This time, Hector has reserved the job description for himself: 'Leading-edge Westminster lobbyist, influence-broker, clients include some of the world's major s.h.i.ts.'

'Friend of yours, Hector?' Matlock asks.

'Friend of anybody willing to bra.s.s up ten grand for a tete-a-tete with one of our incorruptible rulers, Billy,' Hector retorts.

The fourth and last member of the piece, even in fuzzy enlargement, is high society's quintessence of vitality. Fine black piping defines the lapels of his perfect white dinner jacket. His mane of silver-fox hair is dramatically swept back. Is he perhaps a great conductor? Or a great head waiter? His ringed forefinger, raised in humorous admonition, is like a dancer's. His graceful spare hand rests lightly and inoffensively on the upper arm of the Minister-in-Waiting. His pleated shirt-front sports a Maltese Cross.

A what what? A Maltese Cross? Can he then be a Knight of Malta? Or is it a gallantry medal? Or a foreign order? Or did he buy it as a present to himself? In the small hours of morning, Luke and Yvonne have thought long and hard about it. No, they agreed. He stole it.

Signor Emilio dell Oro, Italian Swiss national, resident in Lugano, reads the subt.i.tle, drafted this time by Luke under strict instructions from Hector to keep the description carbon neutral. International socialite, horseman, Kremlin power-broker International socialite, horseman, Kremlin power-broker.

Once again, Hector has awarded himself the best lines: 'Real name, far as we can get it, Stanislav Auros. Polish-Armenian, Turkish antecedents, self-educated, self-invented, brilliant. Currently the Prince's major-domo, enabler, factotum, social advisor and frontman.' And with no pause or alteration in his voice: 'Billy, why don't you take him over from here? You know more about him than I do.'

Is Matlock ever to be outmanoeuvred? Apparently not, for he is back without so much as a second's thought: 'I fear I'm losing you, Hector. Be so kind as to remind me, if you will.'

Hector will. He has revived remarkably: 'Our recent childhood, Billy. Before we become grown-ups. A midsummer's day, as I recall it. I was Head of Station in Prague, you were Head of Operations in London. You authorized me to drop fifty thousand US dollars in small notes into the boot of Stanislav's parked white Mercedes at dead of night, no questions asked. Except that in those days he wasn't Stanislav, he was Monsieur Fabian Lazaar. He never once turned his pretty head to say thank you. I don't know what he earned his money for, but no doubt you do. He was making his way up in those days. Stolen artefacts, mostly from Iraq. Chaperoning rich ladies of Geneva out of their husbands' cash. Hawking diplomatic pillow talk to the highest bidder. Maybe that's what we were buying. Was it?'

'I did not not run Stanislav run Stanislav or or Fabian, thank you, Hector. Or Mr dell Oro, or whatever he calls himself. He was Fabian, thank you, Hector. Or Mr dell Oro, or whatever he calls himself. He was not not my joe. At the time you made that payment to him, I was merely standing in.' my joe. At the time you made that payment to him, I was merely standing in.'

'Who for?'

'My predecessor. Do you mind not interrogating me, Hector? The boot's on the other foot, if you've not noticed. Aubrey Longrigg Aubrey Longrigg was my predecessor, Hector, as you well know, and come to think of it will remain so for as long as I'm in this job. Don't tell me you've forgotten was my predecessor, Hector, as you well know, and come to think of it will remain so for as long as I'm in this job. Don't tell me you've forgotten Aubrey Longrigg Aubrey Longrigg, or I'll think Dr Alzheimer has paid you an unwelcome visit. Sharpest needle in the box, Aubrey was, right up to his somewhat premature departure. Even if he did overstep the mark occasionally, same as you.'

In defence, Luke recalled, Matlock knew only attack.

