“And the Russian arms dealer?” asked Keller.

“It was Ivan Kharkov, the one who was killed in Saint-Tropez a few years ago.”

“You’re sure, Liam? You’re sure it was Ivan?”

“Who else could it be? Ivan controlled the arms trade in Africa, and he killed anyone who tried to get in on the action.”

“And the villa in Tripoli? Do you know where it was?”

“It was in the neighborhood they call al-Andalus.”

“The street?”

“Via Canova. Number Twenty-Seven,” Walsh added. “But don’t waste your time. Quinn left Libya years ago.”

“What happened?”

“Gaddafi decided to clean up his act. He gave up his weapons programs and told the Americans and the Europeans that he wanted to normalize relations. Tony Blair shook his hand in a tent outside Tripoli. BP got drilling rights on Libyan soil. Remember?”

“I remember, Liam.”

Apparently, said Walsh, MI6 knew that Quinn was living secretly in Tripoli. The chief of MI6 prevailed upon Gaddafi to send Quinn packing, and Gaddafi agreed. He called a few of his friends in Africa, but no one would take Quinn in. Then he called one of his best friends in the world, and the deal was done. A week later Gaddafi gave Quinn a signed copy of his Green Book and put him on an airplane.

“And the friend who agreed to take Quinn?”

“Three guesses,” said Walsh. “First two don’t count.”

The friend was Hugo Chavez, president of Venezuela, ally of Russia, Cuba, and the mullahs of Tehran, thorn in the side of America. Chavez saw himself as a leader of the world’s revolutionary movement, and he operated a not-so-secret training camp for terrorists and leftist rebels on Margarita Island. Quinn soon became the star attraction. He worked with everyone from the Shining Path of Peru to Hamas and Hezbollah, sharing the deadly tricks of the trade he’d acquired during his long career matching wits with the British. Chavez, like Gaddafi before him, treated Quinn well. He gave him a villa by the sea and a diplomatic passport to travel the world. He even gave him a new face.

“Who did the work?”

“Gaddafi’s doctor.”

“The Brazilian?”

Walsh nodded. “He came to Caracas and performed the surgery in a hospital there. He gave Quinn a total reconstruction. The old pictures are useless now. Even I barely recognized him.”

“You saw him when he was in Venezuela?”

“Twice.”

“You went to the camp?”

“Never.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t cleared for the camp. I saw him on the mainland.”

“Keep talking, Liam.”

A year after Quinn arrived in Venezuela, a senior man from VEVAK, the Iranian intelligence service, paid a quiet visit to the island. He wasn’t there to see his allies from Hezbollah; he was there to see Quinn. The man from VEVAK stayed on the island for a week. And when he went back to Tehran, Quinn went with him.

“Why?”

“The Iranians wanted Quinn to build a weapon.”