’ll join you. You look as if you could do with the company.”

Dillon arrived at Rosedene in the middle of the afternoon, parked his Mini Cooper outside and went in. As he approached the desk, Professor Henry Bellamy came out of his office.

“Now, look, Sean, she’s just been moved, you know that. Give her a chance to settle in.”

“How is she?” Dillon’s face was very pale.

“What do you expect me to say? As well as can be expected?”

At that moment, Rabbi Julian Bernstein, Hannah’s grandfather, came out of the hospitality room. He put both hands on Dillon’s shoulders.

“Sean, you look terrible.”

Bellamy eased himself away. Dillon said, “This life of Hannah’s, Rabbi, I’ve said it before, you must hate it. You must hate us all.”

“My dear boy, it’s the life she chose. I’m a practical man. Jews have to be. I accept that there are people who elect to take on the kind of work that ordinary members of society don’t want to, well, soil their hands with.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Yes. She’s very tired, but I think you may say hello, show your face and then go. Room ten.”

He patted Dillon on the shoulder, turned away and Dillon passed through the doors to the rear corridor.

When he went in, the room was in half darkness, the matron, Maggie Duncan, drawing the curtains. She turned and came forward. Her voice had a tinge of the Scottish Highlands about it.

“Here you are again, Sean. What am I going to do with you?” She patted his face. “God knows, I’ve patched you up enough times over the years.”

“You can’t patch me up this time, Maggie. How is she?”

They both turned and looked at Hannah Bernstein, festooned in a seemingly endless web of tubes and drips, oxygen equipment and electronic screens. Her eyes were closed, the lids almost translucent.

Maggie said, “She’s very weak. It’s a huge load for her heart to bear.”

“It would be. We expected too much from her, all of us. Especially me,” Dillon said.

“When she was in last year, when that Party of God terrorist shot her, we used to talk a lot and mainly about you. She’s very fond of you, Sean. Oh, she might not approve, but she’s very fond.”

“I’d like to believe that,” Dillon said. “But let’s say I don’t deserve it.”

Hannah’s eyelids flickered open. She said softly, “What’s wrong, Sean? Feeling sorry for yourself, the hard man of the IRA?”

“Damn sorry,” he told her, “and you putting the fear of God in me.”

“Oh, dear, I’m in the wrong again.”

Maggie Duncan said, “Two minutes, Sean, and I’ll be back.”

She went out, the door closed softly and Dillon stood at the end of the bed. “Mea culpa,” he said.

“There you go, blaming yourself again. It’s a kind of self-justification—no, worse, an overindulgence. Is that some kind of Irish thing?”

“Damn you!” he said.

“No, damn you, though that’s been taken care of.” She frowned. “What a terrible thing to say. How could I?” She reached out her thin left hand, which he took, and she gripped his hand with surprising strength. “You’re a good man, Sean, a good man in spite of yourself. I’ve always known that.”

The grip slackened, and Dillon, almost choking with emotion, let her hand go gently. The eyes closed, and when she spoke again her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Night bless, Sean.”

Dillon made it out to the corridor, where he leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. A young nurse pushing a trolley approached and paused at the door, glancing at him with a frown. She was pretty enough, high cheekbones, dark eyes.

“Are you all right?”

Her accent was Dublin Irish. He nodded. “I’m fine. What are you doing?”

“Seeing to the Superintendent’s medication.”

“I think she’s gone to sleep again.”

“Ah, then it can wait.”

She pushed the trolley away. He paused, watching her go, then made for reception, ignoring Maggie Duncan’s call from behind, went down the entrance steps to the car park and headed for the Mini Cooper.

Roper, having fruitlessly tried some obvious routes through the computer, sat back frustrated. Of course, the real problem was that he didn’t really know what he was looking for, but one thing was certain. There was something wrong here. What was it Blake had said? It was as if it had never happened. But it had.

“Time to get back to basics,” he said softly, and called Dillon on his Codex Four. “Where are you?”

