21. Saturday 16 May 2015.

Uppsala, Sweden. 11:20 GMT

Hope hadn't wanted to stay in the city once she'd arrived in Stockholm. She wanted fresh air and open skies today so she had decided, on the spur of the moment, to go to somewhere she had long wanted to visit: Gamla Uppsala. After finding somewhere for a quick breakfast she had wandered through town to the railway station and taken the first train north out of the city to the old university town where she was currently wandering the streets around the centre and trying to not think about what was happening in London. Leaning for a moment on a stone wall she looked over, and down, into the small, slightly overgrown yard to see a tumble of small kittens playing among the bright green. A smile twitched her lips as she watched the antics of the tiny lion pride for a minute or two but her uneasiness soon kicked back in and she turned her back on the cute fluffiness to find her way to the bus out to her destination. She'd always hated days like today – it was so much easier when you were in the thick of it, no matter how much adrenaline was burning through your system, rather than sitting out of it trying to control the creeping trepidation that came with having no part of the action…

University College, London. 11:55.

Jean was sitting in her office attempting to work on edits to a paper she was due to publish shortly but getting absolutely nowhere, her mind miles away. She had thought it might help to return to work rather than sit in an empty house, waiting for a daughter who was never coming home again, now that Rosie had asked to go back to school for the last few days of term, but it hadn't. She had felt like she was living in some sort of hellish limbo for the past week at least in part because, although she knew, unequivocally, that Erin was gone, without the proof provided by a body she couldn't help retaining hope that it wasn't true and the cognitive dissonance caused by holding those opposing thoughts was eating away at her sanity. Rosie seemed to be handling it better but she suspected that was only on the surface and for the same reason: without the finality of a body, the reality of death hadn't hit home for the child, and her equanimity after the first couple of days of boundless despair was beginning to worry both Jean and Ilya.

Sighing, she wiped away the tears that were leaking from her eyes again and glumly stared out of her slightly grubby window. Ilya had been an absolute rock, of course, although as tormented by the events as she, and she didn't know how she would have coped without him but he was dealing with it by organising, with Harry, their own form of vengeance. She didn't know the details and didn't want to – she was as well aware of the concept of plausible deniability as anyone – but it was comforting to know that something was underway. She could almost feel the subterranean creakings of some colossal machine rumbling into life on the infrequent occasions he was on the phone in her presence to those assisting and that, on its own, scared her. Whatever was going down was dangerous and it was happening today – very soon, she thought – and a feeling of dread was overwhelming her with every passing minute. Ilya could look after himself but then she had thought that about Erin, once.

She would be glad when today was over.

G4S sub-depot, East London, 12:13

Ilya and Diederick had taken a punt that their research was correct in that Qasim's group's workshop was in East London. As such, after he had spoken to Harry very briefly first thing this morning, Ilya had arranged for the crew to meet here, at this anonymous, slightly run-down building that looked like nothing more than a storage shed but was actually one of a number of technical facilities owned by a provider to G4S, the major international mercenary supplier with whom one of du Plessy's old Legionary friends worked at a very high level. Now, they were waiting, on edge, for the address of their target.

As ever, Ilya – unexpectedly dressed in a suit, a deliberate ploy to throw the people they were about to attack off balance, even if only for a moment – was diverting himself by working, scrolling through emails on his phone and tapping out answers or reading reports as required. Diederick and Vadim glanced at him occasionally, quietly impressed by his coolness, as they were unable to be quite so unflappable despite their combined battle experience, being more energised by the prospect of action than their boss apparently was. They were wrong; underneath his imperturbable façade he was actually feeling the adrenaline build and was honest enough to admit to himself that he was looking forward to this. Not only to achieve revenge and justice for his trio of ladies but because it was action of a sort that he hadn't taken part in directly since leaving active service in the early 1990s. Back then, he had loved nothing more than to apply an objective eye to a problem and develop a solution, much like his engineer father had done throughout his work and life. That had been a large part of his enjoyment in playing elaborate cat and mouse games with Harry in Berlin: he had recognised an opponent worthy of his respect and, now having got to know the man, albeit under less than desirable circumstances, he knew his judgment then had been right. As he knew it was now.

