Roper frowned and shook his head. It doesnt strike a chord, but Ill run it by my computer.
So, the way ahead on this one appears plain, Ferguson said. I think you, Superintendent, should have another word with Mrs. Morgan in your guise as a welfare worker.
Hannah wasnt comfortable and showed it. Thats a difficult one, sir. I mean, her son is dead and she doesnt even know it.
Which cant be helped, Superintendent. Its an unusual situation, I agree, but when one considers the gravity of the deed Morgan was trying to commit, I feel that any means that will help us to reach an explanation would be justified. See to it, and use Dillon as backup. His knowledge of Arabic may prove useful. He turned to Blake. Well drop Roper off at his house, and you and I can continue to the Ministry of Defence, where Ill show you everything we have on Muslim activity in the UK.
Suits me fine, Blake said.
Ferguson turned to the others. All right, people, theres work to be done, lets get to it.
After leaving the pub on Kensington High Street, Greta and Ashimov crossed the road to the embassy and got into a dark blue Opel sedan. She checked the glove compartment and found a digital camera.
Excellent, he told her. You can drop me at my apartment in Monk Street and keep in touch on your mobile. Anything of significance, I want to know.
Of course. She drove out into the traffic. Wheres Belov at the moment?
The good Josef is in Geneva. All those billions, my love, it keeps him so busy. There was an edge of bitterness there.
Come off it, she said. Money is power and you love it, andworking for Josef Belov is the ultimate power and you love that too.
To a point only to a point. She turned into Monk Street and stopped. He said, Sometimes I think it was better in the old days, Greta. Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iraq. To smell powder again. He shook his head. That would be wonderful.
You must be raving mad, she told him.
Very probably. He patted her silken knee. Youre a lovely girl, so go and do what Belov is paying you to do. Extract a few more facts from Mrs. Morgan, but keep your masters at the GRU happy.
He got out of the Opel and walked away.
Heavy traffic on Wapping High Street held her back a little, but she finally found what she was looking for: Chandler Street, backing down to the Thames. Many cars were parked there, which gave her good cover, and she pulled in, switched off and settled down, her camera at the ready.
Number thirteen. That had amused her when shed looked at the file, an old Victorian terrace house. She sat there, looking along the street to the grocery shop on the corner opposite the river. There was no one about, not a soul. It started to rain, and then a red Mini car drew up opposite and Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon got out.
Hannah pressed the bell push and they waited. Finally, they heard the sounds of movement, the door was opened on a chain and Mrs. Morgan peered out. She was old, faded, much older than her years, as Hannah had indicated. She had a long scarf wrapped around her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. The voice was almost a whisper.
What do you want?
Its me, Mrs. Morgan, Miss Bernstein from the Welfare Department. I thought Id call again.
Oh, yes.
This is Mr. Dillon, my supervisor. May we come in?
Just a moment. The door closed while she disengaged the chain, then opened again. When they entered, she had turned to precede them in the wheelchair.
All this, Greta Novikova had captured on her camera.
In the small sitting room, the air was heavy and close and smelled of musk, a strange, disturbing aroma that was somehow alien and not quite right.
Hannah said, I just thought Id check on you, Mrs. Morgan, as we happened to be passing.
Dillon, more direct, said, Your son is in New York, I understand, Mrs. Morgan. Have you heard from him?
Her voice was muted, and she coughed. Oh, hell be too busy. Im sure hell phone when hes got time.
Hannah was angry and glared at Dillon. He nodded, and she carried on reluctantly. Have you seen Dr. Selim lately?
Oh, yes, at the mosque. When my sons away, Dr. Selim sends a young man to wheel me along to Queen Street. Its not far. Hes been very good, Dr. Selim, helping us so much, helping me and my Henry, to discover our faith.
Hannah felt wretched. Im sure thats been very nice for you.
Yes, hes called round two or three times since Henrys been away with his friend.
There was a pause, her breathing heavy. Dillon said, And who was that?
Oh, I cant remember his name. Very strange, Russian, I think. He had a terrible scar right down from his eye to the corner of his mouth.
Dillon said sternly in Arabic, Have you told me everything, old woman? Do you swear to this, as Allah commands?
She looked fearful and replied in Arabic, There is no more. I dont know his name. My son said he was a Russian friend. Thats all I know.
Hannah said, I dont know what youre saying, Dillon, but leave it. Shes frightened.
Dillon smiled, suddenly looking devastatingly charming, and kissed Mrs. Morgan on the forehead. There you are, my love. He turned to Hannah and led the way out.
Outside, she said, What a bastard you are. What were you saying?
Just checking if she was telling the truth.
Right, lets go.