“I was with Hannah at Rosedene. I’ve just parked outside Saint Paul’s.”

“Visiting the Holy Mother again, are we? How was Hannah?”

“Hanging in there.”

“Good. I’ve had a call from Ferguson. Cazalet wants answers on the whole Belov thing. He’s sent Blake Johnson over to help, but it’s up to us, and Ferguson wants an explanation. I’m going round to see the Salters at the Dark Man, so meet me there.”

“As soon as I can.”

Dillon had parked outside St. Paul’s Church, around the corner from Harley Street, for a reason. The priest in charge was a professor of psychiatry at London University, and was much used by people operating for Ferguson who experienced mental problems. This had applied to Dillon on occasion.

He went up the steps to the entrance and entered through the small Judas gate. There was a smell of incense, candles flaring beside a statue of the Virgin and Child, a feeling of being apart, separate from everyday life, the sound of traffic outside very remote. It reminded Dillon of the church of his childhood, in County Down, which was hardly surprising, for St. Paul’s Church was Anglo-Catholic, the oldest branch of the Church of England. However, it moved with the times enough to allow priests to marry and to allow a woman priest, and there she was now, a pleasant, calm woman in cassock and clerical collar who had just opened the door of the vestry and was ushering a young woman inside.

She turned and there was immediate concern on her face. “Sean?” she said, then turned to the young woman. “Go in for me, Mary. Put the kettle on.” She closed the door and said anxiously, “Is it Hannah? She’s not …”

“No.” Dillon put a hand up in a strangely defensive gesture. “Very poorly, but not that. The brain’s been cleared, so she’s been returned to Rosedene, but she’s not good. Bellamy’s worried about the cumulative effect of all her injuries in the past few years. It seems her heart’s not as it should be, but then, you’d expect that.”

She embraced him, holding him tight for a moment. “My dearest Sean. You want to see me?”

“As a psychiatrist or as a priest? God knows. Isn’t it what the truly wicked of this world do? Try and cover their backs?” His smile was cold and bleak. “Anyway, you’re busy. Perhaps another time.”

He walked to the great door and opened the small Judas gate. “It’s appropriate, don’t you think, especially for someone like me? Judas was a political terrorist called a Zealot, and my branch of the great game was the IRA.”

She shook her head gravely. “Such talk is pointless, Sean.”

He said tonelessly, “Ashimov ran her down like a dog, quite deliberately. As I got to her, she was trying to haul herself up by the railings, and I told her, ‘You’re all right, just hold on to me,’ but there was blood on her face and I was afraid. It was different. Special in the wrong way. When I was driving back to Rosedene with her in the seat beside me, I swore I’d kill Ashimov if it was the last thing I did on top of the earth.”

“I thought it was Billy who killed Ashimov.”

“Yes, but I got all those others: Belov, Tod Murphy, even Greta Novikova. I’m very evenhanded, you’ve got to agree.”

“God bless you, Sean,” she said calmly.

For some reason it reminded him of Hannah’s last words to him at Rosedene. He recoiled, God knows why, stepped out through the Judas gate, stumbled down the steps to the Mini Cooper and drove away.

Being a gangster was fine, flashy and showy and menacing, but Harry Salter had learned, at the right stage in his life, that the same talents employed in the business world could make you a fortune without costing you thirty years inside.

The Dark Man at Wapping on Cable Wharf by the Thames was the first property he’d ever owned. It was like a mascot in spite of everything else he had now—the warehouse developments, the clubs, the casinos, the millions he’d made after giving up his career as one of the top guvnors in the London underworld. It was a second home, and it was there that Dillon found him.

The bar was very Victorian: mirrors, a long mahogany bar topped with marble, porcelain beer pumps, Dora the barmaid reading the newspaper. Trade at that time of the afternoon was light. Salter sat in the corner booth with his nephew, Billy, and his minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, were enjoying a beer at the bar.

