There was a cheeky insolence to her, and Ivanov said, “What’s the problem?”

“The day maid, a bitch from Warsaw called Anya, has made a disgusting mess of the bed, so I’ve got to change it fast, because if the supervisor finds out, I’ll get sacked. Is it okay?”

“Of course it is.” He was excited, and then she looked beyond him, which made him turn, and there was Kurbsky leaning in his doorway, arms folded, smiling slightly.

“You appear to be in control of the situation. I’ll leave you to it.” He moved back and closed his door.

Ivanov went into his bedroom, which was incredibly elegant by the standards he was used to. There was a four-poster bed, a desk on one side of the room, a reasonable seating area on the other with two comfortable easy chairs, and a wardrobe area beside the connecting door to Kurbsky’s suite.

He was aroused, no question of that, and went and sat by the window, got himself a vodka miniature from the room bar, and waited. She returned with fresh sheets and attacked the bed, and Ivanov watched as she stretched and turned, her skirt rising over her thighs as she leaned to smooth the sheets.

He ran a hand up her right leg. She straightened. “Now, that is naughty.”

He stood, his hands all over her, turning her, kissing her passionately. She responded, but when he started to make free with his hands, she said, “No, not now, I’ve got things to do. Later, I’ll see you later.”

He pulled away. “Yes, I’m being silly. I’ve got to go next door for a while.”

“Is he a queer or something?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m supposed to guard him from a chair in the sitting room. It’s orders. He’s a very important man.”

“So you sit here all night?”

“Well, no. It’s a shift system with the other two, but they’ve gone out on the town at the moment.”

“Well, you’d better hope they get back in good condition so they can do their shift. I’m on till eight in the morning. Who knows?”

She plumped the pillows, turned down a corner of the duvet, patted his face, and walked out.

Ivanov took a deep breath, got up, knocked on the connecting door, opened it, and walked into Kurbsky’s sitting room. There was no sign of him, although the television was on. Kurbsky appeared in pajamas, wearing a hotel bathrobe.

“I said the chambermaids at the Ritz would excite you.”

“She’s a Ukrainian called Olga.”

Kurbsky was amused. “For some reason, I find that very funny. You poor bastard, duty before a good shag. I admire you. Go, get a drink from my bar and watch television. I’m for bed.”

IVANOV DID as he was told, had another vodka and then another, caught up in an old movie about French paratroopers in the Algerian War. Finally, he fell asleep in the armchair and came awake to find it was half past two. He went in the bathroom and splashed his face, then went and listened at the bedroom door. Everything was still, so he let himself out into the quiet corridor and tapped on Kokonin’s door. There was no response, and neither was there from Burlaka. He was bitterly angry, and then a staff door marked “Service” opened and Olga appeared.

“Looking for your friends? They arrived back an hour ago, drunken pigs both of them. They had to have a couple of porters bring them up and help them into their rooms. One was sick in his bathroom. The porters had to do a cleaning-up job. I’ve got a passkey if you want to take a look.”

“Yes, I would, if you don’t mind.”

In spite of the porters’ good work, there was a whiff of vomit in Kokonin’s room. Ivanov got out quickly and she let him into the next room, where Burlaka sprawled on his bed half naked, snoring hugely.

“Bastards,” Ivanov said. “A disgrace to the uniform. I hope they’ve caught the pox.”

It was very quiet there in the corridor at that time in the morning. He felt awkward and helpless, and it showed. She said, “Poor old boy.” She kissed him briefly.

“Careful, we’re probably on CCTV,” he told her.

“Not on this section of the corridor.” She took his hand. “Let me show you something.”

She opened the door marked “Service,” and he saw that it was a small room, shelved and stacked with bedding of every kind. “It’s nice in here, nice and warm, and cut off from everything, don’t you agree?”

When she closed the door, the light faded to a red glow and she was a creature of infinite mystery as she pushed him back onto a bolt of duvets, hoisted her uniform skirt, and straddled him. Her hands opened things up expertly, and it occurred to him that she had probably done this before and in the same place, but he didn’t care, didn’t care at all, and he simply lay there, allowing her to ride him.

And when it was over and she stood there adjusting her dress, he got up and tried to embrace her at the door and she pushed him away. “Oh, no, you’ve had your ration. Anyway, you’re not leaving till Thursday morning.”

“That’s true.”

“I’ve got a split shift tomorrow, half in the afternoon, half at night. So I don’t start till eleven. Sort your friends out over the guarding business and maybe I’ll sneak into your room.”

He was thrilled and showed it. “I’ll fix it, I promise you. They’ll have to do as they’re told, especially after tonight.”

She opened the door, led the way out, and he went back to the suite and let himself in. All was quiet, and he tiptoed through to his room, leaving the door open, took off his jacket and shoes and lay on the bed, suddenly conscious that he’d never been so happy in his life, smiled, and fell asleep.

DILLON SPENT the night with Monica at Dorset Street and they drove out to Farley Field together in his Mini. Ten o’clock was the departure time for the flight to Paris, and Ferguson had come to see them off, as Harry had with Billy. Lacey and Parry wore the kind of navy blue uniforms that pilots did the world over, with a little gold braid to sharpen it up. It wasn’t a good morning, bad March weather, and they stood under the golfing umbrellas that Lacey had produced and chatted.

“What can I say?” Ferguson smiled. “It should be an easy one. You’ll be back before you know it. That’s when the really important part of the job starts, the transformation of Alexander Kurbsky.”

Lacey led the way to the Chieftain, where Parry was already at the controls, and Ferguson and Harry walked with him. Monica went first, then Billy. Ferguson said to Dillon, “Paul Blériot is waiting at Charles de Gaulle. He’ll put you up, provide everything you need. A good man. You can depend on him.”

Dillon ducked in and sat on the other side of the aisle from Monica opposite Billy, and Lacey closed the airstair door and joined Parry in the cockpit.

“Who is Blériot?” Monica asked.

“Very old chum of Ferguson ’s. He’s his man in Paris when you need a helping hand.”

“Such as?”

“You’ll see.” He grinned at Billy. “Check that bar box, Billy, and see if they’ve slipped half a bottle of champagne in.”

Which they had, and Billy opened it and poured it into plastic cups. “So elegant,” Monica said.

“Just like a picnic.” Billy opened half a bottle of water.

“Well, let’s hope it stays a picnic.” Dillon toasted them: “To us.”

TH E FLIGHT was uneventful. The Chieftain landed and taxied to the private section of the airport, where they were off-loaded. Parry stayed at the controls and Lacey saw them out.

“ Saint-Denis tomorrow,” he said, and heaved up the airstair door.

They had light luggage only, but a porter insisted on earning his tip by carrying it on a trolley to security and then out to the pleasant-looking man in his sixties wearing a tweed cap and an old leather coat. His eyes were very blue and he smiled a lot.

“Lady Starling, a sincere pleasure. I’ve always been enchanted by beauty and brains.”