Speak of the Devil… his phone flashed, signalling an incoming call from the man himself. Their exchange was short; the original plan had gone awry as the target hadn't swallowed the deception with the woman but, somehow, he had dragged it back onto the tracks. He had an address and Ilya and his crew probably only had half an hour at most to get there and do what needed to be done before the Plods descended on the place. Ilya repeated the address and smiled with the teeth of a crocodile – partly by chance, partly by intelligence, they were in the same neighbourhood as the target. Sliding the phone into his pocket he looked up at his assistants.

"Time to go. Mathilde?"

The lean, lanky, former Sudanese child refugee who had been quietly monitoring the streets from her high-powered laptop gave a sharp nod as her fingers danced over the keyboard in response to the street name. One of Malcolm's senior employees, she had started out, as many did, as a teenage hacker but had gone legit when she had joined Naval Intelligence straight out of school. Malcolm had snapped her up some years before and now, because he was doing something similar in the unremarkable obbo van parked on the other side of the Thames from the National Theatre, he had seconded her to deal with enough of the CCTVs in the area that the two vans full of mercenaries about to leave would not be able to be linked to what was about to happen. After a few seconds she glanced up at the Russian and announced,

"You're clear to go, Sir."

Qasim's workshop, East London, 12:18

The workshop was dingy and unprepossessing in a street of equally grimy and unremarkable buildings in an area that was home to many small workshops and manufacturing places, the majority of which were closed for the weekend, which suited Ilya and his crew; the fewer witnesses to what was about to happen, the better. As expected, there was nothing to show what was really happening inside and, for the moment, the place appeared to be deserted, to the extent that Ilya briefly hoped that Harry was right in that only a small group had left with Qasim, leaving the rest behind. He also hoped that at least one of the pair Harry had identified were still inside.

They scoped the place quickly, noting that the main workshop roller door was closed but that there was a side office door. That would be their entry. On his signal, heavily armed men dressed from head to toe in black exited the two vans in silence and Ilya led them to the side door. Vadim tried it and, to everyone's surprise, found it was unlocked, meaning they weren't going to have to break it down. Leaving enough of the crew to secure the roller door the rest entered, walking rapidly down the corridor towards the workshop. Vadim and a couple of others went ahead, checking the side offices as they went but they were all empty; as the group approached the final door Ilya extracted his pistol, a Baikal IZH-79 – a basic, reliable 9mm weapon that was so common on the streets that it was known as the hitman's kit - and, from habit, screwed the silencer on while the rest swung their assault rifles into position. Vadim placed his ear to the door for a moment, caught Ilya's eye and nodded: they were still in there. The older man gave a silent count-down and on zero they burst through the door, his supporters firing their sub-machine guns into the air while Ilya walked to the centre of the room, tall, dark and exuding a cold fire.

The eight men in the room had all hit the floor as soon as the bullets started flying; expecting they knew not what, they heard words in a language that they didn't recognise and then a deep voice commanding them, in English, to get up. One of them made the error of reaching for a weapon in his pocket and was immediately felled again by a blow to the side of the head. Footsteps sounded and a well-shod foot kicked him.

"I said, get up. And do not be so stupid this time."

He did not look up until he had been pushed by another of the invaders over to join the rest of his fellow jihadis. When he did what he saw was the last thing he expected: a business man, to all intents and purposes, dressed in a bespoke suit but with eyes of flint and a gun held in a way that suggested he knew how to use it. Time stopped as an absolute stillness descended on the cavernous space while the tall stranger subjected every one of them to an uncomfortably penetrating gaze.

