It opened surprisingly quickly, and there stood Zubin in shirtsleeves adjusting his black tie.

“Champagne, sir?” Dillon asked.

“I don’t think I ordered that,” Zubin said.

“It’s on the house, sir, Dorchester champagne.”

“Okay, bring it in, but don’t open it.”

He turned away into the living room and Dillon put the tray on the table. “I’d better open it just in case somebody comes,” he said in fluent and rapid Russian.

Strangely, Zubin didn’t look alarmed, but there was an instant frown. “What in the hell is this?”

“Nobody here is what they seem. My name is Sean Dillon and I work for British intelligence. You’re Max Zubin pretending to be Josef Belov, and not liking it very much. However, they have your mother in Moscow, so you have to play ball, you have to go back to her.”

Zubin adjusted his tie and reached for his jacket. “If any of this were true, what could I do about it?”

“Go back tomorrow, you’d have to do that, then we’d bring you out, you and your mother.”

“You could do that?”

“Yes. I’ll explain after dinner.”

“I’m not doing dinner. From what I know, I’ll be back up here at around nine to nine-thirty.”

“I’ve got the room next door. We’ll talk later. If you’re on your own, knock on the door.” He’d finished uncorking and pouring a glass. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”

Zubin took the glass. “I was a paratrooper in Chechnya. You sound like the real thing. Unless they’re employing raving lunatics here who start off with an Irish accent and move into fluent Russian.”

The doorbell sounded.

“Shower stall,” Dillon whispered. “I know these suites.”

He moved into the small hall bathroom, left the door partly open and stepped into the shower.

Outside, Zubin opened the door. “Ah, Levin, there you are. Are they ready for me?” He was obviously in his Belov role, voice measured.

“No need to take that tone with me,” Levin said. “Now, remember the cameras. Be nice and forbidding, so people will feel it better not to speak to you.”

“I could frighten them to death. I can do an excellent Hamlet’s father. He was a ghost, you know.”

“Come on, it’s showtime.”

The door closed, Dillon waited, then went out and returned next door.

Round the bend at the far end of the corridor, Levin and Zubin waited for the lift. “You’re feeling good?” Levin said.

“Of course. I always do on an opening night,” and the lift doors parted and he and Levin joined four other people.

Inside himself, Zubin felt only tremendous excitement. Could it be true, could he really confound all of them, bring the whole house of cards tottering down? Well, as far as he was concerned, it wouldn’t be from want of trying.

When Dillon returned, Ferguson had joined Billy. “You look excited,” he said. “How did it go?”

“Couldn’t have been better.” He told them what had happened. “The important thing is he isn’t doing the dinner. That gives me a great chance of accessing him from the room next door later and really laying it on the line.”

“The Putin plane is leaving at eleven from Northolt. The Citation X perhaps an hour later. The courier flight will be logged in and out again, all perfectly legitimate.” He handed Dillon an envelope. “Times and so forth, the whole schedule. Discuss it with him, then destroy it.”

“Of course.”

There was a sudden disturbance at the far end of the room, a great deal of clapping as Putin moved through the crowd, the Prime Minister taking another section.

“He’s there,” Dillon said, “moving close to the President, Levin behind him.”

There was Zubin, pausing while the TV cameras did their work and press cameras flashed, turning closer to the President so they were tied together, as it were. The President nodded to him and moved on, and Zubin walked into the crowd, Levin behind him, pausing to greet people who spoke to him. Finally, he accepted a glass of champagne and stood by the wall, as if holding court, a number of guests obviously hanging on to his every word, and Levin was checking his watch.

“I bet that isn’t in the script,” Ferguson said.

“He’s an actor,” Dillon said. “Can’t resist making the most of his role. I was one myself.”

“Yes, we do know about that,” Ferguson said. “The one person who appears to be missing is Volkov.”

“Not any longer,” Dillon said, as Volkov moved through the crowd, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and pausing beside Putin and handing him one. He murmured something to Putin and they turned and looked across at Ferguson, Dillon and Billy. And then Putin did a strange thing. He raised his glass toward them, and Ferguson raised his.

“Old adversaries from the Cold War, a long time ago,” he said.

A voice echoed over the speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”

Volkov moved across to Zubin and Levin and spoke to them, and Levin nodded, touched Zubin on the arm and they made for the door. Those going on to the dinner flooded out. Quite a number who obviously were not stood around finishing their drinks.

Ferguson said, “I’ll get off home and leave you to it. Good luck upstairs and let me know instantly how it’s gone.”

He walked away and Dillon said, “Let’s get on with it, Billy. We’ll take the stairs.”

They made it to the room with no trouble, went in quietly and Dillon tried the earpiece again and put his head to the door. There was a murmur of voices.

“Levin must still be with him,” Dillon said, as he checked his watch. “Just after nine. We’ll have to wait.”

“For as long as it takes.”

Billy lay on the bed, head pillowed on his hands. Dillon sat on the dressing table chair. At half past nine, he checked and still heard voices. Not long after, there was the sound of laughter and then silence and then there were two distinct knocks on the door.

Zubin stood there, undoing his black tie. “Ah, Mr. Dillon. Who’s your friend?”

“Salter,” Billy said. “I look after him when he can’t look after himself.”

“Sorry I’m late, as it were,” Zubin said. “My security man was talking over old times. We were paratroopers together in Chechnya. Not exactly cheek to cheek. I was a captain in those days, he was a lieutenant. Big hero.”

“We know him well,” Billy said.

“How well?”

“Traded shots,” Dillon told him. “Are we coming in?”

“Of course. Levin’s okay in a strange way. He can’t take things seriously. He’s an actor.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Billy said. “Your new friend here went to RADA.”

Zubin positively glowed. “My goodness, I am impressed.”

“Well, don’t be,” Dillon told him. “I was waylaid by the IRA and took to the Theater of the Street, and a bloody awful role it was. Now let’s get serious. Do you feel like going for it?”

“By God, I do. I’ve been trapped, forced into another man’s skin, my moves monitored, my life. I’m a puppet. Volkov pulls my strings, I jump. I’m fifty years of age. Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life this way?”

“I shouldn’t imagine so.”

“But I’ve got no choice. In Paris the other year, I couldn’t make a break for it because of my mother. I can’t try and drop out of things here in London because of my mother. They use her, I know that, but Volkov also knows I would never let her down. You talked earlier of my return to Moscow and you bringing both of us out. Can this be possible?”

“It could be, but how would your mother feel about it?”

Zubin poured a little champagne. “For both our sakes and to get us out of this situation, she would come.”

“Excellent. Read this.” Dillon gave him Ferguson’s letter and poured himself a glass of champagne as well.

Zubin finished and handed him the letter back. “Yes, I understand.”

“You’re sure?”