'And believe you me, Hector,' he rode on, gathering reinforcements as he went, 'if my predecessor Aubrey Longrigg Aubrey Longrigg needed fifty grand paying out to his joe just as Aubrey was leaving the Service to go on to higher things, and if Aubrey requested me to undertake that task on his behalf in full and final settlement of a certain private understanding, which he did, I was not about to turn around and say to Aubrey: "Hang on a minute, Aubrey, while I obtain special clearance and check your story out." Well, was I? Not with needed fifty grand paying out to his joe just as Aubrey was leaving the Service to go on to higher things, and if Aubrey requested me to undertake that task on his behalf in full and final settlement of a certain private understanding, which he did, I was not about to turn around and say to Aubrey: "Hang on a minute, Aubrey, while I obtain special clearance and check your story out." Well, was I? Not with Aubrey Aubrey! Not the way Aubrey and the Chief were in those days, hand in glove, hugger-mugger, I'd be off my head, wouldn't I?'

The old steel had at last re-entered Hector's voice: 'Well, why don't we take a look at Aubrey as he is today: Parliamentary Under-Secretary, Member of Parliament for one of his Party's most deprived const.i.tuencies, staunch defender of the rights of women, valued consultant to the Ministry of Defence on arms procurement and' softly snapping his fingers and frowning as if he really has forgotten 'what else is he, Luke? something something, I know.'

And bang on cue, Luke hears himself trilling out the answer: 'Chairman designate of the new parliamentary subcommittee on banking ethics.'

'And not completely completely out of touch with our Service either, I suppose?' Hector suggested. out of touch with our Service either, I suppose?' Hector suggested.

'I suppose not,' Luke agrees, though why on earth Hector should have regarded him as an authority at that moment was hard to tell.

Perhaps it's only right that we spies, even our retired ones, do not take naturally to being photographed, Luke reflected. Perhaps we nurture a secret fear that the Great Wall between our outer and inner selves will be pierced by the camera's lens.

Certainly Aubrey Longrigg MP gave that impression. Even caught unawares in poor light by an inferior video camera hand-held fifty metres away across the water, Longrigg seemed to be hugging whatever shadow the fairy-lit deck of the Princess Tatiana Princess Tatiana afforded. afforded.

Not, it must be said, that the poor chap was naturally photogenic, Luke conceded, once more thanking his lucky stars that their paths had never crossed. Aubrey Longrigg was balding, mean and beaky, as became a man famous for his intolerance of lesser minds than his own. Under the Adriatic sun, his unappetizing features have turned a flaming pink, and the rimless spectacles do little to alter the impression of a fifty-year-old bank clerk unless, like Luke, you have heard tales of the restless ambition that drives him, the unforgiving intellect that had made the fourth floor a swirling hothouse of innovative ideas and feuding barons, and of his improbable attraction to a certain kind of woman the kind presumably that gets a kick out of being intellectually belittled of whom the latest example was standing beside him in the person of: The Lady Janice (Jay) Longrigg, society hostess and fundraiser The Lady Janice (Jay) Longrigg, society hostess and fundraiser, followed by Yvonne's shortlist of the many charities that had reason to be thankful to Lady Longrigg.

She wears a stylish, off-the-shoulder evening dress. Her groomed raven hair is held in place by a diamante grip. She has a gracious smile and the royal, forward-leaning totter that only Englishwomen of a certain birth and cla.s.s acquire. And she looks, to Luke's unsparing eye, ineffably stupid. At her side hover her two pre-p.u.b.escent daughters in party frocks.

'She's his new one, right?' Matlock the unabashed Labour supporter suddenly sang out, with improbable vigour, as the screen went blank at Hector's touch, and the overhead light came on. 'The one he married when he decided to fast-lane himself into politics without doing any of the dirty work. Some Labourite Aubrey Longrigg is, I will say! Old or or new!' new!'

