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Bernstein, Special Branch. Mr. Dillon is a colleague. We're pursuing inquiries, which involve a Mrs. Morgan who lives up the street. You know her?"
    "Of course I do."
    "Her son's away," Dillon said. "New York, I understand?"
    "Yes, she did tell me that. Look, what is this?"
    "Don't fret, Mr. Patel, everything's fine. Mrs. Morgan is friendly with a Dr. Ali Selim. You know who he is?"
    Patel's face slipped. "Yes, I do."
    "And don't 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 he's Russian."
    "That's right, he is. He's 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 didn't run it back. I took it out and put a fresh tape in."
    "Good," Dillon said. "I'm sure you have a television in the back room. Get us the tape and we'll 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 that's him?" Dillon said. "The Russian."
    "Yes. And I've remembered something else," Patel said. "One day, he was on his own and his mobile rang and he said, 'Ashimov here.' "
    "You're sure about that?" Hannah asked.
    "Well, that's how it sounded."
    "Good man, yourself," Dillon said. "You've helped enormously."
    Patel hesitated. "Look, is Mrs. Morgan in trouble? I mean, she's not fit to be out, but she's nice enough."
    "No problem," Hannah said. "We're just pursuing some inquiries."
    "And I know exactly what that means with you people."
    Dillon patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, old son, we're the good guys."
    They went out and walked toward the Mini. "Yuri Ashimov," Hannah said. "Interesting."
    "Let's go and see what Roper makes of it," Dillon told her.
    At Monk Street , Greta linked her digital camera to Ashimov's television and ran the photos of Dillon and Hannah.
    "There you are. The Welfare officer, I assume. I've no idea who the man is."
    Ashimov swore softly. "But I do. My God, Greta, you're 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 International's 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. "That's 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 IRA's top enforcer. For twenty years or more, the British Army and the RUC couldn't lay a hand on him."
    "And now he works for the Prime Minister? That's unbelievable."
    "Well, it's typically British. They'll 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?"
    "I'll alert Dr. Ali Selim, naturally. We'll take it from there. I'll show them the photos."
    "And Belov?"
    "He left this sort of thing in my hands, but I keep him informed." He smiled. "He's not involved, Greta my love, you must understand. He's too important. As regards operations at what you might call the coal