“Mikhail, my mother’s driver, does he know, too?”

“That prick? No way. You’re all mine, Max.”

“But why are you telling me now?”

“Because, frankly, seeing you there on television with the President, the Prime Minister, all those toffs, it just doesn’t feel right. You getting all that attention and me getting nothing at all. I figured it was time to remind you who you are.”

“As if I could,” Zubin said.

“And as soon as you’ve signed that protocol of theirs tomorrow, you know what’s going to happen to you? It’s back to Station Gorky for you, that’s what – you and your mother.”

“Both of us? You’re sure about that?”

“I wouldn’t bet against me, Zubin.” They reached the limousine, he put the suitcase in the boot and opened the rear door. “So, in you get, big man. Enjoy your brief moment of fame.”

But Volkov had promised him fifteen minutes with his mother, and there was nothing Kurbsky could do about that. When Zubin rang the doorbell, his mother answered quickly. Her face lit up and she pulled him inside. “I saw you on television, with the President and the British Prime Minister. What a performance!”

She embraced him. He pushed her away gently and said urgently, “Shut up, Mama, I only have a few minutes. I’ve just discovered that Kurbsky is ex-KGB, working for the government. I’ve also discovered that after signing this wretched protocol tomorrow, I’m being shunted back to Siberia, and you with me.”

She was shocked. “Siberia! For God’s sake, no.”

“How would you like to leave with me tonight and fly to London to a new life?”

“What are you talking about?”

He told her quickly.

“So,” he said, “the RAF plane is booked out at seven-thirty. I’ll be back at seven. You must be ready. You can take nothing, only the clothes you’re wearing. If you won’t do this, then neither will I. We’ll go to Siberia together.”

Like hell we will.” She flung her arms around his neck. “London. God, it would be the most marvelous thing in the world to spend my final years there and know you were safe.”

“I’ll see you at seven, then.” He kissed her and there was a knock on the door. He opened it, found Kurbsky there, turned and kissed her hand. “Good night, Mama.”

“God bless you and good luck tomorrow.”

She closed the door and Zubin turned to Kurbsky, who was smiling cynically. “Right on time.”

“Only doing my job. Let’s get you to the Excelsior and tuck you in for the night. And don’t forget, I’ll be in a room down the hall.”

At the Excelsior, it was a reprise of the airport. Kurbsky parked in a lay-by at the front and carried Zubin’s suitcase in. The two doormen applauded; inside the two porters on reception clapped. The duty manager appeared to shake Zubin’s hand vigorously.

“Mr. Belov – wonderful, unbelievable. Let me get you your key. May I show you to your suite?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Zubin took the key. “Kurbsky can see to the suitcase,” and he walked to the lift.

As they went up, Kurbsky said, “It’s all gone to your head, hasn’t it?”

“If you say so.”

“They’ll knock that out of you when you get back to Siberia.” What he didn’t add was that after a proper interval, a convenient accident would be arranged for both of them, Max and Mama. Kurbsky opened the door. “In you go. You be a good boy.”

“If I’m not, it wouldn’t look good for you, would it?” Zubin said. “Imagine everyone there at the Kremlin, Putin and Volkov, waiting for the signing – but no Belov.” He smiled. “They’d hang you up by your balls.”

Kurbsky’s face contorted with rage. “Get in there, you bastard.” He pushed Zubin inside and threw his bag through. He slammed the door and locked it, then went down the hall to his room and found a bottle of vodka.

At the Belov Complex, the Citation X landed at five-thirty and taxied to its designated parking spot. Formalities were minimal, no security involved, diplomatic immunity absolute. They rolled to a halt and Lacey came back.

“This is how it works. There will be an Embassy limousine in the small VIP lot round the corner. They’ll be called shortly, drive out and pick up stuff we’ve brought from the UK and hand over stuff we’re taking back. They’re our people, so there’ll be no problems.”

“What about refueling?” Dillon asked.

“They’ll have a tanker out here in the next half hour.”

“We still haven’t heard from Zubin.”

“I’ll go and sign in, leave Parry with you.” He looked out at the runway, snow banked to each side. “Good, it’s starting to snow again, not too bad, just enough to confuse things.” He handed Dillon a raincoat. “I’d wear this if you want to venture out, and then dump it if you want to play your friend Levin.”

He turned and opened the Airstairs door and Dillon’s Codex Four rang.

Zubin, in his suite, had a couple of stiff vodkas to pep him up, then opened the briefcase, selected the Colt.25, which he put in his pocket, and then the other items. The handcuffs he laid on his coffee table with the canister of CS gas. There was also a roll of some sort of sticky tape. He took out the Codex Four and pressed the red button.

At Holland Park, Roper jumped to attention, for he’d just had a call from Dillon saying no contact had been made and that was worrying. He hadn’t needed to call Ferguson, for he and Harry were in the canteen and staying the night.

“Is that Roper?”

“Yes. What’s wrong, Max?”

“My cover has been broken. My chauffeur, Kurbsky, turns out to be ex-KGB and a Federal agent.”

“Is there nothing you can do?”

“Oh, yes. I’m not going to let that bastard spoil my greatest performance. I’m calling him to my room and then I’m going to tackle him. I just wanted you to know. If I’m successful I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes. If I’m not, it’s good night, Vienna.”

He switched off and Roper told Doyle, “Get the General at once. Tell him there’s been contact.”

In his room, the vodka flowing while he watched a porn movie, Kurbsky was furious at being disturbed by the room phone.

“Who is it?”

“Me, you pig.” Zubin was doing a very good drunk. “I just wanted to let you know what a piece of shit you are, Ivan. I mean, there’s shit and shit, but you really are something special.”

“You bastard,” Kurbsky cried. “I’ll show you. You need a lesson, you piece of Jewish-”

He was cut off, slammed down his phone, rushed down the hall, got Zubin’s key out and opened the door. But a hand grabbed him by the shirtfront, pulling him in. Zubin gave him the CS spray full in the face, kicked him expertly under the kneecap, yanked him forward and head-butted him like a pro. Kurbsky went down, moaning. Zubin turned him over, affixed one pair of plastic handcuffs to his wrists, the other to his ankles. He turned him on his back.

“I could kill you, but I won’t. Do you know why? Because when Volkov finds I’m gone, it’s you who he’ll send to Siberia, for the rest of your life. If you’re lucky.”

He tore off a piece of sticky tape and applied it to Kurbsky’s mouth, then phoned Roper and got an instant reply.

“Are you okay?” Roper demanded.

“Yes. I’ve taken care of him. I’m leaving now for my mother. I’ll let you know when I’ve got her. I’m out of here.”

He went through Kurbsky’s pockets, found the car keys, put the Colt in one jacket pocket, the Codex Four in the other, grabbed his raincoat and left.

Roper, who’d put everything on conference call so Ferguson and Harry could hear, said, “There he goes.”

“God help him,” Ferguson said.

At the front entrance cabs were delivering people constantly, the doorman busy. Zubin, dodging around, reached the limousine, unlocked the door and climbed in. Snow was falling now, rather pretty in the light of the streetlamps, and traffic not too busy. He reached his mother’s apartment block in fifteen minutes, left the car close to the main entrance and went upstairs. She answered the door at once, dressed in boots, a fur hat and coat, and embraced him.