Fifteen minutes later, he sat back. “I don’t write thrillers.”

“It certainly reads like one.”

“And this is from the Prime Minister?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s the payoff?”

“Your sister’s released. She will be restored to life.”

“That’s one way of putting it. How do I know it will be honored?”

“The Prime Minister’s word.”

“Don’t make me laugh. He’s a politician. Since when do those guys keep their word?”

And Luzhkov said exactly the right thing. “She’s your sister. If that means anything, this is all you can do. It’s as simple as that. Better than nothing. You have to travel hopefully.”

“Fuck you,” Kurbsky said, “and fuck him.” But there was the hint of despair of a man who knew he had little choice. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Igor Vronsky. Does he mean anything to you?”

“Absolutely. The stinking bastard was in Chechnya and ran a story about my outfit. The Fifth Paratroop Company, the Black Tigers. We were pathfinders and special forces. He did radio from the front line, blew the whistle on a special op we were on, and the Chechens ambushed us. Fifteen good men dead. It’s in my book.”

“He’s working as a journalist in New York now. We want you to eliminate him, just to prove you mean business.”

“Just like that.”

“I believe you enjoyed a certain reputation in Chechnya. The smiler with a knife? An accomplished sniper and assassin who specialized in that kind of thing. A lone wolf, as they say. At least three high-ranking Chechen generals could testify to that.”

“If the dead could speak.”

“That story in On the Death of Men where the hero is parachuted behind the lines when he had never had training as a parachutist. Was it true? Did you?” Luzhkov was troubled in some strange way. “What kind of man would do such a thing?”

“One who in the hell that was Afghanistan decided he was dead already, a walking zombie, who survived to go home and found himself a year later knee-deep in blood in Chechnya. You can make of that what you will.”

“I’ll need to think about it. I’m not sure I understand.”

Kurbsky laughed. “Remember the old saying: Avoid looking into an open grave because you may see yourself in there. In those old Cold War spy books, you always had to have a controller. Would that be you?”

“Yes. I’m Head of Station for GRU at the London Embassy.”

“That’s good. I’ll like that. I had an old comrade in Chechnya who transferred to the GRU when I was coming to the end of my army time. Yuri Bounine. Could you find him and bring him in on this?”

“I’m sure that will be possible.”

“Excellent. So if you’re available, let’s get out of here and go and get something to eat.”

“An excellent idea.” Luzhkov led the way and said to the lieutenant, “The limousine is waiting, I presume? We’ll go back to my hotel.”

“Of course, Colonel.”

They followed him along the interminable corridors.

“They seem to go on forever,” Luzhkov observed. “A fascinating place, the Kremlin.”

“A rabbit warren,” Kurbsky said. “A man could lose himself here. A smiler with a knife could do well here.” He turned as they reached the door. “Perhaps the Prime Minister should consider that.”

He followed the lieutenant down the steps to the limousine, and Luzhkov, troubled, went after them.

OVER THE THREE weeks that followed, things flowed with surprising ease. They moved into a GRU safe house outside Moscow with training facilities. On the firing range, Kurbsky proved his skill and proficiency with every kind of weapon the sergeant major in charge could throw at him. Kurbsky had forgotten nothing of his old skills.

Yuri Bounine, by now a GRU captain, was plucked from the monotony of posing as a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy in Dublin, where he was promoted to major and assigned to London, delighted to be reunited with his old friend.

Kurbsky embraced him warmly when he arrived. “You’ve put on weight, you bastard.” He turned to Luzhkov. “Look at him. Gold spectacles, always smiling, the look of an aging cherub. Yet we survived Afghanistan and Chechnya together. He’s got medals.”

Again he hugged Bounine, who said, “And you got famous. I read On the Death of Men five times and tried to work out who was me.”

“In a way, they all were, Yuri.”

Bounine flushed, suddenly awkward. “So what’s going on?”

“That’s for Colonel Luzhkov to tell you.”

Which Luzhkov did in a private interview. Later that day, Bounine found Kurbsky in a corner booth in the officers’ bar and joined him. A bottle of vodka was on the table and several glasses in crushed ice. He helped himself.

“Luzhkov has filled me in.”

“So what do you think?” Kurbsky asked.

“Who am I to argue with the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation?”

“You know everything? About my sister?”

Bounine nodded. “May I say one thing on Putin’s behalf? He wasn’t responsible for what happened to your sister. It was before his time. He sees an advantage in it, that’s all.”

“A point of view. And Vronsky?”

“A pig. I’d cut his throat myself if I had the chance.”

“And you look like such a kind man.”

“I am a kind man.”

“So tell me, Yuri, how’s your wife?”

“Ah.” Bounine hesitated. “She died, Alex. Leukemia.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. She was a good woman.”

“Yes, she was. But it’s been a while now, Alex, and my sister has produced two lovely girls-so I’m an uncle!”

“Excellent. Let’s drink to them. And to New York.” They clinked glasses. “And to the Black Tigers, may they rest in peace,” Kurbsky said. “We’re probably the only two left.”

NEW YORK CAME and New York went. The death of Igor Vronsky received prominent notice in The New York Times and other papers, but in spite of his books and his vigorous anti-Kremlin stance, there was no suspicion that this was a dissident’s death. It seemed the normal kind of mugging, a knife to the chest, the body stripped of everything worth having.

On the day following his death, Monica Starling and George Dunkley flew back to Heathrow, where Dunkley had a limousine waiting to take them back to Cambridge. She hadn’t breathed a word about what had happened between her and Kurbsky, but Dunkley hadn’t stopped talking about him during the flight. It had obviously affected him deeply. She kissed him on the cheek.

“Off you go, George. Try and make it for High Table. They’ll all be full of envy when they hear of your exploits.”

There was no sign of her brother’s official limousine from the Cabinet Office or of Dillon. She wasn’t pleased, and then Billy Salter’s scarlet Alfa Romeo swerved to the curb and he slid from behind the wheel, and Dillon got out of the passenger seat.

He came around and embraced her, kissing her lightly on the mouth. “My goodness, girl, there’s a sparkle to you. You’ve obviously had a good time.”

Billy was putting her bags in the trunk. “A hell of a time, from what I heard.”

“You know?” she said to Dillon. “About my conversation with Kurbsky?”

“What Roper knows, we all end up knowing.” He ushered her into the backseat of the Alfa and followed her. “ Dover Street, Billy.”

It was the family house in Mayfair where her brother lived. “Is Harry okay?” she asked as they drove away.

“Nothing to worry about, but he’s been overdoing it, so the doctor has given him his marching orders. He’s gone down to the country to Stokely Hall to stay with Aunt Mary for a while. Anyway, this Kurbsky business has got Ferguson all fired up. He’d like to hear it all from your own fair lips, so we’re going to take you home, wait for you to freshen up, then join Ferguson for dinner at the Reform Club. Seven-thirty, but if we’re late, we’re late.”

“So go on, tell us all about it,” Billy said over his shoulder.

“Alexander Kurbsky was one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever met,” she said. “End of story. You’ll have to wait.”