Roper in his state-of-the-art wheelchair wore a reefer coat, his hair down to his shoulders, his face a mass of scar tissue. Once a highly decorated bomb-disposal expert, his career had been terminated by one IRA bomb too many in Belfast. Soon, a new career had beckoned, and in the world of cyberspace he was already a legend.

“So there you are,” Roper said.

“And twice as handsome,” Harry Salter put in.

Dillon went to the bar and said to Dora, “The usual.” She poured a large Bushmills, which he took down in a single swallow. He put the glass down and she refilled it.

Roper said to the others, “Ferguson’s on his way back from Washington after seeing Cazalet about Belov International. The President wants answers, so he’s sent Blake with him to help out.”

Dillon took down his second drink. “Have you shared the news about Belov’s miraculous rebirth, his appearance in Siberia at Station Gorky?”

“I have.”

“Rebirth, my arse,” Billy said. “Come off it, Dillon, all this talk of some double is rubbish. The photo on the Web site could have been taken anytime.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Harry said. “Look at the Second World War. Doubles all over the place. Hitler, Churchill, even Rommel.”

“I’d say the double story is genuine,” Roper said. “That time in Venezuela and Paris, he couldn’t have been in two places at once.”

“Yes, but the important question isn’t whether they have a fake Belov out there,” Harry said. “The question is why. But never mind that for now. I hear you’ve been to see the Superintendent, Dillon. How was she?”

“Not good.”

“I never was very fond of coppers, but Bernstein is special,” Harry Salter said.

Billy nodded. “A lovely lady. If it hadn’t been for her, we’d never have got together with you, Dillon.”

Roper said, “How was that?”

“Really? You never heard that story?” Billy carried on, “Well, Prime Minister John Major was hosting a function for President Clinton at the House of Commons. There was a question of security. Dillon said it was crap and that he could make it onto the terrace dressed as a waiter.”

“He what?” Roper was incredulous.

“But it could only be done from the river, see? He conned Bernstein into finding him the biggest expert on the River Thames, only it wasn’t anyone in Customs or the River Police.”

“It was me,” Harry said. He smiled. “God bless her, she never forgave Dillon.”

“And why would that be?”

“We’d a little bit of business. Diamonds on a boat from Amsterdam coming upriver. There was an informer at work. Bernstein knew we were going to be nicked that night here on the wharf. We’d have gone down the steps for ten years each, only Dillon here decided to be a naughty boy again, which meant the police didn’t catch us with the loot.”

Roper turned to Dillon. “You dog.”

Dillon reached for the third Bushmills Dora had poured. “It’s been said before.”

“The Superintendent wasn’t pleased at all. Since she works for Ferguson, she’s covered by the Official Secrets Act, which meant she couldn’t open her mouth.” Salter shook his head. “So, as I said, I don’t think she ever forgave Dillon for that, especially as, with our assistance, he did indeed make it to the terrace at the House of Commons dressed as a waiter, and served canapés to President Clinton, the Prime Minister, Ferguson …”

“And let me guess,” Roper said, “Superintendent Hannah Bernstein.”

“To be accurate, Chief Inspector, as she was then,” Billy said.

His uncle nodded. “And still a lovely girl.” He shook his head. “However, if we were capable of getting Dillon onto the terrace at the House of Commons to serve canapés to the President of the United States, we ought to be able to come up with an answer to this present puzzle.”

“And that’s what it is,” Roper said. “We all know what happened at Drumore. So what’s all this business with Belov International?”

“The thing is,” Dillon said, “we know, but for obvious reasons we can’t advertise the fact. Belov International could be banking on that.”

“But for what purpose?” Roper demanded. “Life goes on, even where big business is concerned.”

“Especially where big business is concerned,” Dillon said. “Especially international companies worth six or seven billion with powerful government forces behind them.”

“And the bleeding Cold War starting all over again,” Harry said. “Or so I was reading in the Times last week.” There was a slightly stunned silence, as they all looked at him and he shrugged. “So I read the Times now and again. That’s where you learn about these things.”

