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  'Who were the three policemen?' Cherny asked.

  'The sergeant was a man called Voronin, Comrade,' Levin told him. 'Formerly an actor with the Moscow Arts Theatre. He tried to defect to the West last year, after the death of his wife. Sentence - ten years.'

  'And the child?'

  'Tanya Voroninova, his daughter. I'd have to check on the other two.'

  'Never mind now. You can go.'

  Levin went out and Maslovsky said, 'Back to Kelly. I can't get over the fact that he shot that man outside the bar. A direct defiance of my order. Mind you,' he added grudgingly, 'an amazing shot.'

  'Yes, he's good.'

  'Go over his background for me again.'

  Maslovsky poured more coffee and vodka and sat down by the fire and Cherny took a file from the desk and opened it. 'Mikhail Kelly, born in a village called Ballygar in Kerry. That's in the Irish Republic. 1938. Father, Sean Kelly, an IRA activist in the Spanish Civil War where he met the boy's mother in Madrid. Martha Vronsky, Soviet citizen.'

  'And as I recall, the father was hanged by the British?'

  'That's right. He took part in an IRA bombing campaign in the London area during the early months of the Second World War. Was caught, tried and executed.'

  'Another Irish martyr. They seem to thrive on them, those people.'

  'Martha Vronsky was entitled to Irish citizenship and continued to live in Dublin, supporting herself as a journalist. The boy went to a Jesuit school there.'

  'Raised as a Catholic?'

  'Of course. Those rather peculiar circumstances came to the attention of our man in Dublin who reported to Moscow. The boy's potential was obvious and the mother was persuaded to return with him to Russia in 1953. She died two years later. Stomach cancer.'

  'So, he's now twenty and intelligent, I understand?'

  'Very much so. Has a flair for languages. Simply soaks them up.' Cherny glanced at the file again. 'But his special talent is for acting. I'd go so far as to say he has a genius for it.'

  'Highly appropriate in the circumstances.'

  'If things had been different he might well have achieved greatness in that field.'

  'Yes, well he can forget about that,' Maslovsky commented sourly. 'His killing instincts seem well developed.'

  'Thuggery is no problem in this sort of affair,' Cherny told him. 'As the Comrade Colonel well knows, anyone can be trained to kill, which is why we place the emphasis on brains when recruiting. Kelly does have a very rare aptitude when using a handgun, however. Quite unique.'

  'So I observed,' Maslovsky said. 'To kill like that, so ruthlessly. He must have a strong strain of the psychopath in him.'

  'Not in his case, Comrade Colonel. It's perhaps a little difficult to understand, but as I told you, Kelly is a brilliant actor. Today, he played the role of IRA gunman and he carried it through, just as if he had been playing the part in a film.'

  'Except that there was no director to call cut,' Maslovsky observed, 'and the dead man didn't get up and walk away when the camera stopped rolling.'

  'I know,' Cherny said. 'But it explains psychologically why he had to shoot three men and why he fired at Murphy in spite of orders. Murphy was an informer. He had to be seen to be punished. In the role he was playing, it was impossible for Kelly to act in any other way. That is the purpose of the training.'

  'All right, I take the point. And you think he's ready to go out into the cold now?'

  'I believe so, Comrade Colonel.'

  'All right, let's have him in.'

  Without the hat and the raincoat Mikhail Kelly seemed younger than ever. He wore a dark polo-neck sweater, a jacket of Donegal tweed and corduroy slacks. He seemed totally composed, almost withdrawn, and Maslovsky was conscious of that vague feeling of irritation again.

  'You're pleased with yourself, I suppose, with what happened out there? I told you not to shoot the man Murphy. Why did you disobey my orders?'

  'He was an informer, Comrade Colonel. Such people need to be taught a lesson if men like me are to survive.' He shrugged. 'The purpose of terrorism is to terrorize. Lenin said that. In the days of the Irish revolution, it was Michael Colhns's favourite quotation.'

  'It was a game, damn you!' Maslovsky exploded. 'Not the real thing.'

  'If we play the game long enough, Comrade Colonel, it can sometimes end up playing us,' Kelly told him calmly.

