Roper in his state-of-the-art wheelchair wore a reefer coat, his hair down to his shoulders, his face a mass of scar tissue. Once a highly decorated bomb-disposal expert, his career had been terminated by one IRA bomb too many in Belfast. Soon, a new career had beckoned, and in the world of cyberspace he was already a legend.

“So there you are,” Roper said.

“And twice as handsome,” Harry Salter put in.

Dillon went to the bar and said to Dora, “The usual.” She poured a large Bushmills, which he took down in a single swallow. He put the glass down and she refilled it.

Roper said to the others, “Ferguson’s on his way back from Washington after seeing Cazalet about Belov International. The President wants answers, so he’s sent Blake with him to help out.”

Dillon took down his second drink. “Have you shared the news about Belov’s miraculous rebirth, his appearance in Siberia at Station Gorky?”

“I have.”

“Rebirth, my arse,” Billy said. “Come off it, Dillon, all this talk of some double is rubbish. The photo on the Web site could have been taken anytime.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Harry said. “Look at the Second World War. Doubles all over the place. Hitler, Churchill, even Rommel.”

“I’d say the double story is genuine,” Roper said. “That time in Venezuela and Paris, he couldn’t have been in two places at once.”

“Yes, but the important question isn’t whether they have a fake Belov out there,” Harry said. “The question is why. But never mind that for now. I hear you’ve been to see the Superintendent, Dillon. How was she?”

“Not good.”

“I never was very fond of coppers, but Bernstein is special,” Harry Salter said.

Billy nodded. “A lovely lady. If it hadn’t been for her, we’d never have got together with you, Dillon.”

Roper said, “How was that?”