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important?”
    Belov pulled out from the curb. “I’m supposed to meet an Arab tonight in about thirty minutes from now at a place on the river in Wapping.”
    “Who is this Arab?”
    “A man called Ali Hamid, who has apparently fallen out with a fundamentalist group called Wind of Allah. They gave us a lot of trouble in Afghanistan. This man is offering full documentation on their European operation. The meeting place is called Butler’s Wharf. You’ll be at the river end at seven. You give him that briefcase on the rear seat, fifty thousand dollars. He’ll give you a briefcase in return.”
    “Can you be sure all this is kosher?” Curry asked.
    “The tip came from a colleague, Colonel Boris Ashimov of the KGB, Head of Station here in London.”
    “Why doesn’t he handle this himself? Why this gift to you?”
    “Strictly speaking it’s none of their business. Division of labor. The Arabs are a GRU matter and I can’t go myself for the simplest of reasons. I’m hosting an Embassy Cultural evening at the Savoy. I’m due there in thirty minutes. Notice the black tie.”
    “Very capitalistic,” Curry told him. “Shame on you. All right, I’ll do it.”
    He reached for the briefcase and Belov pulled in at the curb. “You can get a cab from here. I’ll be in touch.”
    Curry got out and watched the Renault drive away, then he put up his umbrella and moved along the pavement.
     
     
    It was no more than thirty-minutes later that a cab dropped him in Wapping. The rain was very heavy now, no one about. He found Butler’s Wharf with no difficulty, walked to the end, and stood by an old-fashioned street lamp, the umbrella up against the rain, which poured down relentlessly. There was the faintest of footfalls behind him.
    The Arab wore a black reefer coat of the kind used by seamen and a tweed cap. His brown face was gaunt, his eyes pinpricks as if he was on something. Curry felt a certain alarm.
    “Ali Hamid?”
    “Who are you?” the man asked in a hoarse voice.
    “Colonel Belov sent me.”
    “But he was to come himself.” Hamid laughed in a strange way. “It was all arranged. It was Belov I was paid to kill, but instead you are here.” He laughed again and there was a kind of foam on his mouth. “ Unfortunate.”
    His hand came out of his right pocket holding a silenced Beretta automatic pistol and Curry swung the briefcase, knocking the Arab’s arm to one side and closing with him. He grabbed the man’s wrist, the gun between them, was aware of it going off, a kind of punch in his left arm. Strangely, it gave him even more strength and he struggled harder, aware of the Beretta discharging twice, Hamid dropping it and falling back, clutching his stomach. He lay there, under the lamp, legs kicking, then went very still.
    Curry crouched and felt for a pulse, but Hamid was dead, eyes staring. Curry stood and examined his arm. There was a scorched hole in the Burberry and blood seeping through. There wasn’t too much pain, although he suspected that would come later. He eased off the Burberry, tied a handkerchief awkwardly around the arm over his jacket sleeve, then pulled the raincoat on again. He picked up the Beretta, opened the briefcase, and slipped it inside.
    He retrieved his umbrella and stood looking down at Hamid. A lot to be explained, but no time for that now. He had to get moving. Surprising how calm he felt as he hurried along the wharf. Hardly sensible to take a taxi. It was going to be a long walk to the town house in Dean Close and how in the hell was he going to explain this to Rupert? He turned into Wapping High Street and hurried along the pavement, aware of the pain now in his arm.
     
     
    Rupert Lang, returned from Parliament only fifteen minutes earlier, was pouring a large Scotch in the drawing room when the front doorbell sounded. He swallowed some of the whisky, put down his glass, and went into the hall. When he opened the door, Curry, almost out on his feet, fell into his