  'Dear God!' Maslovsky said and it had been many years since he had expressed such a sentiment. 'All right, let's get on with it.' He sat down at the desk, facing Kelly. 'Professor Cherny feels you are ready to go to work. You agree?'

  'Yes, Comrade Colonel.'

  'Your task is easily stated. Our chief antagonists are America and Britain. Britain is the weaker of the two and its capitalist edifice is being eroded. The biggest thorn in Britain's side is the IRA. You are about to become an additional thorn.' The colonel leaned forward and stared into Kelly's eyes. 'You are from now on a maker of disorder.'

  'In Ireland?'

  'Eventually, but you must undergo more training in the outside world first. Let me explain your task further.' He stood up and walked to the fire. 'In nineteen fifty-six, the IRA Army Council voted to start another campaign in Ulster. Three years later, and it has been singularly unsuccessful. There is little doubt that this campaign will be called off and sooner rather than later. It has achieved nothing.'

  'So?' Kelly said.

  Maslovsky returned to the desk. 'However, our own intelligence sources indicate that eventually a conflict will break out in Ireland of a far more serious nature than anything that has gone before. When that day comes, you must be ready for it, in deep and waiting.'

  'I understand, Comrade.'

  'I hope you do. However, enough for now. Professor Cherny will fill you in on your more immediate plans when I've gone. For the moment, you're dismissed.'

  Kelly went out without a word. Cherny said, 'He can do it. I'm certain of it.'

  'I hope so. He could be as good as any of the native sleepers and he drinks less.'

  Maslovsky walked to the window and peered out at the driving rain, suddenly tired, not thinking of Kelly at all, conscious, for no particular reason, of the look on the child's face when she had attacked the Irishman back there in the square.

  'That child,' he said. 'What was her name?'

  'Tanya - Tanya Voronmova.'

  'She's an orphan now? No one to take care of her?'

  'Not as far as I know.'

  'She was really quite appealing and intelligent, wouldn't you say?'

  'She certainly seemed so. I haven't had any dealings with her personally. Has the Comrade Colonel a special interest?'

  'Possibly. We lost our only daughter last year at the age of six in the influenza epidemic. My wife can't have any more. She's taken a job in some welfare department or other, but she frets, Cherny. She just isn't the same woman. Looking at that child back there in the square made me wonder. She might just fit the bill.'

  'An excellent idea, Comrade, for everyone concerned, if I may say so.'

  'Good,' Maslovsky said, suddenly brightening. 'I'll take her back to Moscow with me and give my Susha a surprise.'

  He moved to the desk, pulled the cork from the vodka bottle with his teeth and filled two glasses. 'A toast,' he said.'To the Irish enterprise and to…' He paused, frowning, 'What was his code name again?'

  'Cuchulain,' Cherny told him.

  'Right,' Maslovsky said. 'To Cuchulain.' He swallowed the vodka and hurled his glass into the fire.

  1982

  Chapter One

  WHEN MAJOR TONY VILLIERS entered the officers' mess of the Grenadier Guards at Chelsea Barracks, there was no one there. It was a place of shadows, the only illumination coming from the candles flickering in the candelabra on the long, polished dining-table, the light reflected from the mess silver.

  Only one place was set for dinner at the end of the table, which surprised him, but a bottle of champagne waited in a silver ice bucket, Krug 1972., his
favourite. He paused, looking down at it, then lifted it out and eased the cork, reaching for one of the tall crystal glasses that stood on the table, pouring slowly and carefully. He moved to the fire and stood there, looking at his reflection in the mirror above it.

  The scarlet tunic suited him rather well and the medals made a brave show, particularly the purple and white stripes of his Military Cross with the silver rosette that meant a second award. He was of medium height with good shoulders, the black hair longer than one would have expected in a serving soldier. In spite of the fact that his nose had been broken at some time or other, he was handsome enough in a dangerous kind of way.

