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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,