“Very old-fashioned of you, Colonel. Sit down. My time is limited.” He sat himself, and Luzhkov faced him. “You’ve read my report.”

“Every word.”

“A great tragedy, the loss of General Volkov. My most valued security adviser.”

“Can he be replaced, Comrade Prime Minister?”

“I shall handle as much as I can myself, but on the ground, I need a safe pair of hands, particularly in London. You will now be reporting directly to me. You agree?”

“It’s… it’s an honor,” Luzhkov stammered.

“More and more, London is our greatest stumbling block in intelligence matters. We must do something about it. These people- Ferguson, Dillon, those London gangsters of theirs, the Salters. What is your opinion of them?”

“The London gangster as a species is himself alone, Comrade Prime Minister. I’ve employed them myself, although they wrap themselves in the Union Jack and praise the Queen at the drop of a hat.”

“This Miller has suddenly become a major player. Do you think they’ll appoint him to Carter’s post?”

“I don’t see him wanting the job. More likely, it’ll be Lord Arthur Tilsey. He held that post years ago, and was awarded his peerage for it. He’s seventy-two, but still very sharp, and he’s old friends with Ferguson. He’ll do for the interim at least.”

“And Miller’s sister, Lady Starling. You think there is something in this attachment with Dillon?”

“It would seem so.”

Putin nodded. “All right. It is clear we need to infiltrate this group, people at the highest level of security in the British system. You’ve read my suggestion. What do you think?”

“Alexander Kurbsky? An astonishing idea, Comrade Prime Minister. He is so… infamous.”

“Exactly. Just like in the Cold War days, he defects. Who on earth would doubt him? It fits like a glove.