  It was very quiet now, only the great men of the past gazing solemnly down at him from the portraits, obscured by the shadows. There was an air of unreality to everything and for some reason, his image seemed to be reflected many times in the mirror, backwards into infinity. He was so damned thirsty. He raised the glass and his voice was very hoarse — seemed to belong to someone else entirely.

  'Here's to you, Tony, old son,' he said, 'and a Happy New Year.'

  He lifted the crystal glass to his lips and the champagne was colder than anything he had ever known. He drank it avidly and it seemed to turn to liquid fire in his mouth, burning its way down and he cried out in agony as the mirror shattered and then the ground seemed to open between his feet and he was falling.

  A dream, of course, where thirst did not exist. He came awake then and found himself in exactly the same place as he had been for a week, leaning against the wall in the corner of the little room, unable to lie down because of the wooden halter padlocked around his neck, holding his wrists at shoulder level.

  He wore a green headcloth wound around his head in the manner of the Balushi tribesmen he had been commanding in the Dhofar high country until his capture ten days previously. His khaki bush shirt and trousers were filthy now, torn in many places, and his feet were bare because one of the Rashid had stolen his suede desert boots. And then there was the beard, prickly and uncomfortable, and he didn't like that. Had never been able to get out of the old Guards' habit of a good close shave every day, no matter what the situation. Even the SAS had not been able to change that particular quirk.

  There was the rattle of a bolt, the door creaked open and flies rose in a great curtain. Two Rashid entered, small, wiry men in soiled white robes, bandoliers criss-crossed from the shoulders. They eased him up between them without a word and took him outside, put him down roughly against the wall and walked away.

  It was a few moments before his eyes became adjusted to the bright glare of the morning sun. Bir el Gafani was a poor place, no more than a dozen flat-roofed houses with the oasis trimmed by palm trees below. A boy herded half a dozen camels down towards the water trough where women in dark robes and black masks were washing clothes.

  In the distance, to the right, the mountains of Dhofar, the most southern province of Oman, lifted into the blue sky.

  Little more than a week before Villiers had been leading Balushi tribesmen on a hunt for Marxist guerrillas. Bir el Gafani, on the other hand, was enemy territory, the People's Democratic Republic of the South Yemen stretching north to the Empty Quarter.

  There was a large earthenware pot of water on his left with a ladle in it, but he knew better than to try to drink and waited patiently. In the distance, over a rise, a camel appeared, moving briskly towards the oasis, slightly unreal in the shimmering heat.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, dropping his head on his chest to ease the strain on his neck, and was aware of footsteps. He looked up to find Salim bin al Kaman approaching. He wore a black headcloth, black robes, a holstered Browning automatic on his right hip, a curved dagger pushed into the belt and carried a Chinese AK assault rifle, the pride of his life. He stood peering down at Villiers, an amiable-looking man with a fringe of greying beard and a skin the colour of Spanish leather.

  'Salaam alaikum, Salim bin al Kaman,' Villiers said formally in Arabic.

  'Alaikum salaam. Good morning, Villiers Sahib.' It was his only English phrase. They continued in Arabic.

  Salim propped the AK against the wall, filled the ladle with water and carefully held it to Villiers' mouth. The Englishman drank greedily. It was a morning ritual between them. Salim filled the ladle again and Villiers raised his face to receive the cooling stream.

  'Better?' Salim asked.

  'You could say that.'

  The camel was close now, no more than a hundred yards away. Its rider had a line wound around the pommel of his saddle. A man shambled along on the other end.

  'Who have we got here?' Villiers asked.

  'Hamid,' Salim said.

  'And a friend?'

  Salim smiled. 'This is our country, Major Villiers, Rashid land. People should only come here when invited.'

  'But in Hauf, the Commissars of the People's Republic don't recognize the rights of the Rashid. They don't even recognize Allah. Only Marx.'

  'In their own place, they can talk as loudly as they please, but in the land of Rashid…' Sahm shrugged and produced a flat tin. 'But enough. You will have a cigarette, my friend?'

  The Arab expertly nipped the cardboard tube on the end of the cigarette, placed it in Villiers' mouth and gave him a light.

  'Russian?' Villiers observed.

