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They took him out and Ferguson turned to Dillon and Hannah. “It’s something of a surprise, but I’ll take it as far as I can. You’re in charge here, Superintendent.”

“Very well, sir. You can rely on me.”

“And you,” Ferguson said. “Try to behave yourself.”

“Don’t I always?” Dillon said.

“That’ll be the day,” Ferguson said and led the way out.

It was approximately an hour and a half later that he returned, this time in a cab, bag in hand. Fifteen minutes later, the Land Rover emerged, Miller and Dalton in the front, Ferguson and Selim in the rear.

A few yards down the road a Telecom van was parked, a manhole cover was up and a man in helmet and yellow jacket was working. He had a clear look as the Land Rover went by and spoke into a small mike in Russian.

“Land Rover just coming your way now. Two in the front. Ferguson and Selim in the rear. Stick to them like glue. I’ll notify Major Novikova.”

The Land Rover paused at the end of the one-way street, then turned into the main road. A motorcycle, ridden by a man in black leather, emerged from a side street and took up station, staying well back.

11

At China Wharf, while Fahy and Regan did the cooking, Kelly contacted Ashimov. “So here we are. What next?”

“We’ll come round and see you to discuss that. Greta did some research in her GRU files and discovered that Ferguson has a safe house in Holland Park.”

“Well, that’s useful. Is Selim there?”

“I’d be amazed if he wasn’t. Just to make sure, though, she’s got a couple of her people from the embassy on watch there, posing as workmen. I’ll let you know what they find out.”

He drove to the embassy, and found Greta in her office, putting papers into her briefcase. She looked flushed and excited.

“It marches, Yuri. It marches. Not only was Selim definitely in the safe house, he’s now left. He was seated with Ferguson behind two men in a Land Rover. It’s definite.”

“So where were they going?”

“I don’t know, but my number-two man, a young lieutenant called Ivanov, is on their trail on a motorcycle.”

“Is he any good?”

“Excellent. They won’t give him the slip, even if they try.”

“Then while we’re waiting to hear what he comes up with, let’s go visit those Irish clods at China Wharf.”

The Land Rover moved south out of London through heavy traffic to Leatherhead, then onward to Dorking, stopping on the other side for fuel. It was busy, with plenty of cars around, and Ivanov was able to be unobtrusive. He called Greta just as she was arriving at China Wharf with Ashimov. He told her where he was. “The main road leads to Horsham. Does that make any sense?”

“Plenty. I think you may find a village near there named Huntley. Stay with it and call me back.”

“Huntley?” Ashimov said.

“Ferguson’s other safe house.” She held up her briefcase. “It’s all in here.”

“Good. Then let’s go in.”

The road to St. Leonard’s Forest passed through impressive woodland, but was not very busy, only the occasional car and the odd farm vehicle. Ivanov stayed way back, allowing anything that came to overtake him. The road was comparatively straight and he was able to keep the Land Rover in view far up front.

In the end, he had luck, but you always needed that. A large agricultural container truck came up behind him, and he pulled over to let it pass. It provided perfect cover for another couple of miles and he stayed well back, looking beyond it until he saw the Land Rover turn off the road. He slowed, taking his time, allowing the truck to move on, and came to high walls topped by what, to his practiced eye, looked like an electronic fence. There was a gate, obviously also electronic, a small lodge and a sign that said HUNTLEY HALL INSTITUTION.

He kept on going. The walls extended for about a quarter of a mile, the grounds heavily wooded. He had a glimpse of the roof of a large house in the distance, no more, and then he came to the village of Huntley itself – very English, very traditional, cottages scattered on the main street, a stone bridge over a brook, a village store, a fuel station and a pub called the Huntley Arms.

He stopped for fuel, and a young woman served him. His English was perfect, which was how he had been trained. “I seemed to get lost in Horsham. I wanted to cut across to the Brighton Road.”

“Keep going, you’ll come to the A Twenty-three and that’ll take you all the way down to Brighton.”

“This is certainly an out-of-the-way place.”

“That’s true. Nothing much happens here.”

He followed her to the kiosk and got his money out. “What was that place I passed, Huntley Park Institution?”

“Some sort of medical outfit. People in rehab, or that sort of thing. I wouldn’t know, really. They keep to themselves.”

He noticed there were a dozen trailers scattered in the woodland at the back of the garage.

“Who do you rent those to?”

“Nobody’s staying now. Bird-watchers sometimes, people down for the shooting. We get quite busy in the summer.”

“I like this place,” he said. “Give me a card,” which she did, and he added, “While I’m here, I might as well have something to eat. Is the pub any good?”

“It’s all right. Pies, sandwiches, that sort of thing. You won’t find anyone in there now except my granddad. He’s got nothing better to do than drink beer with no one staying in the trailers.”

He gave her a dazzling smile. “I’ll give it a go.”

She was right, for when he went in the pub it was exactly what he would have expected. A stone-flagged floor, an oaken bar backed by bottles, a beamed ceiling, about twenty empty tables and a log fire on an open hearth. An old man in a padded jacket and tweed cap was seated by the fire drinking a pint of beer.

A middle-aged woman appeared from somewhere at the back of the bar, drying her hands. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Took the wrong road from Horsham and lost my way. I’ll have a beer, just one since I’m driving, and maybe you could find me a cheese sandwich. The young lady at the garage suggested I come in.”

“That would be Betty.”

“My granddaughter,” the old man called. “Harold Laker’s my name.”

“Maybe I could buy you a beer,” Ivanov said.

“A pint of bitter wouldn’t be a burden.”

“The old scrounger.” The woman smiled. “Go on, you join him and I’ll bring your drinks and the sandwiches.”

Harold Laker was eighty years old and boasted of it. He’d been born on a local farm, worked all his life in the village, and he demolished a pint and accepted another as Ivanov kept him talking.

“Of course, it wasn’t just the farming in the old days. There was the fishing, the foxhunting, though that’s long gone. The shooting’s really the only big thing left in season.”

“What kind of birds?”

“All kinds. Good pheasant, especially on the estate when Lord Faversham was alive. I used to carry his guns, load for him. Wonderful wildlife on the estate. Rabbits, hares. Not these days, mind you.”

“Why not?”

“Well, when he died, he left it to the nation, and the powers that be turned it into some sort of medical institution.”

“I noticed it when I was driving in. What goes on in there?”

“Nobody really knows, but they do say it’s for people with head problems. Never see any of them round here, mind you.” He sighed. “It was a poacher’s paradise, that estate.”

“I suppose you had your share, but not now with all that security. Electric fences, cameras at the gate.”

“And inside the grounds.”

“Really? And how would you know that?”