“So it’s a standoff,” Ashimov said. “There’s nothing the Brits can do about it and we keep the world financial markets happy.”

“There’s more to it than that. This organization that Ferguson runs, the so-called Prime Minister’s Private Army. Such typical British hypocrisy. They’ve been committing murders for years and getting away with it. Dillon’s record speaks for itself. Well, the President thinks we should lance the boil, as it were.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“Yes. Total elimination of Ferguson’s team once and for all. The General himself, his personal assistant, this Superintendent Bernstein, Dillon of course, and these Salter people, the London gangsters who’ve been helping him out during the last few years. While you’re at it, perhaps Cazalet’s man, too, Blake Johnson. Another thorough nuisance.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ashimov said.

“It’s a tall order, I know, but already started in a way. That woman Bernstein you ran down in London, she’s in a medical facility Ferguson runs in Saint John’s Wood. It would be a good start to things if you could find some means of easing her on.”

“As you say, Comrade.” Ashimov wasn’t troubled in the slightest by the thought.

“Good,” Volkov said. “I leave it all in your capable hands. I’ve left you, Major Novikova, on the books of the London Embassy as a commercial attaché. It will bring you diplomatic immunity, although I’m certain Ferguson won’t make a move against you. At the worst, they could only ask you to leave. Captain Levin will have a similar situation at the Embassy to act as backup. The appropriate documentation is in the file on my desk.” He turned to Ashimov. “I would think it prudent for you not to return to London, if only because Dillon would attempt retribution.”

“As you say, Comrade.”

“Igor will take you to see Max Zubin to make certain he knows what is expected of him. Spend the night, then return to Ireland tomorrow. Igor will go with you. I envy you your inevitable success. I don’t think there’s anything more.”

But there was, for at that very moment a secret door in the wall swung open and President Putin walked in.

They all leaped to their feet, for it was an astonishing moment. Putin wore a tracksuit, a towel around his neck.

“You must excuse me, Comrades. Affairs of state got in the way of my hour in the gym this morning, so I’ve been making up for it. Good to see you again, Major Ashimov. You must be feeling like a cat at the moment, a tomcat, naturally.”

“Very much so, Comrade President.”

Putin turned to Greta. “Major Novikova.” He offered his hand. “I hear good things about you, even if you are GRU.”

It was his little joke, a reference to the intense rivalry between the KGB, to which he had once belonged, and GRU Military Intelligence.

Greta said, “It would have been an honor to have served under you.”

“Yes, well, in Afghanistan, this one did.” He tapped Ashimov on the shoulder. “And Captain Levin, the boy wonder.” He swiveled to look at Volkov. “All of us served, in good times and in bad – served Russia and each other. I expect nothing less from you in this present matter.”

There was a moment’s silence. Ashimov said, “It would be our honor.”

Putin nodded, turned to Volkov and handed him an envelope. “There is what you asked for. Read it.”

Volkov opened the envelope and took out a document, which he unfolded.

“Aloud, please.”

“From the Office of the President of the Russian Federation at the Kremlin. The bearer of this letter acts with my full authority. All personnel, civil or military, will assist in any way demanded. Signed, Vladimir Putin.”

“It may help, it may not. It’s in your hands now.” Putin stepped behind the secret door and it swung noiselessly back into place. It was as if he had never been.

Volkov replaced the letter in the envelope and gave it to Ashimov. “Such power. You must guard it well. Now, on your way.”

He turned, opened the secret door and disappeared as completely as had his master.

“So there we are,” Ashimov said. “What happens now?”

“I’m taking you out,” Igor said. “There’s a very acceptable nightclub called the Green Parrot. It’s owned by the Mafia, but they know me.”

“There is a purpose to this, I presume?”

“You want to see Max Zubin perform, don’t you?”

On the way to the club, it was Greta who said, “We’re being followed.”

“Good for you, but it’s all right. They’re my people. They’ll arrange Zubin’s onward transportation to Station Gorky.”

“I don’t understand,” Greta said. “If Zubin is so important, why is he allowed to have so free a life? To perform in public and so on?”

“Because of his mother,” Ashimov told her. “Bella Zubin.”

Greta was astounded. “The actress?”

“The great actress,” Ashimov said. “One of Russia’s finest. Unfortunately, she dabbled too much in politics and was sent to the Gulag.”

“I thought she was dead.”

“No, very much alive at eighty-five and living in a comfortable condominium by the river. Her son would not wish to see her returned to a more uncomfortable situation. That’s why we could trust him not to make a run for it when he was playing Belov in Paris the other year.”

Greta shook her head. “I remember seeing her play the Queen in Hamlet when I was a little girl. She was wonderful.”

“It’s a hard life, Greta,” Ashimov said, “but some things are more important.”

The Green Parrot was up a side street in an old brownstone house, a neon sign advertising the fact over an arched doorway. Levin parked outside and the doorman stepped out.

“You can’t park there. Clear off.”

The other limousine pulled in behind them and three men in black leather coats got out. The doorman took one look and hurriedly backed off.

“Sorry, Comrades.” He opened the door behind him, the three men went in first and Levin, Ashimov and Greta followed.

The club was small, curiously old-fashioned, a little like some joint in one of those cinema noir, black-and-white thrillers from the Hollywood of the forties. The headwaiter even wore a white tuxedo as if doing an impersonation of Rick in Casablanca. He turned, saw Levin and his party, and his face fell.

The tables were crowded, but one of Levin’s men brushed past the headwaiter as he came forward, ignored the bearded man at the microphone who seemed to have the audience in stitches with his humor, and leaned down to a table of five people in the front, three women, two men. Whatever he said was enough. They vacated the table at once and moved away.

The man at the microphone said, “I know I can be bad, but this is ridiculous.”

Levin called, “Max, you’re looking good. How about the piano? ‘A Foggy Day in London Town.’ You know how I love all those old numbers. Let’s all cheer for Fred Astaire. The Yanks are our friends now.”

He sat down with Ashimov and Greta; the three minders stood against the wall.

Max Zubin shook his head and, waving at the audience, said, “The GRU, my friends, what do you expect? My master calls and I obey.”

He went to the piano at the back of the stage, a baby grand. A drummer and a double bass player were already there, and Zubin sat down and started a driving, complex version of “Foggy Day” that wouldn’t have been out of place in any great piano bar in London or New York.

Levin called the headwaiter over. “Vodka, on the house, and don’t forget the boys behind me.”

“It is my pleasure, Captain.”

“And a little beluga on toast, the way I like it.”

“Of course.”

There was a roar of applause as Zubin finished and Levin stood up, clapping. “Marvelous,” he called. “More.”

Zubin moved into “Night and Day” and waiters appeared hurriedly with glasses of vodka on a tray, each glass in a larger glass with crushed ice, one waiter handing them out to the security guards, the other to the party at the table, the third distributing the beluga caviar.