‘Laing has everything well in hand for Kosygin’s visit,’ Knox continued. ‘He doesn’t need me, but Jack does. If he’s going to let anyone help put the pieces of his mind back together, it’ll be me.’

Knox had no idea if that last sentence was true, but he hoped it was.

Holland mulled over the idea for what seemed like an eternity. Knox glanced at Sarah more than once, and each time she gave him a reassuring nod.

‘Fine,’ Holland said finally. ‘He can spend the night in the bunker, which will be locked for everyone’s safety, then Richard will take him to Kent in the morning. And none of us will talk to anyone else about this.’

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

The Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts wasn’t used to hosting formal dinners, and Rykov didn’t usually spend his evenings in his dress uniform, but he made exceptions for special occasions.

Justas Paleckis, the ex-president of the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic, was in Moscow. Rumours were abounding that he was being lined up to become the new chairman of the Soviet of Nationalities—the head of the upper chamber of the Supreme Soviet, a position of extreme political power. So, several high-ranking members of the Council of Ministers, the KGB, and its military counterpart the GRU, were spending the night flattering him and currying favour with him over food, alcohol, and speeches.

The dinner was a good place for Rykov to be seen.

A long table had been laid down the central void of the one of the museum’s larger, columned galleries, with the space’s usual statuary occupants shoved back against the walls and surrounded by serving trolleys.

It had been a fairly dreary and drawn-out event, and Rykov, seated two thirds of the way down the table between a tedious member of the Second Chief Directorate and a drunken representative from the Byelorussian SSR, had resorted to sneaking water instead of vodka for every other toast to try to keep himself somewhere near sober.

Eventually, when the oldest of the politicians, soldiers, and spies started to fall asleep in their chairs, the people who would still be expected at their desks the next morning started to make their excuses and leave.

Polished Volgas were lined up like a rank of taxis on the sweeping approach that led up to the museum. Their drivers sat behind their steering wheels, quietly stamping their boots in their footwells to stop their feet getting too cold and swearing at the heavy rain that was throwing up fresh dirt and mud they would need to clean off their cars before they could finally go home to a warm bed.