Why was Matlock so jovial again? and this time for real? The last thing Luke had expected of him was outright laughter, which in Matlock was at the best of times a rare commodity. Yet his big, tweedy torso was heaving with silent mirth. Was it because Longrigg and Matlock had for years been famously at daggers drawn? That to enjoy the favour of the one had been to attract the hostility of the other? That Longrigg had come to be known as the Chief's brain, and Matlock, unkindly, as his brawn? That with Longrigg's departure, office wits had likened their feud to a decade-long bullfight in which the bull had put in la puntilla la puntilla?

'Yes, well, always a high-flyer, Aubrey was,' he was remarking, like a man remembering the dead. 'Quite the financial wizard too, as I recall. Not in your your league, Hector, I'm pleased to say, but getting up there. Operational funds were never a problem, that's for sure, not while Aubrey was at the helm. I mean, how did he ever come to be on that boat to begin with?' asked the same Matlock who only minutes ago had a.s.serted that a man couldn't be condemned for being on someone's boat. ' league, Hector, I'm pleased to say, but getting up there. Operational funds were never a problem, that's for sure, not while Aubrey was at the helm. I mean, how did he ever come to be on that boat to begin with?' asked the same Matlock who only minutes ago had a.s.serted that a man couldn't be condemned for being on someone's boat. 'Plus consorting with a former secret source after departing the Service, which the rule book has some very firm things to say about, particularly if said source is a slippery customer like whatever he calls himself these days.' consorting with a former secret source after departing the Service, which the rule book has some very firm things to say about, particularly if said source is a slippery customer like whatever he calls himself these days.'

'Emilio dell Oro,' Hector put in helpfully. 'One to remember, actually, Billy.'

'You'd think he'd know better, Aubrey would, after what we taught him, consorting with Emilio dell Oro, then. You'd think a man of Aubrey's somewhat serpentine skills would be more circ.u.mspect in his choice of friend. How come he happened to be there? Perhaps he had a good reason. We shouldn't prejudge him.'

'One of those happy strokes of luck, Billy,' Hector explained. 'Aubrey and his newest wife and her daughters were enjoying a camping holiday up in the hills above the Adriatic Coast. A London banking chum of Aubrey's called him up, name unknown, told him the Tatiana Tatiana was anch.o.r.ed near by and there was a party going on, so hurry on down and join the fun.' was anch.o.r.ed near by and there was a party going on, so hurry on down and join the fun.'

'Under canvas? Aubrey? Aubrey? Tell me another.' Tell me another.'

'Roughing it in a campsite. The populist life of New Labour Aubrey, man of the people.'

'Do you you go on camping holidays, Luke?' go on camping holidays, Luke?'

'Yes, but Eloise hates British campsites. She's French,' he replied, sounding idiotic to himself.

'And when you go on your camping holidays, Luke taking care, as you do, to avoid British British campsites do you as a rule take your dinner jacket with you?' campsites do you as a rule take your dinner jacket with you?'

'No.'

'And Eloise, does she take her diamonds with her?'

'She hasn't got any, actually.'

Matlock thought about this. 'I suppose you b.u.mped into Aubrey quite a lot, did you, Hector, while you were cutting your lucrative swathe in the City, and others of us went on doing our duty? Had the odd jar together now and then, did you, you and Aubrey? The way City folk do?'

Hector gave a dismissive shrug. 'b.u.mped into each other now and then. Haven't got a lot of time for naked ambition, to be honest. Bores me.'

At which Luke, to whom dissembling these days did not come quite as easily as it used to, had to restrain himself from grasping the arms of his chair.

b.u.mped into each other? Dear Heaven, they had fought each other to a standstill and Dear Heaven, they had fought each other to a standstill and then then gone on fighting. Of all the gone on fighting. Of all the vulture capitalists vulture capitalists, a.s.set-strippers, dawn-raiders and carpet-b.u.g.g.e.rs carpet-b.u.g.g.e.rs that ever stepped according to Hector Aubrey Longrigg was the most two-faced, devious, backsliding, dishonest and well-connected. that ever stepped according to Hector Aubrey Longrigg was the most two-faced, devious, backsliding, dishonest and well-connected.

