The assassin watched a silver-grey Rolls approach the gate. He focused his field glasses on it until he could read the number plate. It hardly paused; it swept grandly through the portals and up the driveway. The assassin lowered his glasses. He had watched long enough to know the security procedures and that was all he needed. It was inside the villa that he’d have to do the job. He glanced at the sky, slung the field glasses and walked back through the wood.

He opened the boot of the gleaming black Packard. He seated the Zeiss binoculars in their case and changed from his scuffed climbing shoes into a pair of elegant black pumps-a better match for his evening clothes.

The Packard moved slowly down the rutted dirt track toward its intersection with the road that ran past the gate of the villa.

2

Within the villa the gathering of elegant people sprawled through more than half a dozen of the building’s public rooms on two stories. In the vaulted main ballroom-a spaciously proportioned chamber of seventeenth century grandeur, hung with old masters and ornate tapestries-a string orchestra played saccharine music and guests nibbled tidbits from an immense Louis XIV table set with crystal and silver and candelabra and vased blossoms from the villa’s greenhouse.

Toward the rear of the villa in the high arched gallery which gave out through glass panes onto formal gardens a separate balalaika orchestra provided accompaniment to a band of hired Cossack dancers who entertained inexhaustibly, squatting and leaping, grunting and shouting ferociously. Now and then a noble White Russian general would get swept up in the spirit of it and join the dancers.

Upstairs in the great drawing room the more sedate and elderly guests sat talking after each in turn had made the ritual pilgrimage into the bedchamber that contained the Grand Duke Feodor, confined to his canopied bed by a painful S-curved spine, the result of degenerative disc ailments that had afflicted him for more than a decade. The Grand Duke was sixty-three-not very old by Romanov standards of longevity-but the athletic strength of his St. Petersburg youth had been mocked by two decades of malaise, and what once had been a splendid towering physique was now twisted and cadaverous. A palsy of alarming intensity afflicted his long-fingered hands, mottled with cyanotic spots; his eyes blinked rapidly and his jaws worked and he looked at least eighty; his mind was lucid only at intervals. Prince Leon employed a Swiss physician full-time to watch over the failing Grand Duke with the help of two registered nurses from Harley Street and one of the three was always in attendance in Feodor’s antechamber.

The drawing room was occupied by a male elite. Most of them were fifty or more; all of them held titles or high military commissions from the long-ago Empire of Czar Nicholas II. The room was filled with cigar smoke and the fumes of Courvoisier and vodka and voices that said War, Invasion, Hitler, Minsk, the Stalin Line, Bolshevism, the Wehrmacht, the Red Army, Soviet Disaster-the last phrase spoken frequently and with energetic relish. To the extent that the rambling discussion was led its leader was Count Anatol Markov and he was speaking furiously. Betrayal, he said, and Vulnerability. Consequences. Country. Responsibility. And, he said, Decision.

3

Sergei Bulygin drove fast down the narrow gravel tracks of the Spanish foothills, enjoying the freedom and the sense of solitary control, the exhilaration of the twelve-cylinder roar and the rush of wind about the cockpit of the open Mercedes touring car. It made him understand what drew the young Prince Felix so obsessively to motor racing and airplanes. The young prince had explained it once to the old soldier, the white teeth flashing in his long tan face. “We’re a useless class of people, Sergei. Our circumstances prohibit us doing the ordinary things that you can do-working, earning a living. A man’s got to take an interest in something to justify his existence.” It had sounded cynical but he knew better: the young prince lived for the racing.

The gravel road carried him down a narrow ladder of bends and on down the river through the farms and villages of the valley. Most of it was cluttered with carts and pedestrians and the occasional chain-drive lorry and he made poor time but he had anticipated that; he arrived in ample time at the corrugated metal airport terminal of Barcelona, parked at the curb and went into the primitive waiting room; it was just past five o’clock and Alexsander’s plane was due.

There was no sign of the aircraft but that was not alarming. The German-dominated customs people at Lisbon enjoyed enforcing their petty bureaucratic power by hectoring foreign travelers with endless paper delays.

Sergei had not seen young Alex since Helsinki but there wouldn’t have been much change unless the American food had put weight on him; scars at the throat now, of course, from that Bolshevik bullet on the Finland border but perhaps Alex had taken to wearing a scarf to cover that. A scarf would be good, Sergei thought: it would give Alex a dashing look like an aviator.

He was only a valet now in the service of Prince Leon Kirov but Sergei was a soldier, that was his real calling and he looked forward keenly to Alex’s arrival because he had a feeling it meant there would be soldiering to do. There was a big war on and there ought to be a piece of it for Sergei Bulygin who had been a lance corporal in the Imperial Russian Infantry.

Sergei watched the sky through the dusty window of the waiting room and finally he was rewarded. The airplane appeared suddenly at low altitude; it described a slow turn at the far end of the tarmac. Sergei stood up.

Alex and Irina were the last of twelve off the plane. Irina was radiant, beaming up into Alex’s face, holding his arm-it was like years ago and Sergei felt a warm thrill of pleasure.

Alex wore a Shetland jacket and butternut trousers; against his thick brown hair the darkly tanned face looked hard and outdoor-wrinkled. He was leaner than ever and he towered over the other passengers walking across the tarmac. The sunlight lit the grey of his eyes as he turned out of sight into the customs-and-immigration doorway and Sergei was shaken momentarily by the coldness of them.

By twos and threes the arriving passengers appeared in the doorway with their luggage, were met and greeted and sometimes embraced; and trooped away across the waiting room. Finally Sergei was alone by the door and he saw them coming from the customs. Alex was folding visas and inspection documents into his passport and sliding it into his pocket, trailed by two porters carrying their grips. Then Alex looked up and found Sergei there.

The smile made him look very American. It was what Sergei had hoped to see. He lifted his big arms.

Alex laughed and folded Sergei in his strong hug. “Old friend-it’s so damned good to see you.”

Irina Markova had the expression Sergei could never fathom-like a cat’s. “I told you I’d bring him back, Sergei.” But then a shadow seemed to cross her face and suddenly her cryptic stare unsettled Sergei. He reached for their luggage.

He thought, Vassily Devenko should have died in Finland. “I’ll take you to the car. Was it a good flight? Was it the Portuguese who made you late? Has America changed at all since we were there?” He kept talking too fast for them to answer, all the way out to the car. They were laughing at him but it was good laughter and when he started the engine he made it roar out of his sheer exuberance.

The air was warm and a little damp coming off the Med. Irina found Alex’s hand and clasped it quietly. The Mercedes sighed in the road and the hair whipped around Irina’s face but she didn’t scarf it or tie it back. They passed under the lee of the mountain with Sergei monopolizing the talk and then they were curling along a river with the low sun stabbing through a spindle tracery of brush and trees. Small clouds scudded over the peaks. Alex felt deaf in the wind.