eople were so gullible, Michael mused. No, on second thoughts, people were so greedy. The estate agent had been a pushover as soon as the words, "I'd pay cash, of course. No need to bother the taxman, is there?" had left his mouth. You'd think with the damage Republican bombs had done over the years that any Brit with half a brain would think twice before they rented out an empty flat to a man with an accent like his. But the magic of money worked the trick every time.

It was perfect. The view from the bay window of the living room couldn't be bettered. They could see the Gourlays' front door and they could catch glimpses of Bernadette as she moved across the living room. The only thing Michael had to worry about was whether Kevin had the attention span to keep a proper watch when it was his turn.

So far, there hadn't been much to see. The big fucker had gone off in his shiny maroon Jag at twenty to nine. Bernadette had emerged just before ten and Michael had followed at a discreet distance. She'd walked down to the supermarket and bought a chicken, a bag of spuds, a cabbage, a bottle of Scotch and 200 cigarettes.

She'd moved like a zombie, he'd thought. If he'd jumped up in front of her and shouted, "Boo!" he didn't think she'd have broken stride.

On the way back, he'd caught himself wondering what the point of this was. Patrick knew where she was living. He'd given her one scare already with the note he'd had Michael leave on the kitchen table. Presumably, he was also leaning on her via the phone to get her to give up whatever it was she'd walked off with. But surely he must have realized by now that the softly-softly approach wasn't getting him anywhere? Michael couldn't understand why he hadn't been instructed to try a more direct method of persuasion.

However, the habit of obeying orders was ingrained in Michael. If Patrick was holding back, there had to be a reason. It was possible he wanted to front her up himself. Christ Almighty, Michael thought, if I'd robbed Patrick Coughlan and he showed up on my doorstep, I'd sign away everything I owned in the world to see the back of him. If that was the game plan, it was possible that the delay was because Patrick hadn't been able to get away. He wasn't simply a busy man; he was important too. Just because there was a ceasefire, that didn't mean Patrick could disappear on his own private business whenever it suited him.

All in good time, Michael had told himself as he watched Bernadette let herself into the home she probably still saw as a sanctuary. For now, he was content to wait.

Sophie had woken up feeling sick. When she passed the news on, Lindsay felt sick too. "Does that mean it's worked?" she'd asked.

"I'm not getting my hopes up," Sophie had said. "It could be psychosomatic, it could be that I ate too much of your wonderful tomato and artichoke risotto last night."

"And it could be that you're pregnant." Lindsay rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, wondering for how much longer it would only be the two of them.

"What are you so scared of, Lindsay? Are you worried I won't love you any more when the baby comes?" Sophie squirmed across the bed and put an arm round her lover's naked back.

"I suppose that's part of it. The baby will come first with you, it's the way the biology works. But mostly, it's that I like my life the way it is. I like the choices we have. Where to live, where to go on holiday, when to go to the pictures, when to go out for dinner. We've worked hard for the right to those choices and it feels like madness to throw all that away." She got to her feet and padded across the room to get her dressing gown.

"We'll have different choices," Sophie said, her voice tinged with sadness. "We'll have a lovely life, Lindsay, I promise you."

"Yeah, but on balance, I prefer the devil I know."

Her words came back to her as she sat in Caf¨¦ Virginia browsing the morning papers. She hadn't seen Rory since the previous morning, and had no idea what her business partner was up to. Presumably pursuing the Faslane story, whatever it had turned out to be. She wondered if they needed to set up an agreed system for communicating what they were up to, or whether that would feel too much like keeping tabs on each other. She was fairly sure Rory would hate to feel checked up on almost as much as she would.

So, what was she doing with her much-vaunted choices today? Not a lot, came the answer. She'd spent half an hour checking out St Petersburg on the internet, formulating ideas and discarding them as fast as she thought of them. Eventually, she'd come up with the bare bones of a plan. But she needed to know she wasn't setting herself an impossible task. Three hours till she could phone Gareth in St Petersburg, and damn all to fill them with. Lindsay needed to dig up some stories for herself, but she wasn't going to do that sitting on her backside in the caf¨¦. She was about to go off in search of a newsagent that sold out-of-town weekly papers when her phone rang. She grabbed it eagerly and said, "Hello? Lindsay Gordon."

"Lindsay? It's Gareth here. I got your number off Giles, I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all, no."

"Only, I've got that information for you, but I've got to go to a meeting this afternoon, so I thought I'd better get back to you before then."

"That's great," Lindsay said, elation swelling inside her. "What's the score?"

"There's three schools that could take an English-speaking six-year-old. I can email you the details, it would be easier than trying to spell them out to you."

