'And how is the queen?' I asked her, the accent broken but not thick – I've got my pride.

'The who?' In a tone of slight shock, since we hadn't been introduced.

'Your Queen Elizabeth.'

'Oh.' A gusty giggle. 'I don't really know.' She was eyeing my London-tailored blue serge, the two inches of linen at the wrist and the heavy gold links, the two diamond rings, courtesy of Legge, outfitter to the executive. Did she know the mafiya uniform? She didn't look scared, just alerted, intrigued: the Russian accent can be quite seductive.

'I admire her,' I said, 'very much. We need a symbolic head of state like that in my country. Do you think she would accept the job if we asked her?'

Laughter like a peal of troika bells across the snow. 'It's very nice of you, but I think she's rather busy.'

'But of course. I was disappointed when your Prince Andrew declined Latvia's offer to re-establish the throne there for him and bring the country stability. There is no romance left for us today, do you not agree?'

'I don't really know.'

'And how many DI6 agents do you have at your embassy at the present time?' I asked her and got her eyes wide open and stayed for a moment to admire them before I moved on to the group where an American was holding the attention of two Japanese diplomats and a woman loaded with Chanel No. 5 and her fifth vodka.

'… common knowledge in my department that these are still the same bastards that masterminded the whole peristroika policyto re-establish themselves in the security field and then set up the coup attempt on Gorbachev to entrench themselves deeper still.'

'Then you don't believe,' one of the Japanese asked him, 'that real democracy is possible in Russia with the KGB still wielding influence behind the scenes?'

'Absolutely not. But even if we could nail these guys, who's going to nail the mob? Who's going to nail Zhirinovsky? You know what? There are so many goddamn road-blocks in the way of any real democracy coming to this country that I give Yeltsin another two months in power, and then we better all of us head for the shelters, because who the hell's going to finish up in charge of all those nukes?'

A good question, but I was more interested in the Federal Counterintelligence Service major standing over there near the massive copper samovar under the potted palm. He'd been sweeping a glass of vodka from the tray every time a waiter had gone past, and might by this time have his guard down.

'You people are doing a very good job,' an FCS lieutenant-colonel told me as I began moving towards the other man.

'I'm glad to hear that.'

'I mean it.' A heavy face with several chins, eyes chipped off an iceberg, an ineradicable seven-o'clock shadow framing a greedy mouth, greedy, I thought, not so much for caviar or mille feuille but for blood, for surrender, for the first scream as the high-voltage current hit the testicles under the blinding glare of the lamp: I'd seen, known, so many men like this one, had killed two, one of them in the street near the Lubyanka, on that occasion for a lapse in manners. 'You're doing a very good job indeed.' His eyes serious, intent.

'We like to feel appreciated,' I said.

'But of course you are. Continue to destroy the economy at this pace, and when the price of bread hits five thousand rubles a loaf the citizens will storm the streets to hang Yeltsin from a lamp-post and we shall be called in to restore order and put Zhirinovsky into undisputed power. We can then stop calling ourselves the Federal Counterintelligence Service and resume our role in regulating the masses for their own protection as we did so diligently before. The nuclear missiles can be trained once more on Washington and the Western powers invited to acknowledge the new Russian Imperial reality.' A hand on my arm: 'Nor will the princes of commerce be forgotten for the part they will have played in the grand scheme of things. There'll be room enough in the hierarchy of the state for men of ambition and imagination, let me assure you.'

'The prospects are overwhelming.'

'I thought you would understand.'

'I hope you'll find a good position for Sakkas.'

The colonel inclined his head. 'Please favour my left ear.'

I hope you'll find a good position for Vasyl Sakkas.'

His eyes changed as he raised his head again, the light glancing across them as if they had no depth. 'I think that might not be so easy.'

'You know him?'

'Our paths hardly cross. But I know his reputation.'

'And you don't see him as, say, chief of international trade in our new government?'

'Sakkas?' Eyeing me, wanting to know if I were serious.

'He's reported to be a gifted man,' I said, 'in that field.'

'I've no doubt.' He looked away as a woman broke from the group near us, looked back to me. 'I'll put it this way. Since so many of Vasyl Sakkas' competitors have met such untimely deaths, I'm not sure his opponents in the Duma would sleep too well if he were offered a role in the affairs of state.

I shrugged. 'Maybe you're -'

'Colonel Primakov! I've been looking for you everywhere!' A flash of iridescent eyes taking me in before the woman enveloped the colonel in an aura of Nuit de Folie and shimmering silk, the decolletage plunging to scented shadows, the nails gilded and long enough to draw blood in the instant if any male of the species were to take an uninvited liberty.

'If you'll excuse me,' I said.

When I reached the major he was still alone. 'Terrific party.'

'Thank you. We try to make sure our guests enjoy themselves.' His glass of vodka was tucked into an elbow against his chest for security.

'Berinov,' I said. 'Dmitri Berinov.'

'Major Milosevic. You're not drinking?' He looked round for a waiter.

'I'm drying out for a while.'

He considered this, his eyes tucked under the lids for shelter now, the drunk watching me, the man somewhere inside. 'I see,' he said in a moment.

I glanced around. 'You didn't invite Sakkas here tonight?'

The eyes were suddenly tucked deeper. 'Vasyl Sakkas?'

'Yes.'

'Vasyl Sakkas doesn't ’ppear – appear in public. In any case I'm not pleased with him at the moment.'

'Oh really?'

'He ordered a hit on one of our people.'

'When was this?'

'Two days ago. He should have tel – telephoned me before he did that.' The tip of a palm frond was brushing his ear; he didn't notice.

'To warn you.'

'What?'

'You could have' – I shrugged – 'suggested an alternative.'

His head began shaking slightly. 'When Sakkas orders a hit, there's no poss – possible alternative. But I could have asked him to do it more discreetly. Instead of on the steps of our headquarters.' He watched me as if from a distance. 'He likes steps,' he said. 'A lot of his hits are made on steps. Judges, officials.'

'You telephone him often?'

'I don't telephone Sakkas. But he knows my number. I was use – useful to him once.'

'You've got an understanding.'

'All I understand is that he must be treated with great caution.'

'So I've heard. He's in Moscow now?'

'I don't know. No one ever knows where Sakkas is. But he was in Mos – Moscow two days ago. He always watches the hits.'

'To make sure they're successful.,

'No. They're always successful. He watches them because he likes it. People say – ' he broke off as I tilted his glass straight for him; its rim had been catching under one of his medals. 'What are you doing?'

'Don't worry about it. How often have you met Sakkas?'

'How – how often have I met him? No one ever meets Sakkas. Unless he wants them to.'

'Likes his privacy.'

'Yes. You know what those bastards did to me?' He was watching someone going past, head of grey hair, general's tabs.