Im not ready yet, Hannah. He nodded to the corner shop at the end of the street. Lets have a word down there. The Russian gentleman with the scar interests me. Maybe hes been in.
They walked down the pavement toward the shop, and behind them, Greta Novikova turned her Opel into the street and drove away.
The sign on the shop window said M. PATEL. Dillon nodded. Indian, thats good.
Why, particularly? Hannah asked.
Because theyre smart and they dont screw around. Theyve got a head for business and they want to fit in. So lets see what Mr. Patel has to say and lets use your warrant card.
The shop was neat and orderly, and obviously sold a bit of everything. The Indian behind the counter reading the Evening Standard was in shirtsleeves and looked about fifty. He glanced up, smiling, looked them over and stopped smiling.
Can I help?
Hannah produced her warrant card. Detective Superintendent Bernstein, Special Branch. Mr. Dillon is a colleague. Were pursuing inquiries, which involve a Mrs. Morgan who lives up the street. You know her?
Of course I do.
Her sons away, Dillon said. New York, I understand?
Yes, she did tell me that. Look, what is this?
Dont fret, Mr. Patel, everythings fine. Mrs. Morgan is friendly with a Dr. Ali Selim. You know who he is?
Patels face slipped. Yes, I do.
And dont like him. Dillon smiled. A Hindu-Muslim thing? Well, never mind. Sometimes when he sees Mrs. Morgan, he has a friend with him. Bad scar, from his eye to his mouth. She thinks hes Russian.
Thats right, he is. Hes called in to buy cigarettes, sometimes with the Arab. Selim calls him Yuri. They were in yesterday.
Hannah glanced up at the security camera. Was that working?
He nodded. I was busy, so when the tape stopped, I didnt run it back. I took it out and put a fresh tape in.
Good, Dillon said. Im sure you have a television in the back room. Get us the tape and well run it back.
Patel proved accommodating; he closed the shop for a while and ran the tape through for them. Finally he stopped.
There they are.
Hannah and Dillon had a look. So thats him? Dillon said. The Russian.
Yes. And Ive remembered something else, Patel said. One day, he was on his own and his mobile rang and he said, Ashimov here.
Youre sure about that? Hannah asked.
Well, thats how it sounded.
Good man, yourself, Dillon said. Youve helped enormously.
Patel hesitated. Look, is Mrs. Morgan in trouble? I mean, shes not fit to be out, but shes nice enough.
No problem, Hannah said. Were just pursuing some inquiries.
And I know exactly what that means with you people.
Dillon patted him on the shoulder. Dont worry, old son, were the good guys.
They went out and walked toward the Mini. Yuri Ashimov, Hannah said. Interesting.
Lets go and see what Roper makes of it, Dillon told her.
At Monk Street, Greta linked her digital camera to Ashimovs television and ran the photos of Dillon and Hannah.
There you are. The Welfare officer, I assume. Ive no idea who the man is.
Ashimov swore softly. But I do. My God, Greta, youre onto something here.
What on earth do you mean?
Last year, when Baron von Berger of Berger International was killed in that plane crash, and Belov took over his oil concessions and put me in charge of general security I started going over all of Berger Internationals previous security records. Did you know that Berger was in a state of open warfare against a man named General Charles Ferguson? Have you heard of him?
Of course I have, Greta said. He runs that special intelligence outfit for the Prime Minister.
Gold star for you, Greta. Ashimov pointed to the last picture on the screen. Thats Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein, Ferguson s assistant.
Good God, Greta said.
Ashimov flicked to Dillon. And this gentleman this one really is special. Sean Dillon, Ferguson s strong right hand, and once the Provisional IRAs top enforcer. For twenty years or more, the British Army and the RUC couldnt lay a hand on him.
And now he works for the Prime Minister? Thats unbelievable.
Well, its typically British. Theyll turn their hands to anything if it suits.
So where does this leave us?
With Ferguson s outfit checking Mrs. Morgan, whose son was supposed to have a go at President Jake Cazalet in New York and has now disappeared, or so it would seem. Would you say the appearance of Dillon and Bernstein at her front door was a coincidence?
Not for a moment. What do you intend to do?
Ill alert Dr. Ali Selim, naturally. Well take it from there. Ill show them the photos.
And Belov?
He left this sort of thing in my hands, but I keep him informed. He smiled. Hes not involved, Greta my love, you must understand. Hes too important. As regards operations at what you might call the coal face, Im in charge. He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. Trust me.
Soon after, he was standing by an old jetty around the corner from the Queen Street Mosque, overlooking the river. He leaned on a rail smoking a cigarette, enjoying the landscape, the views, the boats passing. Selim appeared after a while, a handsome bearded man wearing a Burberry raincoat, an umbrella guarding him from the rain.