The President turned to Ferguson. “What does your Major Roper say?”

“That the IRA link with Belov International would explain the good people of Drumore keeping their mouths shut, but as regards the deaths of Belov and the other six…” He shrugged. “They have to be accounted for one way or another.”

Blake said, “It’s as if it never happened.”

“Not quite,” Ferguson said. “Which, in part, explains my visit. Roper picked up an item yesterday, put out by Belov International. It concerns their huge development site at Station Gorky in Eastern Siberia.”

“Which is about as far as you can get from the known world,” Cazalet said.

“They announced the arrival of their great leader, one Josef Belov, for an extended visit. A photo was included.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Could have been an old photo,” Blake put in.

Ferguson shrugged. “Sure looked like him. Which brings me to another interesting thing Roper uncovered. The other year when oil concessions were up for grabs in Venezuela, Belov was in Paris putting himself about on the social scene. Except we know something else as well: he was also in Venezuela pulling a fast one on the opposition and sewing up those oil concessions.”

“Why is it I feel like applauding?” Cazalet said. “Go on, tell me. Who was the Belov in Paris? Did you have it checked?”

“Indeed we did. A French intelligence source tells us it was one Max Zubin, an actor of sorts – cabaret, that sort of thing, big in Jewish theater in Moscow. Apparently it’s not the first time he’s impersonated Belov.”

“So where is he now? Station Gorky?”

“Wherever his masters need him,” Blake said.

Cazalet nodded. “Sean Dillon has always been extremely thorough, so I see no reason to doubt that what’s left of the real Josef Belov is at the bottom of the Irish Sea off Drumore Point. So what are they playing at?”