“So what you’re saying is that the new president of Belov International might just be Putin himself.”

“Well, it would be nice to think so, because at least you can pronounce it,” Harry replied. “Not like most Russian names. Anyway, it’s clear that they’re staying mum about this. And obviously, Ferguson can’t say publicly that he’s got a few wild men going round knocking off the opposition on behalf of the Prime Minister.”

“So it’s a stalemate,” Roper said. “A kind of you-know-that-we-know-and-we-know-that-you-know situation. I still wish I knew why.”

“To hell with it,” Billy said. “This is what I do know. Dillon and I went up to Drumore Place and took them on. I personally shot Ashimov in the shoulder, turned him round and gave it to him in the back. Murphy, Novikova and Belov fled out to sea, but then Dillon pointed his Howler, pressed the button and blew them to hell. I saw it with my own eyes. Now, can we all have a drink on it, before Dillon works his way through the bar stock?”

At Rosedene in late afternoon, Rabbi Bernstein had left and Professor Bellamy had given him a lift. It was quiet in the corridor as the young nurse Dillon had spoken to earlier pushed her trolley along. Her name was Mary Killane. And he’d been right. Her accent was Dublin, although she was born in Londonderry in the north of Ireland in 1980. She’d been taken to Dublin at an early age because her father, an IRA activist, had been condemned to the Maze Prison on five life sentences for murder and had died there of cancer, something for which she had never forgiven the British government. At the earliest opportunity, she had joined the Provisional IRA and in spite of a respectable professional life, remained a sleeper, available when required.

The call to her present assignment had been out of the blue. It had come from Liam Bell, once chief of staff of the Provisional IRA, now retired to Dublin to lecture in English at the university, and write a book or two, for after all, things were different with the Peace Process—except that nothing had really changed. That was the fault of the bloody Brits, and people like Liam Bell were still needed to carry on the fight, just in a different way.

She was instructed to book with a nursing agency in London, where a friend to the organization would see that she was allocated to the Rosedene in St. John’s Wood. There she would await orders.

But she didn’t have to wait long. Returning to her small flat in Kilburn one night, she’d unlocked the door, walked in and to her astonishment found Liam Bell himself sitting, smoking a cigarette, and a hard young man in a black bomber jacket, dark hair curling down to his neck, lounging by the window. He was a dangerous-looking man, with the air of a medieval bravo about him. The shock she experienced was sexual in its intensity.

“No need to worry, girl dear,” Bell reassured her. “There’s work to be done of great importance to the Movement, and I know you can be relied on to do it. No one has a greater right than you to strike back.”

She was filled with emotion. “Anything, Mr. Bell, I’d give my life.”

“No need of that. I’m back to Dublin in the morning, but Dermot here, Dermot Fitzgerald, will look out for you. He’s a scholar and a gentleman.”

“A pleasure,” Fitzgerald said.

“The thing is,” Bell told her, “there’s a patient at the Rosedene dangerous to our cause. She’s a Special Branch Superintendent and responsible for the death or imprisonment of many of your comrades. You can take my word for it.”

“Oh, I do.”

“She’s been at the Cromwell. We’ve friends there, and I understand she’ll be transferred back to the Rosedene tomorrow.” He took a small envelope from an inner pocket and offered it to her. “This is something to help her on her way. Put her out of her suffering, if you like. It’s called Dazone. A special drug from the States. If the heart’s bad, it helps. That’s one pill, but three”—he shrugged—“it’s good night, Vienna. Are you up to this? You’ve powerful memories concerning your father, but say the word …”

She took the envelope. “Of course I will. It’s a wonderful chance to serve.”

“Good girl.” He patted her hand and got up. “I’ll be on my way. Look after her, Dermot.”

“I will, Mr. Bell.”

“And at the hospital, you watch out for a man called Sean Dillon. A damned traitor to us all.”