Harry had initially given Ilya descriptions of the two men who had brought Erin to her death and had followed up, probably courtesy of their mutual Welsh friend, with information and some old surveillance photos of those known to be in Qasim's inner circle, including the pair concerned, and Ilya had gained a little extra from his contacts in Moscow. Much of the past few days had been spent by Diederick du Plessy and his crew unsuccessfully looking for their targets' whereabouts – it seemed they were constantly on the move so they'd never found them – but in the meantime Ilya had memorised the faces and he was now examining the men in front of him to ensure he got it right. There was no sign of the first man, an Algerian skinhead with piercing scars all the way up his right ear – presumably he was with Qasim – but the second was, ironically, the one he had just kicked. A local of Turkish descent with short, dark, curling hair, neatly trimmed beard, a mole next to his left eye and a scar on his left cheek that disappeared into his hairline, he was already sweating, which was all to the good.

Taking a couple of steps closer to the group he fixed those deadly eyes on the Turk and said,

"Where is she. The woman you disposed of for Qasim."

Fear rippled through the group, both at the words and the use of their leader's name, but they still couldn't make the connection between what had happened and what appeared to be a Russian hit-squad holding them at gun point.

"I dunno what you're talking about, mate—"

The gun in the tall man's hand gave a quiet cough and one of the jihadis fell to the floor, a neat hole in his temple. To the Turk's disbelief, the other man hadn't blinked and had barely seemed to look at the man before he shot him. Returning his attention to the one in front of him, his eyes strangely shimmering yet opaque, the Russian said calmly,

"Again, where is she?"

Far more used to the fevered excitement of their fellows or the intense passion of their leader, now surely destroying the inner sanctum of the security services, the group under scrutiny found themselves completely un-nerved. The tall man was akin to a pillar of ice and may well have been an automaton for all the expression he was showing and they had no idea of what to expect next.

An older man, standing just off to the left of the Turk, suddenly stepped forward and sneered.

"Where we left her, rotting in the ground like the infidel whore that she was—" The gun coughed again and a bullet ripped into his bicep, causing him to scream in pain. Ilya recognised the man from Harry's data file as an Egyptian hanger-on of the group, not inner-circle but trying to be, and although he might not have been involved at the site of Erin's death he probably had been in the hours she was held beforehand. Harry had said she had been beaten and Ilya was quite happy to believe that this man had probably been part of that so a bullet was the least he deserved. Unsmiling, he responded calmly,

"If you want to survive you will keep a civil tongue in your head and answer the question."

"Survival doesn't matter. As we speak our leader is ripping the heart out of the British security services for which we will all be welcomed to Jannah to sit with the Prophet."

The hazel eyes were still, hooded and unnervingly empty.

"Then I will ensure you do survive but you will not be whole." The man's face went ashen as the pistol changed its orientation, pointing further downwards. "For your earlier comment and your intransigence the next bullet removes your man-hood." The gun spat and the man's ear-splitting shriek echoed around the large room as he collapsed to the ground, hands clutching his groin and blood spilling everywhere while whispered exhortations to Allah rustled in the corners.

Ilya turned his attention back to the Turk, who was now visibly trembling and sweating profusely. The man stared back at him, hypnotised: in his mind, the Russian had the eyes and demeanour of a snake about to strike so he must be a Shayatin made flesh. The deep voice bored into his brain, terrifying him even more with the words.

"Now, Berat Osman, perhaps you will be more forthcoming? Or does another of your brave fellow warriors need to die to convince you? Where. Is. She."

Confused for a moment by the sound of his name and frozen like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights of Ilya's attention the younger man could only open and close his mouth like a fish a few times as he tried to find his voice; the gun coughed for a fourth time and one of the other remaining group collapsed backwards, spraying blood, a hole in his chest where his heart once was.

"One more thing." The unnaturally calm voice continued as the barrel of the pistol swung back to the Turk. "You would be wise to assist, Berat, because if you do not, not only will you be accompanying my associates and I when we pay a visit to Bouverie Road, Stoke Newington but also, if necessary, to Yukarihasinli where I am sure we will be able to persuade your family members to convince you to help." There was absolute certainty at the Russian said smoothly, "This will not finish until you tell me where she is."

