“Come off it,” she said. “Money is power and you love it, andworking for Josef Belov is the ultimate power and you love that too.”

“To a point – only to a point.” She turned into Monk Street and stopped. He said, “Sometimes I think it was better in the old days, Greta. Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iraq. To smell powder again.” He shook his head. “That would be wonderful.”

“You must be raving mad,” she told him.

“Very probably.” He patted her silken knee. “You’re a lovely girl, so go and do what Belov is paying you to do. Extract a few more facts from Mrs. Morgan, but keep your masters at the GRU happy.”

He got out of the Opel and walked away.

Heavy traffic on Wapping High Street held her back a little, but she finally found what she was looking for: Chandler Street, backing down to the Thames. Many cars were parked there, which gave her good cover, and she pulled in, switched off and settled down, her camera at the ready.

Number thirteen. That had amused her when she’d looked at the file, an old Victorian terrace house. She sat there, looking along the street to the grocery shop on the corner opposite the river. There was no one about, not a soul. It started to rain, and then a red Mini car drew up opposite and Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon got out.

Hannah pressed the bell push and they waited. Finally, they heard the sounds of movement, the door was opened on a chain and Mrs. Morgan peered out. She was old, faded, much older than her years, as Hannah had indicated. She had a long scarf wrapped around her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. The voice was almost a whisper.

“What do you want?”

“It’s me, Mrs. Morgan, Miss Bernstein from the Welfare Department. I thought I’d call again.”

“Oh, yes.”

“This is Mr. Dillon, my supervisor. May we come in?”

“Just a moment.” The door closed while she disengaged the chain, then opened again. When they entered, she had turned to precede them in the wheelchair.