  'Fifty miles from here at Fasan there is an airbase in the desert. Many Russian planes, trucks, Russian soldiers - everything!'

  'Yes, I know,' Villiers told him.

  'You know, and yet your famous SAS does nothing about it?'

  'My country is not at war with the Yemen,' Villiers said. 'I am on loan from the British Army to help train and lead the Sultan of Oman's troops against Marxist guerrillas of the D.L.F.'

  'We are not Marxists, Villiers Sahib. We of the Rashid go where we please and a major of the British SAS is a great prize. Worth many camels, many guns.'

  'To whom?' Villiers asked.

  Salim waved the cigarette at him. 'I have sent word to Fasan. The Russians are coming, some time today. They will pay a great deal for you. They have agreed to meet my price.'

  'Whatever they offer, my people will pay more,' Villiers assured him. 'Deliver me safely in Dhofar and you may have anything you want. English sovereigns of gold, Maria Theresa silver thalers.'

  'But Villiers Sahib, I have given my word,' Salim smiled mockingly.

  'I know,' Villiers said. 'Don't tell me. To the Rashid, their word is everything.'

  'Exactly!'

  Salim got to his feet as the camel approached. It dropped to its knees and Hamid, a young Rashid warrior in robes of ochre, a rifle slung across his back, came forward. He pulled on the line and the man at the other end fell on his hands and knees.

  'What have we here?' Salim demanded.

  'I found him in the night, walking across the desert.' Hamid went back to the camel and returned with a military-style water bottle and knapsack. 'He carried these.'

  There was some bread in the knapsack and slabs of army rations. The labels were in Russian.

  Salim held one down for Villiers to see, then said to the man in Arabic, 'You are Russian?'

  The man was old with white hair, obviously exhausted, his khaki shirt soaked with sweat. He shook his head and his lips were swollen to twice their size. Salim held out the ladle filled with water. The man drank.

  Villiers spoke fair Russian. He said, 'He wants to know who you are. Are you from Fasan?'

  'Who are you?' the old man croaked.

  'I'm a British officer. I was working for the Sultan's forces in Dhofar. Their people ambushed my patrol, killed my men and took me prisoner.'

  'Does he speak English?'

  'About three words. Presumably you have no Arabic?'

  'No, but I think my English is probably better than your Russian. My name is Viktor Levin. I'm from Fasan. I was trying to get to Dhofar.'

  'To defect?' Villiers asked.

  'Something like that.'

  Salim said in Arabic. '
So, he speaks English to you. Is he not Russian, then?'

  Villiers said quietly to Levin, 'No point in lying about you. Your people are turning up here today to pick me up.' He turned to Salim. 'Yes, Russian, from Fasan.'

  'And what was he doing in Rashid country?'

  'He was trying to reach Dhofar.'

  Salim stared at him, eyes narrow. 'To escape from his own people?' He laughed out loud and slapped his thigh. 'Excellent. They should pay well for him, also. A bonus, my friend. Allah is good to me.' He nodded to Hamid. 'Put them inside and see that they are fed, then come to me,' and he walked away.

  Levin was placed in a similar wooden halter to Villiers. They sat side-by-side against the wall in the cell. After a while, a woman in a black mask entered, squatted, and fed them in turn from a large wooden bowl containing goatmeat stew. It was impossible to see whether she was young or old. She wiped their mouths carefully, then left, closing the door.

  Levin said, 'Why the masks? I don't understand that?'

  'A symbol of the fact that they belong to their husbands. No other man may look.'

  'A strange country,' Levin closed his eyes. 'Too hot.'

  'How old are you?' Villiers asked.

  'Sixty-eight.'

  'Isn't that a little old for the defecting business? I should have thought you'd left it rather late.'

  Levin opened his eyes and smiled gently. 'It's quite simple. My wife died last week in Leningrad. I've no children, so no one they can blackmail me with when I reach freedom.'

  'What do you do?'

  I'm Professor of Structural Engineering at the University of Leningrad. I've a particular interest in aircraft design. The Soviet Airforce has five MIG 2.35 at Fasari, ostensibly in a training role, so it's the training version of the plane they are using.'