He caught her arm. “These friends of yours. They would have to be very special people who knew how to handle this kind of thing.”

She smiled. “Oh, they are. Call me, Alex, when you’ve had time to think.”

She went to the elevators, a door opened at once, she stepped in, and it closed.

FOUR O’CLOCK in the morning in London, but in the Holland Park safe house, Giles Roper sat as usual in his wheelchair, his screens active as he probed cyberspace, his bomb-scarred face restless. He’d slept in the chair for a couple of hours; now Doyle, the night sergeant, had provided him with a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. He ate the sandwich and was pouring a shot of scotch when Monica’s voice came over the speaker.

“Are you there, Roper?”

“Where else would I be?”

“You’re the only fixed point in a troubled universe. That’s one thing I’ve learned since getting involved with you people. Is Sean spending the night?”

“Returned to a bed in staff quarters ages ago. How was your evening? Did Kurbsky impress?”

“Just listen and see what you think.”

It didn’t take long in the telling, and when she was finished, Roper said, “If he’s serious, I can’t see why we couldn’t arrange something. I’ll speak to Sean and General Ferguson first thing in the morning. You, we should be seeing sometime in the early evening.”

“Exactly.”

She switched off. He sat there thinking about it for a while. Alexander Kurbsky doing a runner to England. My God, Vladimir Putin will be furious. He put Kurbsky up on the screen. Too good-looking for his own good, he decided morosely, then brought up his record and started going through it carefully.

KURBSKY HAD FOUND Bounine in the Volvo outside the Pierre to bring him up to speed. He smoked a cigarette. Bounine said, “So far, so good. It’s worked. She must be quite a lady.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“So, if they take the bait, we have Paris to look forward to. Colonel Luzhkov will be pleased.”

“Only because he wants to please Putin, and if Paris works, you mustn’t be a part of it, Yuri. No one should know who you are. Luzhkov will work out something for you. Cultural attaché, for instance, would do you very well. Someone I can trust personally when I’m in London.”

“I’m glad you still do,” Bounine said.

“It’s been a long time, Yuri. You’re the only GRU man I know who looks like an accountant. No one would ever dream you were in Afghanistan and Chechnya in the paratroopers.”

“Whereas you, old friend, look like they found you in central casting. The smiler with the knife, they used to call you from that first year, remember?”

“Quite right.” Kurbsky got out and turned, holding the door. “I also write good books.”

“Great books.” Bounine smiled. “One thing is certain: Putin will be happy the way things have gone.”

“Putin has many reasons to be happy with the way things are going these days,” Kurbsky said. “Night, Yuri.” He closed the door and went back into the hotel.

It had all started three weeks before, with Colonel Boris Luzhkov, Head of Station for the GRU at the Embassy of the Russian Federation in London. The summons to Moscow had come from Putin himself and could not be denied, although it had surprised Luzhkov that it had come from him and not from General Ivan Volkov of the GRU, Putin’s security adviser.

The reason became clear when he was driven to Berkley Down outside London and found a Falcon jet waiting to fly him to Moscow, a luxury that should have warned him to expect the worst.

Two pilots were on board, the aircraft ready to go, and a steward, who introduced himself as Sikov, was waiting as he boarded. Luzhkov seated himself and belted in.

Sikov said, “A great pleasure, Colonel. The flight time is approximately seven hours. I was instructed to give you this from Prime Minister Putin’s office as soon as you arrived. May I offer you a drink?”

“A large vodka. I hate takeoffs. I once crashed in Chechnya.” Sikov had given him what looked like a legal file.

Sikov did it old style, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. Luzhkov tossed it back and coughed, holding out his glass. Sikov poured another, then moved up to the small galley. Luzhkov swallowed the vodka and, as the plane started to roll, examined the file: several typed sheets stapled together, and an envelope addressed to him, which he opened.

The letter was headed “From the Office of the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation.” It went on: “Attention of Colonel Boris Luzhkov. You will familiarize yourself with the material contained in the enclosed report and be prepared to discuss it with the Prime Minister on your arrival.”

Luzhkov sat there, staring down at the report, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Falcon had risen fast to thirty thousand and the flight so far was very smooth. Sikov returned.

“Would you like to order, Colonel?”

Business first. Better get it over with. More vodka was indicated. He suspected he was going to need it. In fact, it was worse than he could have imagined, although some of it was already familiar to him.

TH E REPORT DETAILED an operation gone bad. General Volkov had hired a group of IRA heavies to strike at Ferguson and his associates, but instead it was Ferguson who had struck at them, killing them all at their base in Drumore in the Irish Republic. If that wasn’t bad enough, General Volkov himself and two GRU men had disappeared. It could only mean one thing.

On top of that, the attempted assassination of Harry Miller, the individual known as the Prime Minister’s Rottweiler, had been a botched job from the beginning and had succeeded only in killing his wife in error. And-the greatest shock of all-Volkov’s connection to Osama bin Laden, the shadowy man known only as the Broker, had been unmasked. It had turned out to be Simon Carter, the Deputy Director of the British Security Services. Luzhkov could hardly believe his eyes-he had known Carter for years! Needless to say, Carter was no longer in the picture either.

Miller’s sister, Lady Monica Starling, had apparently played a part in the Drumore affair, too, and now she had an apparent relationship with Dillon. GRU agents, of whom there were twenty-four at the London Embassy, had sighted them together on a number of occasions.

It was all a bit too much for Luzhkov’s whirling brain, but he turned the page and found one that was headed “Solutions.” He started to read, pouring himself another vodka, and gagged on it as his own name came up. He read the paper several times, phrases like “the Prime Minister’s final decision in this matter” floating before him. Finally, he came to the last page, headed “Alexander Kurbsky.” It began: “Kurbsky is a man of extraordinary talents, who has served his country well in time of war. To use these talents again in the present situation would be of great use to the State. If he objects in any way, the enclosed DVD and the additional attached information should persuade him.”

There was a small DVD screen on the back of the seat in front of Luzhkov, and after reading the information, he inserted the DVD and switched on. It lasted only five minutes or so, and when it was finished, he switched off and removed it.

“Holy Mother of God,” he said softly, and there was sweat on his brow. He took out a handkerchief and mopped it. Sikov approached. “Something to eat, Colonel?”

“Why not?” Boris Luzhkov said wearily. “Why not.”

THEY LANDED on time, and a limousine with a uniformed GRU driver at the wheel was waiting. The streets were dark, frostbound, a city of ghosts, snow drifting down-angel’s wings, his mother used to call them when he was little-and he sat there, thinking of what awaited him as they passed the great entrance of the Kremlin and moved through narrow streets to the rear, paused in a paved yard. Steps up to an entrance, a blue light over it. The door swung open and a young lieutenant in GRU uniform admitted him.