It was Aubrey Longrigg lurking in the wings who had led the a.s.sault on Hector's family grain firm. It was Longrigg who, through a dubious but cleverly a.s.sembled network of cut-outs, had cajoled Her Majesty's Revenue & Customs into storming Hector's warehouses at dead of night, slashing open hundreds of sacks, smashing down doors and terrifying the night shift.

It was Longrigg's insidious network of Whitehall contacts that had unleashed Health & Safety, the Inland Revenue, the Fire Department and the Immigration Service to hara.s.s and intimidate the family employees, ransack their desks, seize their account books and challenge their tax returns.

But Aubrey Longrigg was not mere enemy enemy in Hector's eyes that would have been too easy altogether he was an archetype; a cla.s.sic symptom of the canker that was devouring not just the City, but our most precious inst.i.tutions of government. in Hector's eyes that would have been too easy altogether he was an archetype; a cla.s.sic symptom of the canker that was devouring not just the City, but our most precious inst.i.tutions of government.

Hector was at war not with Longrigg personally. Probably he was speaking the truth when he told Matlock that Longrigg bored him, for it was an essential pillar of his thesis that the men and women he was pursuing were by definition bores: mediocre, ba.n.a.l, insensitive, lackl.u.s.tre, to be distinguished from other bores only by their covert support for one another, and their insatiable greed.

Hector's commentary has become perfunctory. Like a magician who doesn't want you to look too closely at any one card, he is shuffling swiftly through the pack of international rogues that Yvonne has put together for him.

Glimpse a tubby, imperious, very small man loading up his plate from the buffet: 'Known in German circles as Karl der Kleine,' Hector says dismissively. 'Half a Wittelsbach which half eludes me. Bavarian, pitch-black Catholic as they say down there; close ties with the Vatican. Closer still with the Kremlin. Indirectly elected member of the Bundestag and non-executive director of a clutch of Russian oil companies, big chum of Emilio dell Oro's. Skied with him last year in St Moritz, took his Spanish boyfriend along. The Saudis love him. Next lovely.'

Cut too quickly to a bearded beautiful boy in a glittering magenta cape making lavish conversation with two bejewelled matrons: 'Karl der Kleine's latest pet,' Hector announces. 'Sentenced to three years' hard labour by a Madrid court last year for aggravated a.s.sault, got off on a technicality, thanks to Karl. Recently appointed non-executive director of the Arena group of companies, same lot that own the Prince's yacht ah, now here's here's one to watch' flick of the console ' one to watch' flick of the console 'Doctor Evelyn Popham of Mount Street, Mayfair; Bunny to his friends. Studied law in Neuchatel and Manchester. Licensed to practise in Switzerland, courtier and pimp to the Surrey oligarchs, sole partner of his own flourishing West End law firm. Internationalist, bon viveur, b.l.o.o.d.y good lawyer. Bent as a hairpin. Where's his website? Hold on. Find it in a moment. Leave me alone, Luke. There you are. Got it.' Evelyn Popham of Mount Street, Mayfair; Bunny to his friends. Studied law in Neuchatel and Manchester. Licensed to practise in Switzerland, courtier and pimp to the Surrey oligarchs, sole partner of his own flourishing West End law firm. Internationalist, bon viveur, b.l.o.o.d.y good lawyer. Bent as a hairpin. Where's his website? Hold on. Find it in a moment. Leave me alone, Luke. There you are. Got it.'

On the plasma screen, while Hector fumbles and mutters, Dr (Bunny-to-his-friends) Popham continues to beam patiently down on his audience. He is a rotund, jolly gentleman with chubby cheeks and side-whiskers, drawn straight from the pages of Beatrix Potter. Improbably he sports tennis whites and is clutching, in addition to his racquet, a comely female tennis partner.

