Ashimov said, “Mr. Bell? Yuri Ashimov. Several years ago, you made a promise that we could call you if needed.”

“You still can.”

“Do you know a man called Sean Dillon?”

“Indeed I do. If that bastard’s on your back, you’ve got trouble.”

“Listen to me. Would you be prepared to move in here with, say, half a dozen IRA men? I’d make it worth your while.”

“I thought you had Dermot Kelly and his boys?”

“Not any longer.”

“What happened?”

Ashimov gave him a version of events that excluded any participation by Belov. “Anyway, a general cleanup is in order. You can rely on Patrick Ryan. He’s a good man.”

“I was two years in the Maze Prison with him. He’s one of our own.” Bell laughed harshly. “What a bastard Dillon is. I’ve had my brushes with him. Anyway, I’ve phone calls to make, recruiting to do. You can leave it with me.”

“And the disposal of the corpses?”

“I’m an expert in that department.”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

Ashimov walked through to the terrace and found Ryan and McGuire standing by the body of Kelly.

“Poor old Kelly,” McGuire said. “He never knew what hit him.”

“And that’s a fact.” Ashimov took a silenced pistol from his left-hand pocket and shot McGuire in the side of the head. He went down like a stone, and Patrick Ryan jumped back, hands raised, fear on his face.

“No, for God’s sake.”

“Not you, you fool.”

“But why?”

“Because he knew Josef Belov is dead and that doesn’t suit me or those involved with me in Moscow. Listen here. You know Liam Bell, an old friend, I think.”