Osman's bowels had turned to ice-water at the sound of his home address and the room spun when this Shayatin mentioned the village where he had been born and where his mother still lived.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you! Please stop, insh'allah, I will take you there."

Passing the incoming counter-terrorism police on the road less than a minute after leaving the factory, it took a little over half an hour to get to the site, an abandoned pyrotechnics factory near Dartford. En route in one of the vans, the other having been returned to their depot with most of the mercenary crew inside, Ilya had received a very brief text from Harry.

"All over. Target terminated. Need to meet soon."

That was one less thing to worry about, anyway. Now he just had to clean up the dregs and he could get back to Jean and Rosie.

Gammla Uppsala, Sweden. 12:58 GMT

The last two hours had been a form of torture for Hope as she had wandered amongst the buildings and Iron Age burial mounds. The weather had held thus far, despite a few light showers, although it was chilly and overcast but the open horizons and fresh air she had yearned for were there. One benefit was the lack of tourists: outside, she'd had the place almost to herself, apart from one group of hardy Japanese visitors who were now long gone. A heavier shower an hour ago had driven her into the café where she had managed to force herself to swallow some soup for lunch but soon she was back outside, continuously checking her watch.

Now, she was once more atop the largest of the Royal Burial Mounds, hands buried in her pockets against the wind that was picking up and gazing out over the countryside at more showers that were sweeping towards her. The cold was at least giving her something else to think about apart from London. She stood there for over ten minutes, until another shower gusted towards her, spitting a fine sleet into her face; hunching her shoulders into her jacket and pulling her beanie further down over her ears and forehead she turned away, only to have the phone finally vibrate in her pocket. She couldn't speak after she'd swiped the screen, so relieved that she really wanted to double over and throw up, but his longed-for, molten chocolate tones filled her ear and immediately soothed her anxiety.

"It's done, my love. Qasim is dead, as is his crew, and I have identified my other target."

Her relief was suddenly tempered by his last words.

"Identified but not neutralised."

"No. Not yet. But soon. I need to meet Ilya to discuss the next step."

The sleet was getting heavier and colder so she started moving again, back towards the museum. The mention of the Russian's name reminded her that there were other things happening today.

"Do you know how his plan is going?"

"I haven't heard but he should be in the middle of it by now, if not almost finished. I will send him a text when we hang up." Hope crossed her fingers and wished, hard, for the other man's success, for the sake of Jean and Rosie. "Hope, there's something else. We lost Calum in the firefight. He was trying to distract them and, well, you can guess." That explained the raw edge to his voice and her soul wept for the young man, another one – this time something of a lost soul – gone too soon. There had been too much of that happening of late; she would honestly be glad to finally, irrevocably, cut the strings tying her to this world.

"My darling, I'm so sorry. I know the words mean little but you know…"

"Yes, I know."

Silence fell as she ran for the shelter of the building, hiding on the down-wind side for a moment to finish the call.

"I presume we can't meet up yet."

Her husband's voice was weary and full of regret.

"Not yet. With what I need to do I don't want you in the country. Just in case. I will get it done as soon as possible."

Hope leaned back and rested her head against the timber wall, watching the splotches of sleet being carried out over the roof above her.

"Okay. I'll keep going on my wanderings. I'll probably stay in Stockholm for a few days – there are things I want to see – and then make for Oslo, as planned. I've got to go inside now because I'm absolutely freezing."

"Very well. I'll call you later, once I've found somewhere to stay tonight. I love you."