The home page of The Dr Popham & No Partners website, when it finally appears, is mastered by the same cheerful face, smiling over the top of a quasi-royal coat of arms featuring the scales of justice. Beneath him runs his Mission Statement: My expert team's professional experience includes: successfully protecting the rights of leading individuals in the international entrepreneurial banking sphere against Serious Fraud Office investigations successfully representing key international clients in matters regarding offsh.o.r.e jurisdiction, and their right to silence at international and UK tribunals of inquiry successfully responding to importunate regulatory inquiries and tax investigations and charges of improper or illegal payments to influence-makers.

'And the b.u.g.g.e.rs can't stop playing tennis,' Hector complains as his rogues' gallery recovers at its former spanking pace.

In short order, we're in the sporting clubs of Monte Carlo, Cannes, Madeira and the Algarve. We're in Biarritz and Bologna. We're trying to keep up with Yvonne's captions, and her alb.u.m of fun photographs plundered from society magazines, but it's hard, unless like Luke you know what to expect and why.

But however swiftly faces and places change under Hector's volatile management, however many beautiful people in state-of-the-art tennis gear whisk by, five players repeatedly a.s.sert themselves: jocular Bunny Popham, your lawyer of choice for responding to importunate regulatory inquiries and charges of illegal payments to influence-makers ambitious, intolerant Aubrey Longrigg, retired spy, Member of Parliament and family camper, with his latest aristocratic and charitable wife Her Majesty's Minister-of-State-in-Waiting, and specialist-to-be in banking ethics the self-taught, self-invented, vivacious and charming socialite and polyglot Emilio dell Oro, Swiss national and globe-trotting financier, addicted we are told by a scanned press cutting that you have to be quick as lightning to read to 'adrenalin sports from bareback riding in the Ural Mountains, heli-skiing in Canada, tennis in the fast lane, and playing the Moscow Stock Exchange', who gets longer than his due, owing to a technical hitch, and finally: patrician, urbane public-relations maestro Captain Giles de Salis, Royal Navy, retd., influence-pedlar, specialist in bent peers presented to the background music of: 'one of the slimiest b.u.g.g.e.rs in Westminster' from Hector.

Light on. Change memory stick. House rules dictate: one subject, one stick. Hector likes to keep his flavours separate. Time to go to Moscow.

10.

Hector has for once taken a vow of silence: which is to say that, released from his mawkish technical preoccupations, he is sitting back in his chair and allowing the baritone-voiced Russian news commentator to do his work for him. Like Luke, Hector is a convert to the Russian language and, with reservations, the Russian soul. Like Luke, each time he watches the film that is running, he is by his own admission awestruck in the presence of the cla.s.sic, timeless, all-Russian, bare-faced whopping lie.

And the Moscow-based television news service can manage very well on its own, without help from Hector or anybody else. The baritone voice is more than capable of imparting its revulsion at the grisly tragedy it is recounting: this senseless drive-by shooting, this wanton cutting-down of a brilliant and devoted Russian couple from Perm in their very prime of life! Little had the victims known, when they decided to visit their beloved homeland from distant Italy where they were based, that their journey of the soul would end here in the ivy-clad graveyard of the ancient seminary they had always loved, with its onion domes and thuja trees, set on a hillside outside Moscow at the edge of gently swelling forest: On this dark, unseasonable afternoon in May, all Moscow is in mourning for two blameless Russians and their two small daughters who, by the mercy of G.o.d, were not present in the car when their parents were shot to pieces by terrorist elements of our society.

See the shattered windows and bullet-riddled doors, the burned-out carca.s.s of a once-n.o.ble Mercedes car tossed on to its side between silver birch trees, the innocent Russian blood mingling in brutal close-up with the fuel oil on the tarmac; and the disfigured faces of the victims themselves.

The outrage, the commentator a.s.sures us, has aroused the justified anger of all responsible Moscow citizens. When will this menace end? they ask. When will decent Russians be free to travel their own roads without being gunned down by marauding bands of Chechen desperadoes bent on spreading terror and mayhem?

