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to the gloom, by which time Dukes was already on his knees before the altar. For a worrying moment it looked as though he was praying, but he was working away at one of the flagstones, prising it up with a pocket knife. Buried in the packed earth beneath was an old cigar box. It contained a wafer-thin package wrapped in waxed paper.
    â€˜Here,’ said Dukes. ‘Take it with you.’
    Tom had handled enough of Dukes’s coded intelligence reports in the past to know what it was.
    â€˜Tell them I need more money – a lot more.’ Replacing the flagstone, Dukes got to his feet and stamped it down. ‘Deal directly with Leonard. I wouldn’t trust Bayliss with anything more than a cocktail shaker.’
    â€˜You’re staying?’ asked Tom, incredulously.
    â€˜It’s not over yet.’
    â€˜But what about Zakharov?’
    â€˜You think he’s the first to betray us?’
    The weary fatalism of the statement grated. It suggested that the Zakharovs of the world were an unavoidable irritant to be endured, like mosquitoes, or people coughing in the theatre.
    Tom removed his cap and pulled some banknotes from the lining. ‘It’s all I have left.’
    Dukes riffled through the money, clearly delighted. ‘How much do you need?’ he asked.
    â€˜I’m not sure.’
    Dukes pocketed most of the cash and handed the rest back. ‘This should see you back to Helsinki.’
    These weren’t the last words the two men exchanged. As they parted company outside, Tom asked, ‘How do you live like this?’
    Dukes hesitated before replying. ‘I was here when the Revolution broke, when we turned the Tauride Palace into an arsenal. You see, I once believed in the New Jerusalem. Maybe I still do. But this isn’t it. This . . . this is Abaddon.’
    He touched Tom lightly on the arm. ‘Tell Leonard from me that it’s not too late.’
    â€˜For what?’
    â€˜He’ll understand.’
    As Tom watched the slight, anonymous figure shuffle off down the pathway, something told him that this would be his last ever glimpse of the man.
    Abaddon, the place of punishment.
    A fitting analogy, Tom reflected, his thoughts turning once more to Zakharov, the betrayer.

Chapter Two
Toulon, France. July 1935. Sixteen years later.
    The porters were already in place, ranged along the platform like a guard of honour, when the train pulled into Toulon station. The heat was oppressive, and they fidgeted in their brass-buttoned tunics. A few of them crushed their cigarettes underfoot as the train shuddered to a halt and the carriage doors swung open.
    Lucy was one of the last to descend. She had cut her hair short, and Tom might not even have recognized her had she not spotted him and waved.
    Seeing her at a distance lent a new perspective. He realized, with a touch of sadness, that although she had lost none of her coltish grace she was no longer a girl. She had become a woman. It wasn’t just her new coiffure, or even her elegant organdie summer frock, it was the way she carried herself, the easy manner in which she proffered her hand to the guard who helped her down to the platform, the casual comment which set the fellow smiling.
    Tom fought his way through the throng, arriving as her Morocco travelling bags were being loaded from the luggage car on to a trolley.
    She might have changed, but she was still happy to launch herself at him and hug him tight, limpet-like, as they had always done. She smelled of roses.
    â€˜Thank you,’ she said.
    â€˜For what?’
    She tilted her head up at him. ‘For the nice man at Victoria station who showed me to the first-class carriage, and the other nice man in Paris who showed me to my own sleeping compartment.’
    â€˜An early birthday present. Don’t assume I’m setting a precedent.’
    Releasing him, she looked around her. ‘Where’s Mr H?’
    It was her name for Hector, his