“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 face, I’m 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.
“Yuri, my friend.” He smiled. “You said it was urgent. Why not call at my office at the mosque?”
“Not again,” Ashimov told him. “I’ve got news for you. Our friend Morgan’s trip to New York would seem to have disappeared into a black hole.”
“How unfortunate,” Selim said calmly.
“Listen.” Ashimov went through everything.
Afterward, Selim said, “We can’t be certain he met a bad end. That’s supposition, surely?”
“Ali, my friend, if Ferguson ’s lot are involved, particularly this Dillon, then the end is as certain as the coffin lid closing.”
“You consider the man exceptional, it would seem.”
“And for good reason. He’s a man of many skills. An experienced pilot, for instance, and linguist. Russian and Arabic, for example.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Besides his years with the IRA, he worked for the PLO as a mercenary, and for the Israelis in Lebanon in the old days.” Ashimov lit a cigarette. “He kills at the drop of a hat, this one.”
“Oh, in a dark street on a rainy night, I’m sure he’s as susceptible to a knife under the ribs as anyone.”
“My dear Ali.” Ashimov smiled. “If you believe that, you’ll be making the worst mistake of your life.”
Selim said, “So what about Mrs. Morgan? If they’re sniffing around there, she could be saying the wrong things.”
“I don’t know. She’s an aging cripple in a wheelchair. She can’t speak in much more than a whisper. And what could she tell him? That she’s a woman who returned to Islam after her husband’s death, whose son also discovered the faith and lightened her grief. Wouldn’t you, as her imam, agree with all this?”
“Of course.”
“Exactly, and you are a man of impeccable background and highly respected. Whatever has happened to the son has no connection with you. You’re too important, Ali, that’s why we keep you out of it. You even sat on a committee at the House of Commons last week. Nothing could be more respectable. No, my friend, you’re a real asset.”
“And too valuable to lose,” Selim said. “And loose ends are loose ends. If Mrs. Morgan should happen to mention you and me in the same breath, they’ll discover who you are. The man who is Belov’s security.”
Ashimov sighed. “All right, leave it to me. Now we better split up. I’ll be in touch.”
Selim hesitated. “Morgan was a soldier of God. If worse has come to the worst, he is also a true martyr.”
“Save that tripe for the young fools at the mosque, your Wrath of Allah fanatics. Go on, get going.”
Selim went, and Ashimov stayed there thinking about it. Perhaps Selim had a point. After all, why would Bernstein and Dillon be calling on the old lady at all? Better to be safe than sorry. He looked over at the incoming tide, then pulled up his collar against the rain, walked around to Chandler Street and rang the bell at number thirteen.
She answered it after a while and peered out over the chain. “It’s me. Mr. Ashimov,” he said. “Dr. Selim’s friend. He asked me to call and see if you wanted to go to the mosque.”
“That is kind,” she said. “I was going to go a little later.”
“Since I’m here, why don’t you go now? It’s much easier if I push you,” he said. “Bring an umbrella. It’s raining.”
She closed the door, undid the chain and opened it again and Ashimov stepped in. “Let me help you.” He reached for a raincoat and a beret hanging on a hall stand and helped her. “There you are, and here’s an umbrella.” He took one down and gave it to her.
“So kind,” she said.
“Not at all. Have you got your key?”
“Yes.”
“You had a visit this afternoon, I believe. A lady from the Welfare Department?”
“Did I?” She frowned. “I can’t remember.”
“Yes, with a gentleman. What did they ask you? About your son in New York?”
She was confused and bewildered. Few things seemed real to her anymore, and her memory was fading fast these days.
“I can’t remember. I can’t remember anyone calling.”
Which was true, for she was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It was obvious to Ashimov that he was wasting his time.
“Never mind. Let’s be on our way, then.”
The rain was driving down, no one around as they went along the street, the fog drifting up from the river. They went past the shop, which now showed a closed sign inside the door.
