“Blake Johnson? Mr. Johnson, your reputation goes before you.” Lhuzkov shook hands and his hand was damp and trembled a little.

“Yes, well, just another day at the office,” Blake said, and suddenly had had enough. “You’ll excuse me. I must thank you for the offer of the embassy house, Frank. I’ll stop over another time.”

“Of course.”

Lhuzkov watched as Blake went to fetch his raincoat, then immediately went into a corner and called a number on his mobile phone. “He’s on his way now, to the embassy house. Yes. Do it now,” and he switched off and went down to the cloakroom.

BLAKE REFUSED A CAR and accepted an umbrella, went down to the steps into the square and walked down toward South Audley Street. He made a brief call on his mobile and was answered by Sean Dillon in the passenger seat of Harry Salter’s Aston Martin. Billy was driving.

“Where are you?” Sean demanded.

“Moving down to the embassy house. I felt like the walk, the rain, all that stuff. The romance of a great city.”

“You damn fool. You know you’re a marked man. Anybody special at the embassy?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, a guy called Boris Lhuzkov, station head of the GRU, apparently.”

“Idiot,” Sean said. “You know the moment you landed here, the GRU were on to you, don’t you?” He switched off.

“Where is he?” Billy demanded, pulling his hat down.

“Near the embassy house. Make it fast. Pass him, as a matter of fact. Go straight up that little side lane. Turn in there. Whoever’s up to no good is probably parked by the house. I’ll bail out fast and you can join me. Are you tooled up?”

“What do you think?”

Billy moved out to pass three parked cars and then Blake, the umbrella over his head. They ignored him, moved into the turning by the house and noticed a small sedan. Billy slowed, and Dillon pulled a Walther PPK with a silencer from his raincoat pocket, opened the door of the slow-moving car and rolled out.