“Good,” Dillon said. “I’m sure you have a television in the back room. Get us the tape and we’ll run it back.”

Patel proved accommodating; he closed the shop for a while and ran the tape through for them. Finally he stopped.

“There they are.”

Hannah and Dillon had a look. “So that’s him?” Dillon said. “The Russian.”

“Yes. And I’ve remembered something else,” Patel said. “One day, he was on his own and his mobile rang and he said, ‘Ashimov here.’ ”

“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.”