There was no door, just an archway leading to a platform with iron stairs dropping down, and Dillon, peering out, saw a desk and two men confronting Holley, who was glancing wildly about him, or so it seemed. Dillon eased the Walther out of his pocket, stepped out, and started down the stairs.

When Holley had entered the warehouse he had found it dark and gloomy, a sad sort of place and crammed with a lot of rusting machinery. The roof seemed to be leaking, there were chain hoists here and there, and two old vans that had obviously seen better days were parked to one side. There was a light on farther ahead, suspended from the ceiling over a desk with a couple of chairs, no sign of people, iron stairs descending from the platform above.

He called out, Hello, is anyone there? I ve got an appointment with Patrick Murphy.

Would that be Mr. Grimshaw? a voice called Irish, not American.

The man who stepped into the light was middle-aged, with silver hair, and wore a dark suit over a turtleneck sweater. He produced a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit it with an old lighter.

Yes, I m Daniel Grimshaw, Holley said.

Then come away in.

Thank you. Holley took a step forward, the rear door of the van on his right opened, and a man stepped out, a Makarov in his hand. He was badly in need of a shave, his dark unruly hair was at almost shoulder length, and he wore a bomber jacket. He moved in behind Holley and rammed the Makarov into his back.

Do you want me to kill him now? he asked in Russian, a language Holley understood.

Let s hear what his game is first, Murphy told him in the same language.

Now, that s what I like to hear, Holley said in Russian. A sensible man.

So you speak the lingo? Murphy was suddenly wary.

Arms for the Kosovans? Are the Serbs turning nasty again this year? Ivan here s on their side, being Russian, but I ll hear what you ve got to say. This was said in English, but now he added in Russian, Make sure he s clean.