“Please to follow me, Colonel.”

Luzhkov had never been to Putin’s suite in his entire career, and he followed in a kind of awe, one gloomy corridor after another, the decorations finally becoming more ornate, oil paintings in gold frames on walls. Everything was subdued, no sign of people, not even an echoing voice. And then they turned left and discovered two individuals in good suits seated in high chairs on either side of a large gilded door. Each of them had a machine pistol on a small table by his right hand. They showed not the slightest emotion as the lieutenant opened the door and ushered Luzhkov through.

The room was a delight: paneled walls painted in seventeenth-century style, heavily gilded furniture of the correct period, portraits of what were probably obscure tsars confronting each other across the room, a large ornate desk in the center.

“It’s very beautiful,” Luzhkov said. “Astonishing.”

“This was General Volkov’s private office,” the lieutenant informed him. The use of the past tense confirmed Luzhkov’s misgivings. “The Prime Minister will be with you directly. Help yourself to a drink.”

He withdrew, and Luzhkov, in a slight daze, moved to the sideboard bearing a collection of bottles and vodka in an ice bucket. He opened the bottle, filled a glass, and drank it.

“It’s going to be all right,” he murmured. “Just hang on to that thought.” He turned, glass in hand, as a secret door in the wall behind the desk opened and Vladimir Putin entered. “Comrade Prime Minister,” Luzhkov stammered.

“Very old-fashioned of you, Colonel. Sit down. My time is limited.” He sat himself, and Luzhkov faced him. “You’ve read my report.”

“Every word.”

“A great tragedy, the loss of General Volkov. My most valued security adviser.”

“Can he be replaced, Comrade Prime Minister?”

“I shall handle as much as I can myself, but on the ground, I need a safe pair of hands, particularly in London. You will now be reporting directly to me. You agree?”

“It’s… it’s an honor,” Luzhkov stammered.

“More and more, London is our greatest stumbling block in intelligence matters. We must do something about it. These people- Ferguson, Dillon, those London gangsters of theirs, the Salters. What is your opinion of them?”

“The London gangster as a species is himself alone, Comrade Prime Minister. I’ve employed them myself, although they wrap themselves in the Union Jack and praise the Queen at the drop of a hat.”

“This Miller has suddenly become a major player. Do you think they’ll appoint him to Carter’s post?”

“I don’t see him wanting the job. More likely, it’ll be Lord Arthur Tilsey. He held that post years ago, and was awarded his peerage for it. He’s seventy-two, but still very sharp, and he’s old friends with Ferguson. He’ll do for the interim at least.”

“And Miller’s sister, Lady Starling. You think there is something in this attachment with Dillon?”

“It would seem so.”

Putin nodded. “All right. It is clear we need to infiltrate this group, people at the highest level of security in the British system. You’ve read my suggestion. What do you think?”

“Alexander Kurbsky? An astonishing idea, Comrade Prime Minister. He is so… infamous.”

“Exactly. Just like in the Cold War days, he defects. Who on earth would doubt him? It fits like a glove. The UN wants him for some gathering in New York. Lady Starling will also be there. All Kurbsky has to do is approach her and turn on the charm. A colossal talent, a much-decorated war hero, and handsome to boot-he can’t go wrong. She’s the key; her links to her brother and Ferguson and now Dillon-they make everything possible. If she passes the information to her friends, they’ll think of Paris, and the right arrangements will be put in hand, I’m certain of it.

“But Luzhkov-make sure you don’t tell his GRU minders in Paris what’s going on. His escape must at all times appear genuine to the British. If the minders fall by the wayside, so be it.”

“Of course,” Luzhkov said hastily.

“Finally, Kurbsky makes it clear that his defection attracts no publicity. He will demand a guarantee of that. Otherwise, he won’t do it.”

“And you think Ferguson and company will accept that?”

“Absolutely, because he knows what jackals the British press are. We stay quiet about the whole matter, but all our security systems go through the motions of trying to recover him. As far as the general public knows, he’s working away somewhere, faded from view. Any questions?”

“I was just wondering… this suggestion regarding the journalist Igor Vronsky in New York? That Kurbsky eliminate him?”

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” Luzhkov said hastily. “I was just wondering, would this set a precedent? I mean, would that kind of thing be part of his remit?”

“If you mean would I expect him to assassinate the Queen of England, I doubt it. On the other hand, should a more tempting target present itself, who knows? I doubt it would bother him too much. He was in the death business for long enough, and in my experience few people really change in this life. Was there anything else?”

“Only that everything hinges on him actually agreeing to this plan, Comrade Prime Minister.”

Putin smiled. “Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem, Luzhkov. In fact, I expect him any minute now. I’ll leave him to you.”

And he disappeared back behind the secret door. Moments later, the door behind Luzhkov opened and Alexander Kurbsky entered, the GRU lieutenant hard on his heels.

AN HOUR EARLIER, Kurbsky had been delivered to the same rear door of the Kremlin by Military Police. Although he had been drinking when they picked him up at his hotel, he’d been enough in control to realize that when the Kremlin was mentioned, it meant serious business. He’d been led into a small anteroom next to the main office, with chairs and a TV in the corner.

He said, “All right, I bore easily, so what is this about?”

The lieutenant gave him the DVD. “Watch this. I’ll be back.” He opened the door and paused. “I’m a great fan.”

The door closed behind him. Kurbsky frowned, examining the DVD, then he went and inserted it, produced a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and sat down. The screen flickered. A voice quoted a lengthy number and then said, “Subject Tania Kurbsky, aged seventeen, born Moscow.” He straightened, stunned, as he saw Tania, his beloved sister, gaunt, hair close-cropped, with sunken cheeks. The voice droned on about a court case, five dead policemen in a riot, seven students charged and shot. Tania Kurbsky had been given a special dispensation obtained because of her father, Colonel Ivan Kurbsky of the KGB. Instead of execution, she’d been sentenced to life, irrevocable, to be served at Station Gorky in Siberia, about as far from civilization as it was possible to get. She was still living, aged thirty-six. There followed a picture that barely resembled her, a gaunt careworn woman old before her time. The screen went dark. Kurbsky got up slowly, ejected the DVD and stood looking at it, then turned, went to the door, and kicked it.

After a while, it was unlocked and the lieutenant appeared. One of the guards stood there, machine pistol ready. Kurbsky said, “Where do I go?”

“Follow me.” Which Kurbsky did.

IN THE NEXT room, he looked Luzhkov over. “And who would you be?” Behind him, the lieutenant smiled.

“Colonel Boris Luzhkov, GRU. I’m acting under Prime Minister Putin’s orders. You’ve just missed him. How are you?”

“For a man who’s just discovered that the dead can walk, I’m doing all right. I’ll be better if I have a drink.” He went to the cabinet and had two large vodka shots, then he cursed. “So get on with it. I presume there’s a purpose to all this.”

“Sit down and read this.” Luzhkov pushed the file across the desk, and Kurbsky started.