Two pilots were on board, the aircraft ready to go, and a steward, who introduced himself as Sikov, was waiting as he boarded. Luzhkov seated himself and belted in.

Sikov said, “A great pleasure, Colonel. The flight time is approximately seven hours. I was instructed to give you this from Prime Minister Putin’s office as soon as you arrived. May I offer you a drink?”

“A large vodka. I hate takeoffs. I once crashed in Chechnya.” Sikov had given him what looked like a legal file.

Sikov did it old style, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. Luzhkov tossed it back and coughed, holding out his glass. Sikov poured another, then moved up to the small galley. Luzhkov swallowed the vodka and, as the plane started to roll, examined the file: several typed sheets stapled together, and an envelope addressed to him, which he opened.

The letter was headed “From the Office of the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation.” It went on: “Attention of Colonel Boris Luzhkov. You will familiarize yourself with the material contained in the enclosed report and be prepared to discuss it with the Prime Minister on your arrival.”

Luzhkov sat there, staring down at the report, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Falcon had risen fast to thirty thousand and the flight so far was very smooth. Sikov returned.

“Would you like to order, Colonel?”

Business first. Better get it over with. More vodka was indicated. He suspected he was going to need it. In fact, it was worse than he could have imagined, although some of it was already familiar to him.

TH E REPORT DETAILED an operation gone bad. General Volkov had hired a group of IRA heavies to strike at Ferguson and his associates, but instead it was Ferguson who had struck at them, killing them all at their base in Drumore in the Irish Republic. If that wasn’t bad enough, General Volkov himself and two GRU men had disappeared. It could only mean one thing.