"I love you, too. I'm so glad this is almost over…"

Wending his way among the backstreets where he knew CCTV was limited or non-existent, Harry was putting as much distance between him and Thames House as fast as he could, as he didn't trust Mace as far as he could kick him. When they terminated the call he stopped for a second, sagging against the nearest fence, as relief at the end of this first part of the operation combined with delayed shock and sorrow at the death of yet another of his people finally hit him. Calum hadn't deserved an end like that and he would forever regret that he had barely had time to stop and say a quiet goodbye but circumstances – always fucking circumstances! – had conspired against him, as usual. There would be a funeral so he hoped he would still be here to slip by, ghostly, silent, to pay proper respects. And for Erin, should Ilya's quest succeed. He wondered, briefly, if Calum had actually deliberately sacrificed himself – death by terrorist – to end the bleakness that his life had descended into after Ruth's death. He had certainly never been the same after that terrible time, none of them had, but for some reason it had diverted the younger man's life down a darker, more lonely and infinitely sadder path. Harry had done his best, as had Erin and Dimitri, and there were times when they thought things had turned around but those times were short and getting further apart.

He would never know the truth but he hoped his gut feeling was wrong on this. Pushing himself up again he noticed a bus passing by at the end of the street so started walking that way again, intent on catching the next one and seeing where he ended up. While waiting for the funerals, he had other business to attend to.

Abandoned Fireworks Factory, Dartford. 13:10

For somewhere so close to the city it felt, and was, wild and remote. They hadn't actually moved her very far, not quite 45 minutes drive from where they had executed her and no doubt it had been a quicker trip in the depths of the night in question. The derelict buildings were part of an abandoned 19th century industrial complex not far from the river, now overgrown and rotting. Away from the access road, out among the worst of the semi-collapsed bunkers and among decades-old junk that the small group of four (Ilya, Diederick, Vadim and the handcuffed Turk) had carefully negotiated, they had tossed her into a pit half full of oily sludge and piled a few bits of corrugated iron on top as a cursory covering from prying eyes. Not that there seemed to have been any of the latter: even the graffiti was old and worn. She was face-down but he would have recognised the cloud of dark hair anywhere and a sword went through his heart. This was so unfair for both Jean and Rosie and for what the future should have been for them all, particularly for Erin herself. All ended on the whim of another sociopath with another self-centred agenda driven by a God-complex and another child's life blighted for the sake of a warped, perverted ideology.

That cold anger, burning like ice, overtook him for a moment, just as it had after listening to Elena reveal her true self, and like then he used pure force of will to contain and control it. There was no more he could do for Erin apart from advise the police so they could do what needed to be done quickly and they could retrieve her dignity and put her to rest. Had Harry still been in charge at Thames House the involvement of civil law enforcement would have been unnecessary but that was now in the past so, for Jean's sake, as well as for Rosie, he had no option. But first…

He had told Vadim and Diederick to pull the Turk away once they had uncovered Erin, allowing him to kneel and have a few moments alone with her; now, he rose to his feet and walked the few steps over to the small group. Indicating to his fellows to move back, he raked their prisoner up and down with that remote, yet terrifying, gaze. For a moment it seemed as though he was going to speak but instead he approached the captive at a steady pace. The other two Russians suddenly understood what was about to happen but stolidly kept their place. They had both fought enough of this sort of person to not care what happened to this one.

It was sudden, ruthless and efficient and Hope Johnson, had she been there, would have recognised the technique, having used it herself in East Timor many years ago, and approved the elegance of its application. Ilya stepped forward, as though about to walk past the Turk, and in the blink of an eye had kicked the other's foot out from under him while grabbing his head and giving it a sharp twist. There was a satisfying crack and the man fell, dead, to the ground, on the edge of the hole in which he had dumped Erin. Looking over at Diederick Ilya said quietly,

"Get rid of him. Not here. Ensure the body is never found." Taking out his pistol he wiped it thoroughly with a crisp linen handkerchief and handed it over. "Please dispose of this as well."