He left, and walked along the street to a Mercedes, where a man in a dark trench coat sat behind the wheel. His name was Igor Levin, and he was a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy, or claimed to be.

“Taken care of?”

“Oh yes,” Bell said. “You got a good look at her, Mary Killane?”

“Naturally.”

“Keep a close eye, just in case anything goes wrong.”

“The man, Fitzgerald. Do you want anything to happen to him afterwards?”

“Jesus, no. He’s too valuable. He’ll be away out of it. Probably Ibiza. It’ll be a big payday for him.”

Levin said, “Well, we’ll get you back to Ballykelly, then. You won’t have trouble at the airfield? You’ve served time in the Maze Prison, surely?”

“I have a false passport. There are people in this town who’d love to know what I’m up to.”

“Always the old fox.”

“It’s what’s kept me ahead of the game all these years.”

So what happens now?” Mary Killane had asked after Bell had gone.

Dermot had kissed her boldly, which thrilled her to her toes. She’d known there was something between them, she’d felt it.

“We could start with that,” he said, “or we could go around the corner and have a drink and a bit to eat first. What’s your pleasure, lass?”

They ended up having the drink first, and then Dermot had bedded her, and the whole thing felt like the most special time in her life.

Now, pushing the trolley up the corridor to Hannah’s room, the moment of truth had arrived. She felt surprisingly calm, remembering what had been done to her father and to so many others, and that this woman, this Police Superintendent, had been responsible for so much of it. She opened the door and pushed the trolley in.

She’d checked up on Dazone. It took half an hour to kick in, which was why she’d left it to the end of her shift. The curtains were drawn, the small bed light the only illumination. Hannah Bernstein looked pale, almost skeletal, eyes closed. Mary Killane had the pills ready in a small plastic cup, a little water in another one.

Hannah’s eyes flickered open. She said drowsily, “What is it?”

“Your medication,” the woman said. Surprising how easy it was. “There you go. I’ll help you drink.” And then it was over. “You’ll sleep now.”

“Thank you,” came the murmur, and Mary Killane pushed the trolley out.

In the staff room, she didn’t change out of her uniform, simply pulled on a raincoat, got her handbag from her locker and went out. As she reached the entrance foyer, Maggie Duncan emerged from her office.

“Another shift over, Mary.”

“That’s right, Matron.”

“Have you given any thought to what I said? We’d like to have you with us full-time. Agency work is no way to live.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“You do that. Is the Superintendent all right?”

“I’ve seen to her.”

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Mary Killane hurried across the car park, speaking into her mobile at the same time. “It’s done.”

“Good girl,” Dermot Fitzgerald replied. “I’ll be with you as arranged.”

She hurried on, excited now, turned a corner and moved along a dark road, a small bridge at the end crossing a canal. There was only a single old-fashioned gas lamp giving any light, but she felt no fear. There was a footfall behind her, and she turned to see him emerging out of the shadows, a smile on his face.

“Jesus, Dermot, we’ll have to move it if we’re to get to the airport in time for the Dublin plane.”

He kissed her on the cheek lightly. “Don’t fret. Everything’s fine. You’re sure you gave her the pills?”

“Absolutely. They kick in in half an hour, but it will be quite a while before anyone twigs there’s something wrong. It’s her heart they’ve been worried about anyway.”

“Excellent. You’ve done an amazing job. Pity it has to end this way.”

“What are you talking about?” she said, bewildered.

His right hand came out of the pocket of his reefer coat clutching a silenced Colt .38 pistol. He rammed it into her, fired twice and pushed with his left hand so that she went backward over the rail into the canal below.

He walked to the end of the street and the lights of a Mercedes switched on. He got into the passenger seat and Igor Levin said, “That’s it, then?”

“Mission accomplished.”

“Your bag is in the back. I’ll drop you at Heathrow.”

“Ibiza next stop.” Fitzgerald lit a cigarette. “I can’t wait to get in the water.”

