He remembered Putin’s words in Moscow: “His defection must appear genuine at all times. His GRU minders in Paris should not be informed of the real facts. If they fall by the wayside, so be it.”

He took a deep breath and said to Ivanov, “When they get off, follow them. That is all I can suggest. See where it leads you, then contact Major Gregorovich at the GRU safe house outside Moscow. Take care.”

He sat there, thinking about it. Starling, Salter, and Dillon did not know Ivanov and the boys by sight, only Kurbsky did, so only he could alert the others of their presence on the train. But if Ivanov and the other two sat at the end of the train for the entire journey, keeping out of the way, they’d be able to follow Kurbsky at leisure when their quarry left the train.

He had to alert Kurbsky, had no choice.

Kurbsky had his phone in his right pants pocket on vibrate. Monica was reading a book. Dillon was reading Paris-Soir on the other side of the table, and Billy was dozing, his head back against a pillow by the open door to the connecting apartment.

Kurbsky smiled at Monica, excused himself, got up and went to the lavatory at the end of the corridor, entered, and locked the door. He answered the phone, and Luzhkov said, “Thank God you answered.”

“What is this? I told you I didn’t want to speak to you every five minutes.”

“Shut up and listen.” Luzhkov explained quickly what had happened. “So you see, my friend, Ivanov and his two chums are on the train with you, and they now think you a defector and a traitor to the Motherland.”

“Holy Mother of God,” Kurbsky said.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. If I tell the others, they’d need an explanation as to how I knew.”

“You could say you’d taken a walk along the train and seen them.”

“And they hadn’t seen me? Come on, get real, Boris.”

“Well, you’d better think of something, because if this screws up the whole operation, you’ll not only be in deep shit, but your sister will be condemned to live out the rest of her days in the far north of Siberia.”

Kurbsky fought hard to control himself and kept his voice low. “Damn you, don’t threaten me.”

“Alex, I’m not. He’s got me by the balls, too, our glorious Prime Minister. There’s no either/or here. The great man hates being disappointed. He always gets his way. So what’s it to be?”

“I don’t seem to have much choice,” Kurbsky said. “I’ll speak to you again. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

He left the lavatory, moved along the corridor through the dining room and the coaches behind, where most passengers were curled up in sleep. He was careful, paused at each connecting door and scanned the passengers inside, looking for his quarry, and finally reached the club car, and there they were at the far end. He withdrew and was approached by the headwaiter as he went back through the restaurant car. There were only about a dozen people eating.

“Would you and your friends like a table, Monsieur?”

“I’m not sure. When is the next stop?”

“ Belleville, Monsieur, about an hour and a quarter.”

“I’ll see what my friends think.”

He returned to the compartment and found Monica asleep on one of the pull-down bunks, and Dillon and Billy with their heads down in the second compartment, so he picked up Monica’s book, something to do with the Roman army in Britain that she’d written herself, went back to the restaurant car, and took a table.

He had a sort of Russian breakfast-vodka, caviar, smoked salmon and herrings and strong black bread, more vodka, and then black bitter tea. All this was provided with impeccable service. Monica’s book was fascinating and made the meal a true experience.

The time had passed so quickly that when they started to slow, he was quite caught out, and then they were gradually stopping, and the headwaiter said, “ Belleville, Monsieur.”

Kurbsky peered out. He saw only a small station and platform and a few decaying warehouses. Some people had got off to walk around, stretching their legs, ambling between stacks of railway sleepers. And then Kokonin and Burlaka walked past, hands in pockets, chatting to each other.

There was a kind of inevitability to it, and Kurbsky moved along, found an open door, and went down the steps. They were over by a coppice of crowded trees and seemed to disappear. He hurried, half running, went around a corner, and found them standing at the edge of a deep ditch, half filled with water.

He was upon them before they realized he was there, pulled his Walther from the belt clip at the small of his back. Kokonin said, “You!” and put a hand in his inside pocket. Kurbsky shot him between the eyes, the silenced Walther making a dull thud. He was blasted backward and fell half over the edge of the ditch. Burlaka actually got his gun out, but too late, as Kurbsky did exactly the same to him. He rolled first one, then the other, into the water, turned, and walked away around the coppice, joining the few people getting back onto the train.

He returned to the restaurant car and found the book where he had left it. The headwaiter approached with the bill. Kurbsky paid him in euros and tipped well. “I’m obliged to you. It was excellent. When is the next stop?”

“Another hour, perhaps more, Monsieur- Rennes.”

Instead of returning to the compartment, he worked his way back to the club car and peered in. Ivanov was standing, talking to the car steward, upset. The steward was shrugging, obviously unable to satisfy him. So Kokonin and Burlaka had missed the train. Not his fault. They’d have to get the next one. That seemed the official attitude.

Kurbsky turned and went back. From the first day you put on a uniform, you had to accept you could die wearing it. He was fighting in a war of sorts; he seemed to have done so all his life. He should have had a little pity for the two dead men perhaps, but he’d used that all up in Afghanistan and Chechnya.

HE DIDN’T GO in when he got back to the compartments, simply checked to see that his three companions were still resting, turned, and started to make his way toward the rear of the train. It was time to finish the thing, whatever it took. The entire train seemed to be asleep, a passenger here or there with a magazine or a book.

After midnight, when anything is possible and death is in the air. It wasn’t Shakespeare, he knew that, some minor writer from times past, not that it mattered. He had reached the club car. The car steward in his cramped booth was asleep and the passengers in their seats seemed well away too. He walked along between the seats to where Ivanov sat by himself, eyes closed, head back, arms folded. Kurbsky slid into the opposite seat, and Ivanov opened his eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Kurbsky said softly, “Don’t say a word. You’ve been caught up in a matter of the highest security to the State-we both have. Now, keep your voice down.”

“What about Kokonin and Burlaka?” Ivanov whispered.

“Back at Belleville. I disarmed them and told them to run for it or else.”

“But why did you do this?”

“I am under orders, from Putin himself.” He stood up. “We can’t talk freely here. Come out on the viewing platform.”

He went and opened the door that gave onto the platform with the ironwork rail; it was a spot much popular with smokers in these anti-cigarette times. Although there was a canopy, the rain blew in.

Ivanov said, “We’re going to get soaked. What the hell is going on?”

Kurbsky produced the silenced Walther, jammed the muzzle into him at close quarters, and shot him in the heart. He lurched back, half turning, and fell head down over the rail. Kurbsky toppled him the rest of the way over, and the body was swept away in the darkness and rain. He replaced the Walther in his belt clip, his iron composure clicking in, and calmly worked his way up the aisle to the end, where the car steward still dozed in his booth.