She sat down, all noise faded. There was complete silence as the conductor waited, baton ready and then it descended and as the orchestra started to play, Tanya Voroninova's hands rippled over the keyboard.

She was filled with a joy, an ecstasy almost, played as she had never played in her life before with a new, vibrant energy as if something which had been locked up in her for years was now released. The orchestra responded as if trying to match her so that at the end, in the dramatic finale to Rach-maninov's superb concerto, they fused into a whole that created an experience to be forgotten by few people who were there that night.

The cry from the audience was different from anything she had experienced in her life before. She stood facing them, the orchestra standing behind her, all clapping and someone threw a flower on the stage, and more followed as women unpinned their corsages.

She went off to the side and Natasha, waiting, tears streaming down her cheeks, flung her arms around her. 'Babushka, you were wonderful. The best I ever heard.'

Tanya hugged her fiercely. 'I know. My night, Natasha, the one night I can take on the whole world if need be and come out ahead of the game,' and she turned and went back on stage to an audience that refused to stop applauding.

Francois Mitterand, President of the Republic of France, took both her hands and kissed them warmly. 'Mademoiselle, I salute you. An extraordinary performance.'

'You are more than kind,Monsieur le President,' she answered in his own language.

The crowd pressed close as champagne was offered and cameras flashed as the President toasted her and then introduced her to the Minister of Culture and others. She was aware of Shepilov and Turkin by the door, Nikolai Belov talking to them, handsome in velvet evening jacket and ruffled shirt. He raised his gla.s.s in a toast and moved towards her. She glanced at her watch. It was just after ten. If she was to go, it must be soon.

Belov reached for her right hand and kissed it. 'Tremendous stuff. You should get angry more often.'

'A point of view.' She took another gla.s.s of champagne from a waiter. 'Everyone who is anyone in the diplomatic corps seems to be here. You must be pleased. Quite a triumph.'

'Yes, but then, we Russians have always had a soul for music lacking in certain other peoples.'

She glanced around. 'Where's Natasha?'

'Over there with the Press. Shall I get her?'

'Not necessary. I need to go to the dressing room for a moment, but I can manage perfectly well on my own.'

'Of course.' He nodded to Turkin who came across. 'See Comrade Voroninova to her dressing room, Turkin. Wait for her and escort her back.' He smiled at Tanya. 'We don't want you to get hurt in the crush.'

The crowd opened for her, people smiling, raising their gla.s.ses, and Turkin followed her along the narrow corridor until they came to the dressing room.

She opened the door. 'I presume I'm permitted to go to the toilet?'

He smiled mockingly. 'If you insist, Comrade.'

He took out a cigarette and was lighting it as she closed the door. She didn't lock it, simply kicked off her shoes, pulled off the jacket and unzipped that lovely dress, allowing it to fall to the floor. She had the jumpsuit out of her case in

a moment, was into it within seconds, zipping it up and pulling on the suede boots. She picked up the trenchcoat and handbag, moved into the toilet, closed the door and locked it.

She had checked the window earlier. It was large enough to get out of and opened into a small yard on the ground floor of the Conservatoire. She climbed up on the seat and wriggled through. It was raining hard now. She pulled on her trenchcoat, picked up her shoulderbag and ran to the gate. It was bolted on the inside and opened easily. A moment later, she was hurrying along the Rue de Madrid looking for a taxi.

DEVLIN WAS WATCHING a late night movie on television when the phone rang. The line was surprisingly clear, so much so that at first he thought it must be local.

'Professor Devlin?'

'Yes.'

'It's Tanya - Tanya Voroninova.'

'Where are you?' Devlin demanded.

'The Gare du Nord. Paris. I've only got a couple of minutes. I'm catching the night train to Rennes.'

To Rennes?' Devlin was bewildered. 'What in the world would you be going there for?'

'I change trains there for St Malo. I'll be there at breakfast time. There's a hydrofoil to Jersey. That's as good as being in England. Once there, I'm safe. I'll catch a plane for London. I only had minutes to give them the slip, so it seemed likely the other routes your people supplied would be blocked.'

'So, you changed your mind. Why?'

'Let's just say I've realized I like you and I don't like them. It doesn't mean I hate my country. Only some of the people in it. I must go.'

'I'll contact London,' Devlin said. 'Phone me from Rennes, and good luck.'

The line went dead. He stood there, holding the receiver, a slight ironic smile on his face, a kind of wonderment. 'Would you look at that now?' he said softly. 'A girl to take home to your mother and that's a fact.'

He dialled the Cavendish Square number and it was answered almost at once. 'Ferguson here.' He sounded cross.

'Would you by any chance be sitting in bed watching the old Bogart movie on the television?' Devlin enquired.

'Dear G.o.d, are you going into the clairvoyance business now?'

'Well, you can switch it off and get out of bed, you old b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The game's afoot with a vengeance.'

Ferguson's voice changed. 'What are you saying?'

That Tanya Voroninova's done a bunk. She's just phoned me from the Gare du Nord. Catching the night train to Rennes. Change for St Malo. Hydrofoil to Jersey in the morning. She thought the other routes might be blocked.'

'Smart girl,' Ferguson said. 'They'll pull every trick in the book to get her back.'

'She's going to phone me when she gets to Rennes. I presume, at a guess, that would be about three-thirty or maybe four o'clock.'

Ferguson said, 'Stay by the phone. I'll get back to you.'

In his flat, Harry Fox was just about to get into the shower before going to bed when the phone rang. He answered it, cursing. It had been a long day. He needed some sleep.

'Harry?'

He came alert at once at the sound of Ferguson's voice. Yes, sir?'

'Get yourself over here. We've got work to do.'

Cussane was working in his study on Sunday's sermon when the sensor device linked to the apparatus in the attic was activated. By the time he was up there, Devlin was off the phone. He played the tape back, listening intently. When it was finished, he sat there, thinking about the implications which were all bad.

He went down to the study and phoned Cherny direct. When the Professor answered, he said, 'It's me. Are you alone?'

'Yes. Just about to go to bed. Where are you ringing from?'

'My place. We've got bad trouble. Now listen carefully.'