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“That’s not good enough,” said Grishin. “Where did he transmit from?”

“Greater Moscow.”

“Marvelous. Such a tiny place. I need the building.”

“Be patient. We think we know the satellite he is using. It’s probably one of the two InTelCor machines that overfly us daily. There was one over the horizon at the time. We can concentrate on them in the future.”

“You do that,” said Grishin.

For six days Monk had evaded the army of watchers Grishin had put on the streets. The Head of Security of the UPF was puzzled. The man had to eat. Either he was holed up in some small place, afraid to move, in which case he could do little harm; or he was out and about pretending to be a Russian, in heavy disguise, which would soon be penetrated; or he had slipped out after his one useless contact with the Patriarch. Or he was being protected: fed, given a place to sleep, moved around, disguised, protected, guarded. But by whom? That was the enigma whose answer still eluded Anatoli Grishin.

¯

SIR Nigel Irvine flew into Moscow two days after his talk at the Ritz with Dr. Probyn. He was accompanied by a personal interpreter, for although he had once had a working knowledge of Russian, it was far too rusty to be reliable for delicate discussions.

The man he brought back was the ex-soldier and Russian speaker, Brian Marks, except that Marks was now on his real passport in the name of Brian Vincent. At Immigration the passport control officer punched both names into his computer but neither came up as a recent or frequent visitor.

“You are together?” he asked. One man was clearly the senior, slim, white-haired, and according to his passport in his mid-seventies; the other was late thirties, dark-suited, and looked fit.

“I am the gentleman’s interpreter,” said Vincent.

“My Russky not good,” said Sir Nigel helpfully, in bad Russian.

The Immigration officer was less than interested. Foreign businessmen often needed interpreters. Some could be hired from agencies in Moscow; some tycoons brought their own. It was normal. He waved them through.

They checked into the National, where the unfortunate Jefferson had stayed. Waiting for Sir Nigel, deposited twenty-four hours earlier by an olive-skinned man no one recalled but who happened to be a Chechen, was a single envelope. It was handed to him with his room key.

It contained a slip of blank paper. Had it been intercepted or lost no particular harm would have come. The writing was not on the paper, but on the inside of the envelope in lemon juice.

With the envelope sliced open and laid flat, Brian Vincent gently warmed it with a match from the complimentary box on the bedside table. In pale brown, seven figures became discernible, a private phone number. When he had memorized it, Sir Nigel ordered Vincent to burn the paper totally and flush the ashes down the toilet. Then the two men had a quiet dinner in the hotel and waited until ten o’clock.

When the phone rang, it was answered personally by Patriarch Alexei II, for it was his private phone situated on the desk in his office. He knew that very few people possessed that number, and he ought to know them all.

“Yes?” he said carefully.

The voice that responded was one he did not know, speaking good Russian but not a Russian.

“Patriarch Alexei?”

“Who speaks?”

“Your Holiness, we have not met. I am merely the interpreter for the gentleman who accompanies me. Some days ago you were kind enough to receive a father from London.”

“I recall it.”

“He said another man would come, more senior, for a private discussion of great importance with you. He is here beside me. He asks if you will receive him.”

“Now, tonight?”

“Speed is of the essence, Your Holiness.”

“Why?”

“There are forces in Moscow who will soon recognize this gentleman. He could be put under surveillance. Utter discretion is the key.”

That was an argument that certainly rang a bell with the edgy prelate.

“Very well. Where are you now?”