Milton nodded. He knew he was being baited. “You know so much about us, you must know that we’re not on the best of terms. He still works for the government. I don’t. We have nothing in common.”

“Please, Captain Milton, I don’t believe that. You have a long shared history. I can’t believe that stands for nothing. And there is an alternative for him. Freedom is not impossible, even for a man for whom there is no question of his guilt.”

Again, Milton said nothing.

“Are you not interested?”

“I don’t like being played, Anna, and you would be wasting your time.”

“We know what happened between you and Control. We know that you tried to leave the Group and that he wants you dead because of it. All we want is the chance to talk to you. We have some questions which require answers. We would not ask for any operational knowledge and no agent will be put at risk. You might consider yourself to be a consultant. Some of the questions, if you answer them, they will embarrass Control, but mightn’t that be of use to you? We know that his stock is not high with your government at the moment. Your absconding has damaged his reputation. If he was replaced, perhaps the standing order to have you killed would be rescinded, too?”

“I doubt that.”

“Nevertheless…”

“What questions?”

“That is not for me to say. My superior wants to speak to you. His name is Colonel Shcherbatov. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“He is in Moscow. It would not be a simple thing for him to come here. Not as simple as it would be for me, in any event.”

“You want me to go to Moscow?”

“There is a flight from Houston to New York in the morning. We would take it and then transit to a flight to Moscow. I have a new passport for you. A cover story, should one be needed.”

“I’m not going to Moscow,” he said. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Think about Captain Pope. Think about what you could do for him. He has a wife, I understand. Two young children. You have it in your power to return their father to them. Sleep on it, Captain Milton. See if you feel the same way in the morning. Perhaps you will have changed your mind.”

PART THREE

RUSSIA

Chapter Twelve

The Jumbo circled over Sheremetyevo, slowly negotiating its way down the stack of jetliners, and then the fuselage shook a little as the undercarriage was lowered. Milton stowed his tray table and slid the copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles that he had purchased from the airport book store into his bag. Anna was sitting three rows ahead of him; he could see the top of her head, the crown of red hair easily visible in the dimmed cabin lights. Milton looked out of the window at the huge, sprawling expanse of Moscow. The lights of the city stretched away into the far distance: a seemingly interminable grid of streets, darkened holes marking the public parks, the serpentine slither of the Moskva, white smoke spewing from the smokestacks of the power plant on its bank. The rows of Stalin’s wedding cake skyscrapers were covered over with the snow that was piling down from the thick, angry clouds through which they had just descended. He saw the onion domes of the Kremlin, topped with their lurid red stars; the basilica of St. Basil’s on Red Square, a child’s toy at this altitude. Everything was mantled in white.

They landed and proceeded through border control with suspicious ease. They already had their luggage and so Milton followed Anna as she led the way through the glitzy terminal building, replete with Russia’s new wealth, and outside to the taxi rank. The bitter air swept around him again. He had spent a winter in Moscow, five years ago, during an assignment that took four months from preparation to bloody completion, and he knew what a Russian winter meant. He thought of Pope and what Anna had told him; if he really had been stuffed into a Siberian gulag, this weather — which would still be brutal — would be a balmy sojourn in comparison to what he could expect.

The taxi driver had a tiny five inch television fixed to the dashboard, sucking power from the cigarette lighter. There was a football match taking place — CSKA were playing Munich in the European Cup — and he carried on watching it, occasionally raising his eyes to check the traffic ahead of him. Anna sat next to him, staring out of the window as the streets rolled by them. She had freshened up in the toilet at the airport, applying a fresh coat of lipstick and refreshing her scent. Her right leg was crossed over her left, the expensively shod foot dangled inches from Milton’s calf. The fingers of her left hand, the nails blood red, were spread out on her knee.

Milton wondered whether she had been instructed to sleep with him.

The driver turned off Tverskaya Street and pulled up outside the Ritz-Carlton. The pavements had been scrupulously swept clear of the snow that was so thick elsewhere and the uniformed porters hurried to help them as they stepped outside. Milton politely brushed them off as Anna paid the fare.

“We will stay here tonight,” she said as they followed their luggage inside.

“When do we see the colonel?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“There’s one other thing. We would prefer it if you would stay in the room.”

“I’m a prisoner?”

“No, of course not.”

“But…”

“But we would prefer it if you did not go out tonight but stayed here. The meeting tomorrow is important, for your friend, especially. You should be well rested. Perhaps you could order room service and get an early night?”

“Yes,” Milton said. “I am tired. Perhaps I will.”

Chapter Thirteen

Milton stood, pulled aside the net curtains and stared out into the cold night beyond. His room was on the fifteenth floor but the panorama was constrained by the blizzard of snow flakes that whipped around the building by the harsh wind. The view would open a little as the wind paused: long streets with street lamps casting bowls of golden light against the white; the glowing tail lights of cars and trucks and busses; tall buildings with some windows lit, others switched off by orders of the municipal government in an attempt to avoid the brown-outs that still afflicted the city.

Milton gazed out over the streets for five minutes, allowing his memory to drift. He was much too young to have been involved in the Cold War but there had been plenty of missions inside the borders of the new Russia and the satellite states that still clung to it like piglets suckling the teats of their mother. He remembered a particular assignment in Moscow a year or two after he had been transferred into the Group. He and Number Four had entered the country under the cover of diplomatic passports and had taken rooms at the Hilton Leningradskaya, not too far from the hotel where he was staying now. An arms fair was taking place, and their target — a dealer who was negotiating the terms of a deal that would secure advanced surface-to-air missiles for the Iraqi regime — was going to be in attendance. Number Four had driven the motorcycle with Milton riding pillion. He had emptied the magazine of his H&K into the dealer’s BMW, killing him but sparing his mistress and his driver. It had been warm then, the end of September and the time of year that the locals called “grandma’s summer;” the last gasp of warmth when peasant women brought in their harvests and now, in the metropolitan version, when eager urbanites gathered at the outdoor cafés and bars for the last chance of an al fresco drink before winter closed its icy fingers around the city for five more long, dark months.