“Not at all. He’s been given one of those magnificent park suites on the fifth floor as befits his status as Josef Belov. There is a small bedroom with separate bathroom next to it, double doors in between, which are kept locked unless it’s booked, to provide a second bedroom for the suite.”

“And this one isn’t?”

“Well, it was, but I canceled and then fiddled the computer to make it look as if it’s still occupied. I recall when you got into Levin’s room, you had a house key like staff use.”

“Still do.”

“As regards Levin, he’s with the Russian Embassy party and Boris Luhzkov. I suppose they know we won’t lift Levin.”

“What would be the point?” Ferguson said. “And they can’t lay a finger on us. I’m going and you two can join me,” he said to Dillon and Billy. He turned to Lacey. “You’d better get on with arranging the courier flight out of Farley. You have full authority.”

“Certainly, sir.”

They all got up, and Roper said, “I was thinking, Dillon, take an extra Codex Four. If this idea works and Zubin agrees, it will give him a link with you.”

“Good thinking.”

“Well, let’s get on with it, the game’s afoot,” Ferguson said.

At the Russian Embassy, Boris Luhzkov was in his office when Igor Levin went in. “I got your message. What’s up?” “Nothing, just a thousand and one things to do.”

“You worry too much.” Levin lit a cigarette and sat on the window seat.

Luhzkov said, “It’s all right for you, the big war hero, used to running around at the Kremlin.”

“Luhzkov, what can I do for you?”

“Volkov insists on your presence tonight so you can make yourself useful.”

“I’m not exactly persona grata to our British friends these days. You’re sure Charles Ferguson won’t try to have me picked up once I’m on the street?”

“Look, Igor, I don’t know what you’ve been mixed up in, and I don’t want to know. You work for Volkov, carry the Putin warrant, that’s enough for me. One thing I do know. You’ve got diplomatic immunity. If the Brits want you for anything, all they can do is send you home. Now go along to the Dorchester and check how our security people are getting on.”

“On the instant, boss.”

“Always the clown, Igor.” Luhzkov shook his head. “Greta Novikova is still gainfully employed, I trust?”

“I wouldn’t ask, Boris, I really wouldn’t.”

When Ferguson was admitted to Number Ten Downing Street, a waiting aide took him upstairs past the pictures of every past Prime Minister and along the corridor.

“Five minutes only, General. He’s due at Northolt to greet Putin, but he did want a word with you.”

He opened the door, Ferguson went in and there was the Prime Minister behind his desk. “Sit down, General.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister.”

“I just want to reassure myself about certain, shall we say, unfortunate aspects of present events. Things are in order at the Dorchester, I take it?”

“I believe so, but I’m visiting personally after our meeting.”

“Let me be plain, General Ferguson. I know I find it prudent on many occasions where matters of intelligence are concerned to look the other way, but aspects of my meeting today, this Belov Protocol? It can’t be allowed to happen.”

“It won’t, Prime Minister. Everything will be resolved within the next two days to your satisfaction.” He smiled. “Or you can have my resignation.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want that, so I’ll just have to take your word for it. Now I must go. Northolt awaits.”

The door behind was eased open as if by magic and Ferguson was eased out.

When the Daimler picked him up, Dillon and Billy were in the back and Ferguson climbed in. The Daimler pulled away and Dillon said, “Where to?”

“The Dorchester. I want to check security.”

“Did the PM have much to say?”

“In five minutes? Hardly. Of course, he did tell me the Belov Protocol can’t be allowed to happen, and I told him it would be resolved to his satisfaction over the next two days.”

“Charles, your confidence is breathtaking.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Dillon. It’s a sign of my total faith in your ability to achieve miracles.”

Igor Levin made contact with his security colleagues at the hotel. The President, of course, was in the most exclusive suite at the very top of the hotel, members of his entourage on lower floors, Belov on floor five in a park suite. Everything seemed in order, so he went down to the Piano Bar and ordered a vodka in crushed ice, the special way they did it, the Dorchester way, got a couple of newspapers and went and sat by the piano and worked his way through them.

Someone brushed past him to the piano. He didn’t look up, engrossed in what the Times was saying about Putin and Belov. The pianist started to play a song popular with soldiers during the war in Chechnya. Levin remembered it well, they all did, those young soldiers. “Moscow Nights.”

He looked up, and Sean Dillon, seated at the piano, said, “We just wanted to make you feel at home, Igor, my old son, me and Billy here.”

Billy was standing by the piano, arms crossed. “That was quite a gig you played in Khufra, Captain. It was you who knocked off Tomac, we presume?”

“He annoyed me.”

“A right bastard. Screwed up our floatplane. We went in nose first for the deep six.”

Levin stopped smiling. “That was nothing to do with me.” He hesitated. “And Greta was with you in that plane?”

Dillon said, “I held her hand all the way up from the bottom.”

Levin smiled again. “How romantic. She’s well, I trust?”

“In excellent accommodation. Oh, here comes the boss.”

Ferguson came down the steps from the bar. “My dear chap, we keep missing each other. Tried to catch up again at Drumore Place yesterday, but you weren’t at home.”

“And neither was Ashimov. Dublin, I understand.” Dillon shook his head. “Liam Bell did a runner, but we depleted the ranks of the IRA.”

“You must be feeling pleased.” Levin stood up.

Ferguson said, “Don’t go, join us in a drink.”

Levin smiled. “Now, that would really be too much. I’m sure I’ll see enough of you tonight.”

He went out. Ferguson said, “Pity, I rather liked him. Still, we can have something while we’re here,” and he waved to Guiliano.

In the ballroom later that night, all London was there. Politicians by the score, big business, the media, anybody who was anybody and lots of men in black suits, ever watchful as waiters passed through the crowd with trays loaded with champagne, vodka, canapés.

“They stand out a mile, don’t they?” Billy said to Dillon as they stood by a temporary bar.

“Who do you mean?”

“The security men. It’s the black suits.”

Ferguson was away, glad-handing a few people. Dillon said, “Just because Ferguson made us wear black tie for tonight, don’t let it go to your head. There’s Igor Levin over there. Keep him in view and let him keep you in view. I’m going up now to try and play Roper’s trump card.” He eased out of the crowd by the rear lift, pushed open a side door and ran up the stairs to the fifth floor. The room adjacent to Max Zubin’s suite was just around a bend in the corridor opposite. He produced his passkey and entered.

It was small, comfortably furnished, the door giving access to the living room of Zubin’s suite locked. Dillon slipped in an earpiece and listened. There was a sound of movement, but no voices.

He took off his coat, then removed a small suitcase from the wardrobe and pulled out a white waiter’s coat, which he put on. On the sideboard tray, champagne stood ready in an ice bucket with two glasses. He took a deep breath, picked up the tray and went out. Just a few yards down the corridor was all it took. He paused at the door, then pressed the bell.