Mikhail Arkadievich rising international oil and metals trader! Olga L'vovna selflessly engaged in procuring charitable food supplies on behalf of Russia's needy! Loving parents of little Katya and Irina! Pure Russians, homesick for the Motherland they will never leave again!

Against the rising tide of the commentator's indignation a crawling column of black limousines escorts a gla.s.s-sided hurdy-gurdy up the wooded hillside to the seminary gates. The procession halts, car doors fly open as young men in dark designer suits leap out and form ranks to accompany the coffins. The scene changes to a grim-faced Deputy Chief of Police in full uniform and medals posed rigidly at an inlaid desk surrounded by testimonials and photographs of President Medvedev and Prime Minister Putin: Let us take comfort in the knowledge that one Chechen at least has already voluntarily confessed to the crime, he tells us, and the camera holds his face long enough for us to share his outrage.

We return to the graveyard, and the strains of a Gregorian funeral lament as a choir of young Orthodox priests in flowerpot hats and silky beards proceeds with icons aloft down the seminary steps to a double graveside where the princ.i.p.al mourners are waiting. The picture freezes, then zooms in on each mourner as Yvonne's subt.i.tles surface beneath them: TAMARA, wife to Dima, sister to Olga, aunt to Katya and Irina: poker upright, under a wide-brimmed beekeeper's black hat.

DIMA, husband to Tamara: his bald, racked face so sickly in its stretched smile that he might as well be dead himself, despite the presence of his beloved daughter.

NATASHA, daughter to Dima: her long hair swept down her back in a black river, her slender body swathed in layers of shapeless black weed.

IRINA and KATYA, children of Olga and Misha: expressionless, each clutching a hand of Natasha.

The commentator is reciting the names of the great and good who have come to pay their respects. They include the representatives of Yemen, Libya, Panama, Dubai and Cyprus. None from Great Britain.

The camera fixes on a gra.s.sy knoll halfway up a hillside darkened by thuja trees. Six no, seven neatly suited young men in their twenties and early thirties are cl.u.s.tered together. Their beardless faces, some already running to fat, are directed at the open grave twenty metres down the slope beneath them, where the erect figure of Dima stands alone, his upper body tilted backwards in the military manner that he favours as he stares, not into the grave, but at the seven suited men gathered on the knoll.

Is the photograph still or moving? Dima has remained quite motionless, so it's hard to tell. So also have the men gathered on the knoll above him. Belatedly, Yvonne's subt.i.tle appears: THE SEVEN BROTHERS.

One by one, the camera takes a look at each of them in close-up.

Luke has long ago given up trying to judge the world by its face. He has studied these faces numberless times, but still finds nothing in them he wouldn't find across the desk from him in any Hampstead estate agent's office, or in any gathering of black-suited, black-briefcased, business types in the bar of any smart hotel from Moscow to Bogota.

Even when their long-winded Russian names appear, complete with patronymics, criminal nicknames and aliases, he can't bring himself to see in their owners' faces anything more interesting than another edition of prototypes from the uniformed ranks of middle management.

But keep looking, and you begin to realize that six of them, either by design or chance, form a protective ring round the seventh at their centre. Look still more closely, and you observe that the man they are shielding is not a day older than they are and that his creaseless face is as happy as a child's on a sunny day, which isn't quite the face you expect to meet at a funeral. The face is such a picture of good health, in Luke's view, that you are almost obliged to a.s.sume a healthy mind behind it. If its owner were to pop up uninvited on Luke's doorstep one Sunday evening with a hard-luck story to tell, he would have a difficult time turning him away. And his subt.i.tle?

THE PRINCE.

