Kurbsky said calmly, “Did Chechnya bother you?” He lit a cigarette. “Anyway, I’m not in the mood for discussion. I’ve got a performance to give. Let’s get the great Alexander Kurbsky on-stage.”

As they moved along Columbus Avenue, Bounine said, “Is that all it is to you, Alex?”

“Yuri, old friend, I’m not into Freud at the start of a dark winter’s evening in good old New York. Just get me to the Pierre, where my fans are waiting.”

He leaned back, staring out at the sleet, and smoked his cigarette.

WHEN MONICA STARLING and Professor Dunkley went into the reception at the Pierre, it was awash with people, the surroundings magnificent, the great and the good well in evidence. The U.S. ambassador to the United Nations was there, and his Russian counterpart. The champagne flowed. Monica and Dunkley took a glass each, moved to one side, and simply observed the scene.

“There seem to be a few film stars,” Dunkley said.

“There would be, George, they like to be seen. There seems to be a pop star or two, as well. I suppose they feel an affair like this touches them with a certain… gravitas.”

“He’s there,” Dunkley said. “Talking to the French ambassador, Henri Guyon, and the Russian-what’s his name again?”

“Ivan Makeev,” Monica told him.

“They seem very enthusiastic about something, their heads together, except for Kurbsky.”

“He looks bored, if anything,” Monica said.

“We’ll be lucky to get anywhere near him,” Dunkley told her mournfully. “Look at all those people hovering like vultures, waiting for the ambassadors to finish with him so they can move in. We’ve had it.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She stood there, her left hand on her hip, her black suede purse dangling from it, and as he turned, she caught his eye and toasted him, glass raised, and emptied it. He knew her, of course, but she didn’t know that, and he gave her a lazy and insolent smile as he walked over.