“And what would that be?”

“He’s a patriot.” Mars swallowed his drink. “But enough of that. Come and let me introduce you to my guests.”

MOST OF THE GUESTS were not too important, mostly minor attachés of one kind or another; the big fish were either in Brussels already or on the way there. After a little bit of talk, Blake stood in the corner, and soon Mars joined him.

“So, if you’re flying off tonight, you’re not staying at the embassy house off South Audley Street.”

“Right. My luggage is there, though, and I’m expecting Sean Dillon and Billy Salter to pick me up and deliver me to Farley Field to join Ferguson.”

“So Ferguson ’s promoted young Salter to be an agent in the Secret Intelligence Service, I understand.”

“Yes. Mind you, Ferguson had to obliterate Salter’s criminal records from the files to get him in. But he and Dillon make quite a team.”

“You could say that. An East Ender gangster and the most fearsome enforcer the Provisional IRA ever had. Quite a combination!”

As they talked, Blake noticed someone observing them, a man with Slavic features, an excellent suit and an eager smile. He was going heavy on the vodka and, as Blake watched, took another from a waiter’s tray.

Mars half-turned and murmured to Blake, “Colonel Boris Lhuzkov, senior commercial attaché for the Embassy of the Russian Federation. Of course, he’s actually head of station for the GRU. They’re all something else over there. Would you like a word?”

“If I must.”

Mars waved and Lhuzkov gulped another vodka and rushed over, smiled ingratiatingly and shook hands. “A great pleasure, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Why, Boris, I thought you’d be in Brussels.”

“That is reserved for those more important than I.” He glanced inquiringly at Blake.

Mars said, “Mr. Johnson is on his way to Brussels this evening. It seems the President can’t talk to your boss without him.”