“Gold star for you, Greta.” Ashimov pointed to the last picture on the screen. “That’s Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein, Ferguson ’s assistant.”

“Good God,” Greta said.

Ashimov flicked to Dillon. “And this gentleman – this one really is special. Sean Dillon, Ferguson ’s strong right hand, and once the Provisional IRA’s top enforcer. For twenty years or more, the British Army and the RUC couldn’t lay a hand on him.”

“And now he works for the Prime Minister? That’s unbelievable.”

“Well, it’s typically British. They’ll turn their hands to anything if it suits.”

“So where does this leave us?”

“With Ferguson ’s outfit checking Mrs. Morgan, whose son was supposed to have a go at President Jake Cazalet in New York and has now disappeared, or so it would seem. Would you say the appearance of Dillon and Bernstein at her front door was a coincidence?”

“Not for a moment. What do you intend to do?”

“I’ll alert Dr. Ali Selim, naturally. We’ll take it from there. I’ll show them the photos.”

“And Belov?”

“He left this sort of thing in my hands, but I keep him informed.” He smiled. “He’s not involved, Greta my love, you must understand. He’s too important. As regards operations at what you might call the coal 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.”