“Get out of it. You’re just trying to make Dillon jealous.”

“Just carry on, driver, and watch the road.” She pulled Dillon’s right arm around her and eased into him, smiling.

IT WAS A quiet evening at the Reform Club, the restaurant only half full. Ferguson had secured a corner table next to a window, with no one close, which gave them privacy. Ferguson wore the usual Guards tie and pin-striped suit, his age still a closely kept secret, his hair white, face still handsome.

The surprise was Roper in his wheelchair, wearing a black velvet jacket and a white shirt with a knotted paisley scarf at the neck.

“Well, this is nice, I must say.” She kissed Roper on the forehead and rumpled his tousled hair. “Are you well?”

“All the better for seeing you.”

She wore the Valentino suit from New York, and Ferguson obviously approved. “My word, you must have gone down well at the Pierre.” He kissed her extravagantly on both cheeks.

“You’re a charmer, Charles. A trifle glib on occasion, but I like it.”

“And you’ll like the champagne. It’s Dom Pérignon-Dillon can argue about his Krug another time.”

The wine waiter poured, remembering from previous experiences to supply Billy with ginger ale laced with lime. Ferguson raised his glass and toasted her. “To you, my dear, and to what seems to have been a job well done.” He emptied his glass and motioned the wine waiter to refill it. “Now, for God’s sake, tell us what happened.”

WHEN MONICA WAS finished, there were a few moments of silence and it was Billy who spoke first. “What’s he want, and I mean really want? This guy’s got everything, I’d have thought. Fame, money, genuine respect.”

“But is that enough?” Dillon said. “From what Monica says, he’s lacking genuine freedom. So the system’s different from the Cold War days, but is it really? I liked his description of himself to you, Monica, about being like a bear on a chain. In Russia he’s trapped by his fame, by who he is. In the cage, if you like. The Ministry of Arts controls his every move because they themselves are controlled right up to the top. From a political point of view, he’s a national symbol.”

Ferguson said, “Obviously, I’ve read his work and I’m familiar with his exploits. It all adds up to a human being who hasn’t the slightest interest in being a symbol to anyone.”

“He just wants to be free,” Monica agreed. “At present, every move he makes is dictated by others. He’s flown privately when visiting abroad, he’s carefully watched by GRU minders, his every move is monitored.”

“So let him claim asylum here,” Billy said. “Would he be denied?”

“Of course not,” Ferguson said. “But he’s got to get here first. This Paris affair, the Legion of Honor presentation, presents an interesting possibility.”

“They’d be watching him like a hawk,” Dillon said. “And there’s another problem. You know what the French are like. Very fussy about foreigners causing a problem on their patch, and that applies big-time to Brit intelligence.”

“Still, it looks to me like a straightforward kidnap job with a willing victim,” Billy said. “It’s once he’s here that he’d need looking after. They’d do something even if they couldn’t get him back. How many Russian dissidents have come to a bad end in London? Litvinenko poisoned and two cases of guys falling from the terraces of apartment blocks, and that was in the same year.”

Roper beckoned the wine waiter. “A very large single-malt. I leave the choice to your own good judgment.” He smiled at the others. “Sorry, but the joys of champagne soon pall for me.”

“Feel free, Major,” Ferguson said. “I notice that you haven’t made a contribution in this matter.”

“Concerning Kurbsky?” Roper held out his hand and accepted the waiter’s gift of the single-malt. He savored it for a moment, then swallowed it down. “Excellent. I’ll have another.”

“Don’t you have any comment?” Monica asked.

“Oh, I do. I’d like to meet his aunt, this Svetlana Kelly. Yes, that’s what I’d like to do. Chamber Court, a late-Victorian house on Belsize Park. I looked it up.”

“Any particular reason?” Ferguson said.

“To find out what he’s like.”

“Don’t you mean ‘was’ like?” Monica asked. “As I understand it, she last saw him in 1989. When you think of what he’s gone through since then, I’d suppose him to be completely different.”

“On the contrary. I’ve always been of the opinion that people don’t really change, not in any fundamental way. Anyway, I’ll go to see her tomorrow, if you approve, General?”

“Whatever you say.”

Monica jumped in. “Would it be all right if I came with you? I don’t need to be back in Cambridge till Friday.”

“No, that’s fine. I don’t think we should overwhelm her.”

Dillon said, “Old Victorian houses aren’t particularly wheelchair friendly.”

“I’ll phone in advance. If there’s a problem, perhaps we can meet somewhere else.”

“Fine. I’ll leave it in your hands,” Ferguson said. “Now, I don’t know about you lot, but I’m starving, so let’s get down to the eating part of the business.”

LATER, THEY WENT their separate ways. Sergeant Doyle had waited for Roper in the van that held the rear lift for the wheelchair. Ferguson had his driver, and Billy gave Dillon and Monica a lift to Dover Street in the Alfa.

“Very useful,” Monica told him as they moved through Mayfair. “You being a nondrinker.”

“I get stopped now and then,” Billy said. “Young guy in a flash motor like this. I’ve been breathalyzed plenty. It’s great to see the look on their faces when they check the reading.” He pulled in outside the Dover Street house. “Here we are, folks. You’re staying, right?” he asked Dillon.

“What do you think?”

“You’re staying.”

When Billy was gone, they paused at the top of the steps for Monica to find her key and went in. She didn’t put the light on, simply waited for him to lock the door, then put her arms around his neck and kissed him quite hard.

“Oh my goodness, I’ve missed you.”

“You’ve only been away four days.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “Ten minutes, and if you take more, there’ll be trouble,” and she turned and ran up the stairs.

He changed in one of the spare bedrooms, put on a terry-cloth robe, and joined her in her suite. He’d found a tenderness with her that he’d never known he had-he’d surprised himself as their relationship blossomed-and they made slow, careful love together.

Afterward, she drifted into sleep and he lay there, a chink of light coming through the curtains from a lamp in the street. On impulse, he slipped out of the bed, put on the robe, padded downstairs to the drawing room, took a cigarette from a box on the table, lit it, then sat by the bow window, looking out and thinking about Kurbsky. After a while, Monica slipped in, wearing a robe.

“So there you are. Give me one.”

“You’re supposed to have stopped,” he said, but gave her one anyway.

“What are you thinking of?” she said. “Kurbsky?”

“That’s right.”

“I thought you might. He reminded me of you.”

“You liked him, I think?”

“An easy man to like, just as you are an easy man to love, Sean, but like you, there’s the feeling of the other self always there, like a crouching tiger just waiting to spring.”

“Thanks very much.”

“What were you thinking?”

“What on earth we are going to do with him if we get him.” He stubbed his cigarette out and got up. “Come on, back to bed with you.” He put a hand around her waist and they went out.

IT WAS TEN-THIRTY when Roper found himself in his chair back in the computer room at Holland Park. Sergeant Doyle said, “You’ve everything you need to hand, Major, so I think I’ll have a lie-down in the duty room.”

“You should be entitled to a night off, Tony. What about Sergeant Henderson?”