Ivanov had it all worked out and led the way. At that point, Kurbsky realized he was clutching a box of Moroccan leather in his right hand and had been for some time. He looked at it, puzzled, then realized what it was and opened it, unpinned the Legion of Honor from his lapel, and put it inside.

“You shouldn’t take it off, you should wear it with pride,” Ivanov said, but Kurbsky put it in his pocket and they pushed through the crowds, got plates at the buffet, and took their turn. It was hardly worth it, for people, as people do in crowds, were tending to become difficult. He managed a few sausage rolls, then said to Ivanov, “I’ve had enough. Let’s have a drink.”

They found the champagne bar and had a glass, and the Foreign Legion colonel found them. “Where is it-you haven’t lost it already?”

“No, it’s in my pocket.”

The colonel took a glass of champagne himself. “Mind you, I suppose it’s just another gong to you. You must have earned plenty.”

“And you,” Kurbsky said politely.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s all about?”

“Every day of my life.” Kurbsky emptied the second glass of champagne Ivanov had handed him and said, “Good night, it’s been a sincere sensation.” He patted the colonel on the shoulder and turned to Ivanov. “Let’s go.”

THEY FOUND THE Mercedes and the others and left, reaching the Ritz at ten-thirty. He dismissed the driver and went inside. Ivanov said, “A drink, perhaps?”

“No, I’ve had enough. To be frank, I want my bed. If two of you lads want to have something, feel free, but I’m going to the suite. Who’s coming with me?”

Ivanov helped things along, impatient for the joys of Olga to come. “It’s been a big night and one I’ll always remember, but I’m ready for bed now too.”

Kokonin said, “Well, in the circumstances, I’ll take the first half of the night, if that’s all right with you,” he told Kurbsky.

“Fine by me. We’ll go up, then.” They all got in the elevator and went up together.

In the suite, Kurbsky went to his bedroom and left Kokonin to settle himself in the sitting room. He decided against locking the double door leading into Ivanov’s room, because if Ivanov wanted to see him for some reason, finding the door locked might give him pause for thought.

The television was on in the sitting room, he was aware of that, and he opened the door of the bedroom a crack to listen. He was all worked up and impatient. He checked his watch and saw it was ten forty-five. If he was early at the station, what did it matter? It was a waste of time and opportunity to wait like this. He took his jacket off and put the bathrobe on and walked out into the sitting room. Kokonin had a movie on and glanced up in surprise.

He started to move, and Kurbsky said, “Don’t get up, I just want something from the room bar.”

Kokonin eased down again. Kurbsky passed behind him, turned and delivered a rabbit punch to the neck with extended knuckles, then, as Kokonin moaned, held him with one hand and squeezed his thumb into the carotid artery, until Kokonin slouched over the arm of the big easy chair.

Kurbsky darted into the bedroom, tearing off the bathrobe, revealing a silenced Walther in a belt clip at the small of his back. He pulled on his jacket, took his leather coat out of the wardrobe, went to the door of the suite, and opened it. The corridor was quiet. He moved out, locked the door, and in seconds was at the door opening to the stairway. Four flights down, and he’d never descended stairs so quickly in his life. He emerged into the foyer and walked straight out of the hotel door. It was raining hard now, but there was the taxi rank.

At that moment, Olga, with thoughts of her split shift starting at eleven and Ivanov waiting, was hurrying to the staff door. Seeing Kurbsky, she paused in the shadows, felt puzzled. The doorman offered him his umbrella.

“Taxi, sir, where to?” They walked to the first cab.

“Gare du Nord,” Kurbsky said.

“And which gate, sir?”

“Midnight express to Brest.”

“That would be gate three,” the porter told the driver, opening the door for Kurbsky and accepting the tip he gave him.

The taxi drove away and Olga, still puzzled, went in through the staff entrance and clocked in for her shift.

In the taxi, Kurbsky took out his mobile and called Monica. She was already on the train, sitting in one of the private compartments with Dillon and Billy.

“Alex, where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m on my way in a taxi. Everything’s worked like a charm. I know I’m early, but I couldn’t wait.”

“I don’t think that matters. We’ll see you soon.”

She clicked off, smiling hugely at Dillon and Billy. “He’s on his way.”

“Well, that’s great,” Dillon said. “We’ll go and meet him together. Let’s get moving.”

THE MIDNIGHT EXPRESS

7

At the Ritz, Olga clocked in, then went to the women’s staff room, opened her locker, undressed, and changed into staff uniform. She reported to the supervisor and then went up to her station on the fourth floor. It was just after eleven when she went into the linen room, still puzzled about Kurbsky. Then she wondered about Ivanov. Was he even there? There was one way to find out. She went and knocked on his door lightly, then used her passkey.

He was lying on the bed, jacket off, propped up against pillows, watching television, and sat up with a smile, swinging his feet to the floor.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” He took a quick step, enfolded her in his arms, and kissed her passionately. She pulled away. “When I saw your boss leave the hotel, I wondered what was going on. I wasn’t even sure you’d be here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Kurbsky. I saw him getting a taxi downstairs on my way in.”

He shook his head. “But that’s impossible.”

“It was him, all right. Ask the doorman. He got him the taxi. It was to the Gare du Nord. I heard quite clearly. The porter asked which gate, and your boss said he wanted the midnight express to Brest, and the porter said gate three.”

Ivanov turned, ran to the interconnecting door to the suite, opened it, and rushed in. Kokonin was leaning over in the chair, holding his head in his hands and groaning. Ivanov pulled his hands away and shook him.

“What happened?”

“I was watching television. He came in, said he wanted a drink from the room bar, and passed behind me. He must have punched me or something. I just blacked out. I only opened my eyes a minute or so ago. Where is he?”

“Gone. Cleared off. Olga here saw him leaving the hotel and getting a taxi.” He turned to Olga, who stood in the doorway. “Get my friend from his room. If he’s undressed, tell him to get his clothes on again and come and join us.”

“What is it?” she demanded. “What in the hell has happened?”

“My boss has decided to defect, that’s what’s happened, and if he gets away with it, me and my friends might as well defect too, because if we go back to Moscow without him, we’ll end up in some gulag in Siberia. Go and get the other guy.”

She went, and Ivanov pushed Kokonin into the bathroom. “Take your shirt off quickly. Come on, I’ll give you one of my shirts. You haven’t got time for a full shower, but a few minutes with your head under the cold spray will help.” He opened the shower door and turned it on ice cold. Kokonin did as he was told, leaning in and then withdrawing and toweling himself dry. Ivanov went and got a fresh shirt for him, and as he was pulling it on, Olga came back.

“Your other pal was in his pajamas, but he’s dressing as fast as he can. Is this bad for you?”

“Not if we can get him back.”

“Do you think that’s possible?”

He glanced at his watch. “Eleven-fifteen and the train leaves at midnight. How long does it take to reach the Gare du Nord?”