"Something we're good at, something we've grown very used to."

"Go on, little brother, good night."

Khazid went and Hussein stood there thinking about it, then he went into the entrance hall where they had finished presenting his uncle. He'd given the orders. No wailing women. At this stage, male servants only. Family members could join in on the morning, but for the moment, no.

He was restless, uncertain, and then he did a strange thing. He went into his uncle's small study, where there was a liquor cabinet for non-Muslim guests. He opened the lacquered doors and surveyed the contents, finally selecting a bottle of ice-cold Dom Perignon champagne he found in the bar fridge. There was a strange excitement in him as he got a gla.s.s and walked out onto the terrace. He stood there, thumbing the cork out.

Of course it was wrong, he knew that, but the night was dark and he had two comrades and his uncle to bury. Allah was merciful, Allah would understand. He raised his gla.s.s to Ha.s.sim and Hamid, then emptied the gla.s.s of champagne and threw the bottle from the terrace.

"Go to a good death, my friends, and watch over me in England," he called.

ROPER SAW THE LOCAL radio and television reports of the death of Jemal Rashid from a heart attack. There was television coverage of the cortege on its route to the mosque, Hussein leading the way. Roper recorded it and reported in to Ferguson, who was having breakfast at Cavendish Place.

"He won't like it," Ferguson said. "He'll blame us. The old boy died as a direct result of the affair."

"Exactly."

"What time did Doyle deliver the Rashids to Hampstead?"

"About three o'clock. We'll have to inform them."

"I know. Dammit-I'll do it."

At the house in Gulf Road, Caspar Rashid hadn't followed his wife to bed. She'd taken Sara. He couldn't sleep, and when the Daily Telegraph Daily Telegraph was shoved through the front door, he found Hussein in a corner of the front page, just like in the was shoved through the front door, he found Hussein in a corner of the front page, just like in the Times. Times. And then the phone rang and it was Ferguson. And then the phone rang and it was Ferguson.

"Not very good news." He told Caspar of the old man's death.

Caspar Rashid sat there taking it in. "Dear G.o.d," he said, "is there no end?"

WAITING AT THE AIRPORT in Paris, Dreq Khan bought a copy of the Times Times and nearly had a heart attack. He examined the papers on the newsstand and found Hussein's face staring out at him everywhere. Shortly afterwards the Broker phoned him. and nearly had a heart attack. He examined the papers on the newsstand and found Hussein's face staring out at him everywhere. Shortly afterwards the Broker phoned him.

Khan said, "Have you seen the London papers?"

"Yes."

"This must change everything. Obviously Hussein Rashid can't go to London. In fact, I wonder where he can go."

"It changes nothing. You will still go to London and you will wait to hear from me. You still believe in the power of Osama?"

"Of course."

"Now, get on your flight."

He switched his phone off and hesitated. No, Hussein would be busy with the funeral. He'd leave it till later.

A STRANGE THING HAPPENED at the cemetery in Hazar. It rained suddenly, a real tropical downpour that prevented the wild exuberance that usually marked funerals. Ha.s.sim and Hamid had been wrapped in the green flag of Islam, as was proper for soldiers, the old man in something more subdued, and the rain fell and washed the dead, and Hussein and Khazid took their turns with a spade and shoveled dirt and said goodbye in their own way. Then it was back to the house for Hussein to receive condolences. Finally, about three o'clock in the afternoon, there was some peace.

Sitting on the terrace, having a coffee with Khazid, Hussein's phone went and it was the Broker.

"I knew you'd be busy with the funeral, so I didn't try to get you earlier."

"What is it?"

"Trouble. Obviously, Ferguson's used his power in certain quarters. Your face appears in a number of British newspapers, reported to be a known a.s.sociate of Osama bin Laden, and possibly in Britain."

"A clever b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Ferguson. This is to make it impossible for me to go. But it won't stop me."

"If we try to put new plans into motion, it will be difficult and very awkward, not to say expensive."

"Don't talk to me of expense. I know that Osama has great funds. I am a rich man myself from the death of my uncle. I'm going to England with you or without you, and I'm taking Khazid with me."

"All right, all right. I'll get to work on it."

"I can't wait; you must understand that."

"I do. We'll get you to Algeria. There are many ways to move you around from there. Hold tight. I'll be back to you."

AT HOLLAND PARK, Roper sat at his computers and showed the TV footage of the funeral cortege in Hazar to Greta.

"What did Ferguson say?" she wanted to know.

"Poor sod."

"Is that all?"

"Absolutely. He's gone to the Ministry of Defence for the rest of the day. Pa.s.s me the scotch."

"You're worse than a Russian with his vodka."

