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all pay, he’d see to that.
    His coded mobile rang and he answered. It was Volkov. “The plane should be with you in about thirty minutes. Has anything else happened?”
    Ashimov told him of Greta’s astonishing escape.
    “That’s good news. She could be of great use.”
    “Liam Bell is organizing things in Dublin as we speak. I’ve taken steps to ensure that he isn’t aware of what really happened. To Belov, I mean. There’s only one man left who knows, besides myself.”
    “And who would that be?” Ashimov told him. “Let’s hope your judgment proves sound. I’ll see you soon.”
    Ashimov lit another cigarette. Volkov was one of the few men who impressed him. A man of mystery way beyond the reach of any Russian government organization. He smiled slightly. He was like Ferguson, in a way. Yes, a Russian Ferguson responsible only to the President.
    He threw the cigarette away as a plane roared overhead, obviously coming in to land at the runway Belov had ordered to be laid at the development there. As he went back into reception, Mother Teresa returned with Greta.
    “Five stitches, I’m afraid, but I’m good at embroidery. No fracture, but considerable bruising. You must take care, my dear.”
    “My thanks,” Ashimov told her. “But we must go. That was our plane landing.”
    “Glad to have been of help. Give my regards to Mr. Belov.”
    “I certainly will.”
    He took Greta’s elbow and led her to the car. “Are you all right?” he said as he helped her in.
    The patch on the side of her forehead was neat enough, and she touched it. “I had a local anesthetic. I feel tired more than anything else.”
    He got behind the wheel. “You can sleep on the plane. Moscow next stop.”
    March in Moscow was much as to be expected. The snow had seemed to be on the verge of clearing, but was back again when they landed, a light powdering only, but crisp and cold. A limousine was waiting, a Mercedes, and they drove away instantly to the Belov International townhouse, a place of some splendor, but they had barely settled in when Volkov called.
    “I need to see you at once. Bring the Major with you.”
    “Where, exactly?”
    “The Kremlin, of course.”
    Ashimov switched off and turned to Greta. “How are you feeling?” She’d slept like a log on the plane. “Any better?”
    “It was worse in Chechnya. Not too good in Iraq, either, come to think of it.” She smiled. “I’ll be fine, Yuri.”
    “So you feel up to a visit to the Kremlin?”
    Her eyes sparkled. “My, but we are moving in dangerous waters. How exciting.”
    “Then let’s go.”
    Snow was falling lightly as they drove through the streets, past the massive entrance to the Kremlin, moving through side streets, until they emerged at an obscure entrance at the back. They were passed through a series of checkpoints manned by uniformed guards, but never once questioned, simply waved through at each one until they reached a small courtyard behind high railings and halted at steps leading up to an archway. They went up, the door opened and a hard young man in an excellent suit appeared.
    “A pleasure to see you again, Major Ashimov.” He inclined his head to Greta. “Major.”
    “We’ve met before?” Ashimov asked.
    “Chechnya, some years ago, but I was a very junior officer. You wouldn’t remember. My name is Igor Levin. This way, if you please. General Volkov is waiting.”
    He led the way through gloomy corridors and back stairs, finally opening a door leading to a much larger and more ornate corridor. There were gilt mirrors, portraits from another age, fine carpeting.
    “I must say, this is beautiful.”
    “I imagine that Tsar Nicholas thought so, too,” Levin said.
    They came to an ornate door, where a burly individual, again in an excellent suit, was seated in a high chair. A machine pistol was on a small table beside him. He didn’t stand and didn’t speak.
    “We like to be prepared for any eventuality,” Levin said.
    “Even