Lindsay's heart sank. "Three?"

"Yes. They're all fairly central, and they're all much of a muchness when it comes to the quality of teaching, as far as I can gather."

"Is there any one in particular that caters to the diplomatic community?" Lindsay asked, desperate to narrow down the search.

"I don't know about catering to the diplomatic community specifically, but there are a couple of people here with kids who send them to the international school on Konstantinogradskaya Ulitsa. I've heard that quite a few of the kids there have parents who are EU diplomats."

"That's brilliant, Gareth." She gave him her email address. "I really appreciate you going to this much trouble."

"It was no trouble. I'll email those details to you right away."

Lindsay hung up. She dialled a new number and waited.

"Gourlay's Garage, your first choice for previously owned vehicles - how may I help you?" She recognized the voice of Tam's receptionist.

"Can I speak to Tam, please? It's Lindsay Gordon."

The line went hollow as she was put on hold. Then Tam Gourlay's voice boomed in her ear. "Have you got some news for me?"

"I've got a pretty good idea where Jack is."

The roar of delight nearly blew the electronics in Lindsay's phone. "That's fantastic! Amazing! So where is he?"

"I think the chances are strong that he's in St Petersburg."

A moment of stunned silence followed by, "You mean, in Russia?"

"That's right."

"What the fuck's he doing in Russia?" Tam sounded genuinely bewildered.

"Bruno's sister is married to another Italian diplomat. They've had it set up officially for ages that Jack would go and live with them. I can't see any reason for that unless they were planning to look after him once Bruno had snatched him. Even if it's only for a short time, until the fuss dies down."

"Fuck. What do we do now? I mean, Russia. I don't even know how you get there. Or how long it takes."

"Well, funnily enough, I've got one or two ideas about that. It's going to be risky, and it's going to cost a lot of money -"

"I told you," Tam interrupted. "Money is not an issue here. All I want is to see Bernie happy again."

"OK. So, this is what I'm thinking..." Lindsay leaned back in the booth and outlined her plan.

Two hours later, the MGB was powering up the long rise of the Rest and be Thankful. Blessedly, there hadn't been much traffic on the Loch Lomond road and she'd made good time. With luck and a continued absence of caravans and motor homes, she'd be at her parents' house in an hour and a half. The heather was turning purple on the hills, and the familiar grandeur of the landscape made Lindsay feel at home as the city never would. She recognized her membership of the national trait of sentimentality for her native land, but she didn't care. The sense of ownership she felt driving through Argyll to the Kintyre peninsula was something that could never be taken from her.

Sophie hadn't been best pleased when she'd called to tell her she was going up to Invercross overnight. It wasn't that she minded Lindsay being away; she minded not coming with her. "We don't see enough of your parents," she'd said plaintively. "Tell them to come down and visit soon."

Aye, right, Lindsay thought, knowing how little time her fisherman father was ever prepared to spend away from the sea. Her mother enjoyed the opportunity for shopping in the big city, but watching her father fret always spoiled Lindsay's joy in her mother's pleasure. "We'll go up for a weekend soon," she promised Sophie.

"A shame it couldn't wait till the weekend this time," Sophie said.

"You know how stories don't wait." Well, it was almost the truth.

"I know. It's good to see you enjoying yourself again, Lindsay. I'm really glad you're working with Rory." They'd left it at that, neither mentioning what was uppermost in both their minds.

Lindsay was changing down to negotiate a series of bends when the phone rang. She pulled over into a viewpoint and picked up the phone. "Hello? Lindsay Gordon."

"Hey, partner, where are you?" Rory sounded cheerful. "I just got this bizarre message from Giles saying I better catch you before you went chasing off to Russia. What's going on?"

"I'm on the A83, west of Arrochar, heading down towards Loch Fyne. Which, as far as I'm aware, is not the way to Russia."

"What are you doing there?"

"I'm on my way to Invercross, to visit my parents."

"Invercross? Where the hell is that?"

"Halfway down the Mull of Kintyre, on the west side. Where I grew up. Possibly one of the most beautiful places on the planet."

Rory snorted. "Compared to Castlemilk, almost anywhere qualifies for that description. So what's all this about Russia?"

"I think I've tracked down Jack Gourlay. It's looking likely that he's in St Petersburg."

"Wow! Bizarre. So, is Bernie going to court to get him back?"

Lindsay took a deep breath. "Not exactly."

Rory picked up on the hesitation. "Oh no. Don't tell me. Big Tam wants to play at Where Eagles Dare!"

"Something like that. So, do you fancy a trip to Russia?"