“I believe you enjoyed a certain reputation in Chechnya. The smiler with a knife? An accomplished sniper and assassin who specialized in that kind of thing. A lone wolf, as they say. At least three high-ranking Chechen generals could testify to that.”

“If the dead could speak.”

“That story in On the Death of Men where the hero is parachuted behind the lines when he had never had training as a parachutist. Was it true? Did you?” Luzhkov was troubled in some strange way. “What kind of man would do such a thing?”

“One who in the hell that was Afghanistan decided he was dead already, a walking zombie, who survived to go home and found himself a year later knee-deep in blood in Chechnya. You can make of that what you will.”

“I’ll need to think about it. I’m not sure I understand.”

Kurbsky laughed. “Remember the old saying: Avoid looking into an open grave because you may see yourself in there. In those old Cold War spy books, you always had to have a controller. Would that be you?”

“Yes. I’m Head of Station for GRU at the London Embassy.”

“That’s good. I’ll like that. I had an old comrade in Chechnya who transferred to the GRU when I was coming to the end of my army time. Yuri Bounine. Could you find him and bring him in on this?”

“I’m sure that will be possible.”

“Excellent. So if you’re available, let’s get out of here and go and get something to eat.”

“An excellent idea.” Luzhkov led the way and said to the lieutenant, “The limousine is waiting, I presume? We’ll go back to my hotel.”

“Of course, Colonel.”

They followed him along the interminable corridors.

“They seem to go on forever,” Luzhkov observed. “A fascinating place, the Kremlin.”

“A rabbit warren,” Kurbsky said. “A man could lose himself here. A smiler with a knife could do well here.” He turned as they reached the door. “Perhaps the Prime Minister should consider that.”

He followed the lieutenant down the steps to the limousine, and Luzhkov, troubled, went after them.