"We drink for different reasons. What do you think?"

"About Hussein? Surely he's all washed up. Never mind coming to Britain, if he puts foot on a Baghdad street, he's a dead man."

"You think so?" He lit a cigarette. "I'm wondering ...after the Hannah Bernstein affair last year, when Igor Levin dumped his Russian masters and legged it to good old Dublin with his two sergeants, he phoned me and gave me his number."

"A sort of challenge?"

"In a way. We couldn't track him legally in Dublin. I've spoken to him on the odd occasion, late at night, feeling cheesed off."

"You never said."

"I didn't think Ferguson would like it. The point is, I've told him about our current experience with our Russian friends and he's obliged me on occasion with his personal opinion. He knows quite a bit about what's been going on, with the Broker and all that."

"Does he know who the Broker is?"

"I've told you-n.o.body does."

"Does he know about Chekov?"

"Not from me-but I feel like telling him."

"Well, don't stop because of me," and she went and got herself a vodka.

LEVIN WAS SITTING in the corner of Kelly's bar waiting for Chomsky, when his mobile went and Roper said, "It's me, homing in like Spock from cybers.p.a.ce."

"Tell me what happened in Baghdad. Did it get anywhere?"

"Let me give you a quick recap." When he was finished, he added, "What do you think?"

"I think you've got trouble, my friend. He'll be on somebody's doorstep before you know it. It's good to know Dillon and Billy can still cut the mustard."

"More to the point, so can Harry. Greta's standing right next to me. Let her tell you."

"Hey, lovely," he said. "So you're speaking to me?"

"I didn't know I could, you rogue."

"Do you still love me?"

"Naturally."

"So what's this about Harry?"

She told him, and was thoroughly amused. "Chekov on sticks. So much for the Moscow Mafia in London. Chomsky has just joined me. He sends his best."

Roper had put the call on the speaker. "Dillon and Billy aren't here. They've gone to see Harry at the Dark Man. He's put Ruby Moon behind the bar. Remember her?"

"How could I forget? Now, I've got something interesting to tell you. Enough for now but I just want to mention something. Remember friend Popov? He now works for Michael Flynn at a firm called Scam-rock Security."

"Yes, used to be chief of staff of the Provisional IRA years ago. A bit of a bruiser. What's your point?"

"This Broker, the mystery man who fronts for Osama, is apparently also heavily involved with Michael Flynn, who, it would seem, is in the mercenary business."

"I could have told you about the mercenary bit."

"But not the Broker, who is involved with Volkov. I don't know what's going to happen at Drumore with Belov International, but they will need a decent bunch to keep our soldiers out."

"The decent bunch being ex-Provos."

"I think you'll find Flynn is after the work."

"Interesting."

"And, I happen to know that Volkov got Popov the job at Scamrock, and as we've said, Volkov means the Broker and the Broker means Osama."

"Did Popov tell you he got the job from Volkov?"

Chomsky's voice was heard over the speaker, "No, he didn't, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I've got my ear to Igor's phone, Roper. I'll deal with Popov."

It was Greta who cut in. "No, don't be stupid, Chomsky. You wait, see just what his involvement is before making a move."

"Sorry, Major," Chomsky said. "You're right."

"Of course she is," Levin said. "Take care, my friends. And call again."

Roper switched off. "Well, that was interesting, you must admit."

"Yes, very much so," Charles Ferguson said from the doorway. "The things the help gets up to when one's away."

"Oh, dear," Roper said.

"Well, it could be." Charles Ferguson smiled. "But I always wanted to get my hands on Levin, as you well know. He's too good to be sitting around on his backside."

"Well, there you are then. As for me, I need a break. If Sergeant Doyle is available, he can run me to the Dark Man."

"And I'll go with you," Greta said.

"All right, you talked me into it."

DOYLE PHONED AHEAD, and when they got to the pub there was a booth waiting for them. They crowded round two tables, Ruby supervising things, Baxter and Hall as usual propping up the wall.

"My goodness, you did well in the car park affray," Ferguson said. "For you, Harry, it's a return to your old form."

"It never went away," Billy said. "It was just like the old days."

"Yes, I was a very naughty boy in my youth," Harry said. "Let's have a drink, my love. Champagne all round." He made as if he would slap Ruby's bottom, but managed to stop himself in time.

She smiled. "That's a good boy, Harry," and went off for the champagne.

Roper lit a cigarette and Greta said, "What will you do when they ban the cigarettes?"

Roper shrugged. "I'll figure out something. By the way, General. Item of news from Heathrow which may interest you. Professor Dreq Khan is back. Flew in from Brussels today."

"That is interesting."

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d is untouchable," Dillon said.