At Rosedene, Hannah Bernstein sighed gently and stopped breathing. The alarm sounded, a jarring, ugly sound. A young probationer nurse was nearest and got to her first, followed by Maggie Duncan, then Bellamy. Within seconds, the entire crash team was swinging into action, not that it did any kind of good. They finally switched off. Maggie was crying, Bellamy’s face was bleak.

“Time of death, five thirty-five. Agreed, Matron?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Strange the turns of life,” he said. “So many people loved her, yet at the end not one of them was here.” He shook his head. “I’d better make some phone calls. I’m not looking forward to that.”

“Especially Dillon.”

“All of them, really.”

The Gulfstream was an hour late due to bad headwinds. It was just descending into the lights of Farley Field when Ferguson got the call. He listened, his face grave.

“I’m desperately sorry. Have you spoken to everybody?”

“Yes.”

“How awful for her father and grandfather. And Dillon? How was he?”

“I don’t think he could take it in. He was at the Dark Man with Roper and the others. He passed the phone to Roper and apparently rushed out. Roper said he and the Salters would go after him. He’s probably gone to Rosedene.”

“You know her religion will have an impact here. I’m not sure they’ll allow an autopsy. Find out, would you? Thank you, Doctor, and we’ll talk again.”

Ferguson sat there, face grave as the Gulfstream rolled to a halt, then told Blake the bad news.

Blake was shocked. “How terrible.” He raised the inevitable question. “You mentioned an autopsy?”

“That’s not certain. Generally, they’re not allowed. The Jewish body is considered sacred, and the corpse must be buried within twenty-four hours. However, if it can be argued that an autopsy could save another life, for instance by helping to apprehend a killer and prevent him killing again, then there are exceptions. You’d need an expert rabbi to determine that.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Particularly as she worked for me under the Official Secrets Act.”

They disembarked, and as they walked toward the small terminal, Ferguson’s Daimler drew up and Dillon got out from behind the wheel. He leaned against the Daimler and lit a Marlboro. His face was curiously expressionless.

“Blake, Charles. Good flight? Thought I’d come myself.”

Ferguson said, “I’m damn sorry, Sean, damn sorry.”

“You’ll be sorry yourself when you hear my news. Get in and we’ll move out.”

They did, sitting in the rear while Dillon drove. “What have you got for me, then?” Ferguson asked.

“The last person to see Hannah alive was a Dublin girl, an agency nurse named Mary Killane. Maggie Duncan spoke to her when she finished her shift. Half an hour later, the alarm went off in Hannah’s room and she died in spite of the crash team.”

“What’s your point, Sean?” Ferguson was gentle.

“An hour and a half ago, a man walking his dog by the canal some ten minutes from Rosedene found a dead woman half-in, half-out of the water. Her handbag was still caught around one wrist. It was Mary Killane.”

“My God,” Blake said. “That’s a strange coincidence. And you know I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Especially with two bullets in her,” Dillon told him. “George Langley’s going to do the autopsy tonight. He’s at the scene of the crime now.”

They traveled in silence for a while, and it was Blake who said, “It smells to high heaven. Hannah dies, and then someone wastes the last nurse to deal with her.”

“And somehow a dead Belov is walking around in Siberia,” Ferguson said. “I’ve got an uneasy feeling they’re all related.”

“But like Billy said earlier,” Dillon told him, “if there’s one certainty in the matter, it’s that Belov is dead.”

“And what if he isn’t?” Blake put in.

“I know what I did.”

“Maybe something else happened, something you weren’t aware of.”

“In your dreams,” Dillon told him.

“Maybe. But I’ll tell you what I think. I was with the FBI for a long time, and any good cop will tell you that experience tells you to go with your instincts. And my instincts tell me that everything is linked to what happened at Drumore Place. That’s where we’ve got to begin.”

And he was right, of course.

DRUMORE PLACE DUBLIN - MOSCOW