Du Plessy was quietly impressed at the calmness of the order, as he had been throughout this process. There had been many times in his decade of working for Ilya Gavrik that he had glimpsed the coldly dispassionate iron core that gave the man at least part of the reputation that he had but this afternoon was the first time he had seen the other part of that story, the smoothly implacable master spy, former military intelligence chief and special services soldier who had genuinely earned a chest full of medals over several decades on various front lines. Of course it was also an example of the same qualities that he brought to being a successful international businessman, ruthlessness being prime among those. Quietly taking the weapon he nodded and said,

"Yes, Sir. What will you be doing? Do you need any assistance?"

"Wait for me outside then drop me at the intersection. A vehicle to meet me there after that is all. I will be informing the police and then remaining to observe until they arrive."

"Are you sure, Sir?" Vadim cut in, worried and, if he admitted it, slightly shocked by what had just happened. "If the police see you—"

"They will not," Ilya interrupted gently but in the same unarguable tone. "I have spent forty years keeping out of sight when I wanted to, Vadim. The local bobbies will not see me."

He was as good as his word. He spent the time while the others were loading the Turk's body into the van with Erin, silently and desperately wishing that it hadn't come to this, before gingerly slipping some identification – a small, crumpled receipt that he had found at home during the week – into the pocket of her coat, fondly laying a hand on her hair for a moment and then standing up and walking away. Once he had been dropped back at the intersection he used his best cut-crystal accent, still absolutely flawless after many years of dormancy, and his encrypted, untraceable phone to call the local police station, report the finding of a body, provide the location and then hang up before they could ask any more questions. Then it was easy to stay out of sight but watchful: they had noticed a small, somewhat run-down trailer mounted snack van parked on the side of the entry road not far from the main road, closed up now for the weekend, the area overgrown, neglected and blowing with rubbish despite the neat farmhouse behind the trees on the far side of the road. It had taken him exactly fifteen seconds to pick the padlock; then he had made himself at home in the surprisingly spick and span interior and kept watch through a tiny gap at the edge of the front shutter.

It was only another five minutes before the first police car arrived; a further ten and there were two more, one of which was a SOCO van. His phone vibrated gently – the car was almost there – so he grabbed a couple of paper napkins to wipe the door on the way out and the lock after he had put it back and was ready to slip into the back seat as his vehicle cruised to an unobtrusive stop. By the time he was settled into it and was leaving the area an ambulance was sedately turning the corner that led to the scene. Now, he had to return home to Jean in time to be there for her when the phone call came but while he travelled he had time to reply to Harry's text, letting him know that the objective had been achieved.

Hope's Diary

The worst is over. Qasim and his crew are dead, Erin has been returned to her family – or will be soon, thanks to Ilya – and my beloved is still alive. However, although the thing is done it's not, apparently, dusted. He says his original objective is not complete: he has identified the problem but still needs to deal with it so we cannot yet meet. His is the easier row to hoe; I would not be in Jean's shoes now, nor Ilya's, for quids, although I suppose being able to finally have a funeral may at least bring some closure and perhaps allow the healing to start, although it's never completed, of course. So I will continue to wander; practice, I suspect, for what's likely to be our lives for some time yet, for I can't see that it'll be safe to return to this part of the world for a long time yet, until the current ruling class have crashed and burned, or ever, really, because of what he did in letting Qasim into the inner sanctum, something for which the Establishment will never forgive him. So be it. I've felt stifled at work for the last twelve months; Harry for much, much longer so I think it will do us good to vanish into the wilds for a while, maybe permanently.

Jean's Diary

The police finally came to call this afternoon. I know it's Ilya's doing although he won't tell me how or what happened. It doesn't matter, at least we have her back to bury properly. They said they would confirm it's her using dental records and DNA, if required, but there is little doubt. We told Rosie and the wall she had been building crumbled into heartbreak again. It was devastating but it may be for the best, as long as we can keep her talking this time. She was heading down a path that was no good for any of us, locking herself away, so I will be more aware of the risk now and try to prevent that. I'm not sure when the funeral would be – it will depend on when she is released – but it is a necessary thing, for all of us. Then, and only then, will the first stage of the rest of our lives be complete.