Abruptly, the said Prince detaches himself from his brothers, trots down the gra.s.sy slope and, without shortening his stride or reducing his pace, advances with arms outstretched on Dima, who has turned to confront him, shoulders back, chest out, chin thrust proudly forward in defiance. But his curled hands, so fine in contrast to the rest of him, seem unable to leave his sides. Perhaps it crosses Luke's mind each time he watches perhaps he is thinking that this is his chance to do to the Prince what he dreamed of doing to the husband of Natasha's mother 'with these these, Professor!' If that is so, then wiser and more tactical thoughts finally prevail.

Gradually, if a little late, his hands grudgingly rise for the embrace, which begins tentatively but then, by force of men's desire or mutual detestation, becomes a lovers' clinch.

Slow motion to the kiss: right cheek to left cheek, old vor vor to young to young vor vor. Misha's protector kisses Misha's murderer.

Slow motion to the second kiss, left cheek to right cheek.

And after each kiss, the little pause for mutual commiseration and reflection, and that choked word of sympathy between grieving mourners which, if spoken at all, is heard by none but themselves.

Slow motion to the mouth-to-mouth kiss.

Over the tape recorder that sits between Hector's lifeless hands, Dima is explaining to the English apparatchiks why he is prepared to embrace the man whom, most in the world, he would prefer to strike dead: 'Sure we are sad, I tell to him! But as good vory vory we we understand understand why was necessary to murder my Misha! "This Misha, he became too greedy, Prince!" we shall tell to him. "This Misha, he stole your G.o.ddam money, Prince! He was too ambitious, too critical!" We do not say, "Prince, you are not true why was necessary to murder my Misha! "This Misha, he became too greedy, Prince!" we shall tell to him. "This Misha, he stole your G.o.ddam money, Prince! He was too ambitious, too critical!" We do not say, "Prince, you are not true vor vor, you are corrupt b.i.t.c.h." We do not say, "Prince, you take orders from State!" We do not say, "Prince, you pay tribute money to State." We do not say, "You make contract killings for State, you betray Russian heart to State." No. We are humble humble. We regret. We accept. We are respectful. We say, "Prince, we love you. Dima accepts accepts your wise decision to kill his blood disciple Misha."' your wise decision to kill his blood disciple Misha."'

Hector switches the player to pause and turns to Matlock.

'He's actually talking here about a process we've been observing for some time, Billy,' he says, almost apologetically.

'We?'

'Kremlin-watchers, criminologists.'

'And you.'

'Yes. Our team. We too.'

'And what is this process your team has been observing so closely, Hector?'

'As the criminal Brotherhoods draw closer to each other for reasons of good business, so the Kremlin is drawing closer to the criminal Brotherhoods. The Kremlin threw the book at the oligarchs ten years ago: come back inside the tent, or we tax the s.h.i.t out of you or chuck you into prison, or both.'

'I do believe I read that for myself somewhere, Hector,' says Matlock, who likes to deliver his shafts with a particularly friendly smile.

'Well, now they're saying the same to the Brotherhoods,' Hector continues unruffled: 'Organize yourselves, clean up your act, don't kill unless we tell you to, and let's all get rich together. And here's your irrepressible friend again.'

The news footage restarts. Hector freezes frame, selects a corner and enlarges it. As Dima and the Prince embrace, the man who now calls himself Emilio dell Oro, clad in black amba.s.sadorial overcoat with astrakhan collar, stands midway up the slope, gazing down in approval on the match while over the tape recorder Dima reads in staccato Russian from Tamara's script: 'The chief arranger for the Prince's many secret payments is Emilio dell Oro, corrupt Swiss citizen of many former ident.i.ties who by wickedness has obtained the Prince's ear. Dell Oro is the Prince's advisor in many delicate criminal matters for which the Prince being very stupid is not qualified. Dell Oro has many corrupt connections, also in Great Britain. When special payments must be arranged for these British connections, this is done on the recommendation of the viper dell Oro after personal approval by the Prince. After a recommendation is approved, it is the task of the one they call Dima to open Swiss bank accounts for these British persons. As soon as honourable British guarantees are in place, the one they call Dima will also provide names of corrupt British persons who are in high positions of State.'