Luzhkov said, “I don’t give a damn about the bloody boat. My problem is Ali Selim. You should have shot him.”

“Frankly, in his unbalanced state, I consider myself lucky to have got off his barge in one piece.”

“Then you must go back.”

“And say please can I have the tape, and then shoot him? This is nonsense, Colonel. If you want the tape, you must face him.”

Luzhkov was looking increasingly desperate. “All right, but you must come with me. You must find an opportunity to shoot him.” He poured a vodka with a shaking hand and swallowed it down. He took a deep breath. “I order you, Bounine.”

It was a defining moment for Yuri Bounine, an epiphany. He was tired, so tired and sick of the whole business, of the GRU and men like Boris Luzhkov and Putin and the bleak prospect of a return to Moscow to serve a system that had treated Alexander Kurbsky the way it had. This man was part of it, a man to whom others were completely unimportant, who considered only his own self-interest.

He glanced at his watch and said, “Right, Colonel, I’ll do as you say, but I’ve things to do. We’ll leave in twenty minutes.”

He went straight to his quarters, locked the door, went into the bathroom, and called Kurbsky on his mobile phone. “Please, please answer, Alex. If there’s a God in heaven, make him answer.”

And in Wapping, sitting in the Ford beside a decaying warehouse looking out over the Thames, Kurbsky was aware of the tremble and answered. “Is that you, Yuri? What’s happening?”

So Bounine told him.

WHEN THE STORY was finished, Kurbsky said, “It’s a hell of a pickle, Yuri. India Wharf. I’ll find where it is, and you and that bastard Luzhkov make your way there and we’ll meet up.”

“Do we speak to Ferguson or somebody like that?”

“They’re busy with the boat. Meanwhile, this Ali Selim is sitting waiting for you at India Wharf. We’ll simply make sure he doesn’t get to leave.”

AT CADOGAN PIER there was a kind of confusion, a buildup of traffic and people as guests started to arrive, and that bad March weather swept in across the Thames, reducing visibility considerably.

Ferguson was elsewhere, aiding the Prime Minister with the consultations being held by the Big Four at Downing Street, but Dillon and Monica were already on board the Garden of Eden, with Harry Salter cracking the whip over the management and crew.

Dillon left Monica in the lower lounge area, and he and Billy traveled the boat from stem to stern and deck by deck with a clutch of security and Secret Service people in tow, headed by a Colonel John Henry, who was directly responsible for the Vice President. The three of them finally ended on the bridge, where they found the Captain, Arthur Henderson, wearing an obviously brand-new uniform for the occasion.

It was Billy he addressed. “Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Salter?”

“It bleeding well is,” Billy told him. “A tight ship, Captain Henderson. My uncle will be well pleased.”

“And you gentlemen?” Henderson turned to Dillon and Henry.

“There isn’t a door that hasn’t been opened three or four times,” said Henry. “My only regret is the weather.”

“March, you see, Colonel, and when it rains on the Thames, it rains, believe me. I’m afraid it will get worse before it gets better.”

It was already pouring, with enough wind to drive it across the river in a gray curtain, making the view of the other side vague and ill defined. Billy looked down to the decks.

“Well, you’ve rolled out all the canopies you can. They can stand out under those, enjoying their drinks, when it gets too crowded inside.”

Down below on the approach to the pier, limousines were delivering guests and umbrellas were everywhere, as people pressed toward the pier, hurrying to get out of the rain.

“I must see how my boys are getting on,” Colonel Henry said, and left.

“Big day, Captain,” Billy said. “My uncle takes it very seriously.”

“So do we all, Mr. Salter.”

Billy led the way, Dillon followed, and they arrived at the deck lounge and bar. There was music playing, a jazz quartet set up on a dais in one corner, plenty of roving waiters on hand in white monkey jackets already offering champagne to early arrivals. Monica came toward them.

“Is everything okay?”

“Tight as a drum.” Dillon took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and handed her one. “Here’s to smooth sailing.”

“Here’s to the Big Four producing an accord that’s really going to make things better in Gaza,” Monica said.

“Well, it would be nice to think so.” Dillon managed a diplomatic smile. “Here’s to us, anyway.”

Harry arrived, and he was agitated. “Look at it, the bleeding weather, and where are we going to put them all?”

“Don’t worry, that’s why we have deck canopies,” Billy told him. “They can stand outside.”

Harry reached for a champagne himself. “I suppose so, if worse comes to worst.” He looked thoughtful. “I was wondering,” he said, “do you think I ought to put up one of those plaques commemorating today?”

Dillon laughed out loud, and Monica reached over and kissed Harry on the forehead. “I’ve said it before, Harry-you are a one-off.”

AT CHAMBER COURT, Katya and Svetlana sat in the conservatory discussing the Kurbsky situation.

“Do you really think he will return to us tonight?” Svetlana asked.

“I desperately hope so.”

“A new beginning for him perhaps?” Svetlana nodded. “Or should I say another new beginning. When you consider his life, his childhood, his time with Kelly and me here in Belsize must have been a special experience for him, a release from the Communist regime that had damned his life.”

Katya sighed. “All snatched away by his father’s wickedness.”

“No, my dear, that’s too simple. Yes, my brother was corrupted by his political beliefs, and his position in the KGB was more important to him than his children, but everything in this sorry business stemmed from Tania’s behavior. She was a wild child who was indulged by her father, and became even wilder as a student. The consequences we know. If she hadn’t involved herself in the student uprising of ’eighty-nine, had stayed home, Alexander would have carried on here, would never have found the military and undergone the appalling experiences of Afghanistan and Chechnya.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“But enough, I think. Let’s turn on the television and see what’s happening with the Big Four.”

KURBSKY FOUND India Wharf with no trouble, in a decaying area of dockland just twenty minutes downriver from Wapping. He braked on the edge of the basin, taking in the situation quickly-the barge, the motorboats, and the Running Dog berthed inside the archway.

He already had a Walther in the right-hand pocket of his coat. He quickly opened the secret compartment in his bag and found the.25 Colt. He couldn’t put on an ankle holster, the French paratroop boots were too high, and he had the gutting knife hidden in the right one. He slipped the Colt into the belt at the small of his back and got out.

There was the roar of an engine and the Running Dog reversed out of the archway, a man standing at the wheel. He smiled. “Hello there, what can I do for you?”

This had to be Ali Selim. Kurbsky knew that because Bounine had mentioned the orange boat and its strange name.

“I seem to be lost-it’s like a maze back there.”

The Running Dog taxied in beside the barge, and Ali Selim cut the engine and looped a line on a stanchion. He stepped across to the rear deck of the barge, and from there to the wharf.

“Where were you looking for?”

Kurbsky couldn’t think of a thing to say except Wapping High Street.

Ali had taken a pack of cigarettes out and was lighting one. “Hah, you couldn’t be more out of the way, man.” He walked forward two steps very fast and pushed Kurbsky off the wharf into the water.