Two deckhands were about to pull up the gangway, but paused to let them on board. A waiter approached, smiling.

“Will you be dining?”

“If it’s not too late for lunch,” Dillon answered in French.

“Of course, Monsieur, we never close. Not too many customers today. It’s the time of the year and the weather. Choose where you would like to sit and I will start with a drink for you.”

They went up to the upper deck, but the sides were open and the rain was blowing in, so they went back down and found a nice table by the stern window so they could see all the sights as they passed. Dillon and Monica had champagne, grilled Dover sole, and Lyonnaise potatoes, Billy a large bowl of bouillabaisse.

“I’ve got to give it to you, Dillon,” Billy said. “This stew is the business. I’m really enjoying the whole thing. Notre Dame looks great up there, the barges. It’s nearly as good as the Thames.”

Monica patted his hand. “There’s no answer to that. My fish was marvelous. All I’d like now would be coffee.”

The waiter, hovering, started to clear the plates. “At once, Madame.”

Dillon lit a cigarette, passed it to her, and lit another. “They’re French,” he said. “Nobody’s going to throw us off the boat.”

“How do you think things are going?” Billy said. “With Kurbsky?”

“Kurbsky seemed confident in his ability to handle the guard in his room tonight,” said Dillon. “Considering his military experience, he should be.”

“I suppose I’m just nervous because we’ve got nothing to do except wait for him at the gate for that midnight train at the Gare du Nord,” Billy said.

The waiter brought coffee. Billy asked for English breakfast tea and Dillon a Bushmills whiskey. Monica said, “I’m still fascinated by the whole venture, the future. I can’t get my head round what’s supposed to happen to Kurbsky.”

“Maybe he can’t either,” Billy said. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

KURBSKY HAD BEEN slightly surprised to discover that the dress for the ceremony was not black tie. The new President had decided to open things up, and business suits were the order of the day. It was five-thirty when Kurbsky finished dressing and examined himself in the mirror in the bedroom wardrobe. Very much as he had done in New York, he wore black and had to confess it looked good. He went and kicked on the door of the connecting room, then went and found his jacket.

Ivanov came in. “You wanted me?”

“How are they?”

“Obviously better than they were. A long, hard day.”

“Bring them in.”

Ivanov departed. Kurbsky pulled his jacket on, fixed his cuffs, checking himself in the sitting room mirror. Burlaka and Kokonin were obviously revived by the day’s regime, had tried hard with their appearance, and he knew from what Ivanov had told him that they had put themselves in the hands of the hotel’s barber.

“Have you had a good day?”

They looked hunted and didn’t seem to know what to say. It was Ivanov who answered for them. “They behaved stupidly, but they’ve learned their lesson. It won’t happen again.”

Kokonin said, “Never, I swear it.”

“In the circumstances, I’ve decided not to take any further action in this matter,” Kurbsky said, and to Ivanov, “You will make no report of the affair when we return to Moscow.”

Their relief was immediate. “Thank you, Comrade,” they chorused.

Kurbsky wondered how they’d feel when they discovered he’d done a runner. It’d be a blot on their records sufficient to ruin any prospects of advancement in their chosen careers. What would they think of Alexander Kurbsky then?

He said, “Come down to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink.” They were astonished. “Come on, we haven’t got time to waste.” He opened the door and went out.

THEY STOOD AT the magnificent bar, and he ordered four vodkas and said, “You can’t all come with me to the ceremony. Only one aide is allowed to accompany me inside, so two of you have to wait in the limousines. In the circumstances, you will understand that I’m choosing Ivanov.”

“Of course, Comrade,” Burlaka said gamely, and glanced at Kokonin.

“And the fact that Ivanov spent the whole night obeying my orders and guarding me was, I believe, detrimental to his love life. It won’t be the same tonight. You two must sort it out when we get back.”

They nodded almost eagerly, and the four vodkas appeared before them. Kurbsky raised his in a toast and surprised them by not mentioning himself.

“To the Motherland, and to Vladimir Putin, Prime Minister of the Russian Federation.”

He emptied his glass and turned it upside down on the bar and said to Ivanov, “We’ll go now. There is a Mercedes due from the Embassy. Speak to the concierge.” He led the way out.

AT THE ÉLYSÉE PALACE, they were checked at the main gate and passed through to the courtyard and parking area. Kurbsky and Ivanov left the others and joined a sizable crowd of people pushing toward the main doors of the Palace.

All life was there, a mixture of uniforms and civilian attire, and the Palace guards in their gorgeous outfits. There was a great hubbub as they went in, chandeliers sparkling over the incredible opulence of it all. A colonel in the dress uniform of the Foreign Legion standing at the entrance to a cordoned-off section of the crowd saw Kurbsky and beckoned.

When Kurbsky approached, he said in English, “Mr. Kurbsky, this is an honor. We’ve been worried-your embassy was supposed to be in touch an hour ago to confirm you were on the way. It’s a good thing I saw you. Is this your aide?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Ivanov.”

“Right, he’ll be seated in one of the three back rows. You’ll be in the front row, of course.” He offered Kurbsky an embossed card. “Give this to the usher up there.”

Ivanov said, “Good luck, Comrade.”

Kurbsky went along the aisle and offered the card to some sort of majordomo, who examined it and led him to his seat, which was at the very end of the front row on the right. It meant that Kurbsky only had the person on his left to make small talk with. The man was very old and wrinkled, with a shock of white hair.

He smiled when the man looked sideways at him and spoke in German, which unfortunately was not one of Kurbsky’s languages. He said something unintelligible, so Kurbsky said, “Hello, how are you?” in Russian.

He seemed alarmed, and Kurbsky tried English. The old man immediately looked wise and said, “Who are you?” very slowly, taking his time with each word.

“Alexander Kurbsky.”

“Why are you here?”

“To receive the Legion of Honor.”

“What for? What do you do?”

“I write books. I’m a novelist.”

There was a nod of puzzlement. “I have never heard of you.”

Kurbsky laughed out loud, and people turned to look. “What about you?” he asked. “Why are you here?”

“For the Legion of Honor. My name is Hans Kruger.”

“And what do you do?”

“I’m a nuclear physicist.”

“Well, that’s all right. I haven’t heard of you either.”

And then voices hushed, there was a fanfare of trumpets, and the proceedings began.

IT TOOK a long time, and there were speeches and more speeches that numbed the mind as well as the backside, as the whole thing dragged on. Recipients were called in turn, and it all began to be slightly reminiscent of a conveyor belt, and Kurbsky wasn’t even aware of the magic moment. He certainly was there when the President pinned on the insignia of the Legion of Honor and words were said, but what they were he could never be sure.

And then it was all over. The President moved on and Kurbsky went with the flow, the crowd of people searching for the food. Ivanov was tugging his sleeve. “Wonderful. Great stuff.”

“You know something, I’m not certain you and I have experienced the same affair. What’s the time?” He glanced at his watch. “Good God, it’s half past nine already. Where have I been?” He shook his head. “Where’s the buffet?”