There was no proof that the story was true, but it made total sense to Dimka. The KGB had reported the story to the army, but an army investigation had turned up no proof. Most likely, Dimka thought, the investigator had been cut in on the deal.

He phoned Natalya’s office. “Quick question,” he said. “What brand of TV do you have at home?”

“Franck,” she said immediately. “It’s great. I can get you one, if you like.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’ll explain later.” Dimka hung up.

He looked at his watch. It was five. He left the Kremlin and drove to the street called Sadovaya-Samotyochnaya.

He had to scare Nik. It would not be easy, but he had to do it. Nik had to be made to understand that he must never, ever, threaten Dimka’s family.

He parked his Moskvitch but did not get out immediately. He recalled the frame of mind he had been in throughout the Cuban missile project, when he had to keep the mission secret at all costs. He had destroyed men’s careers and ruined their lives without hesitation, because the job had to be done. Now he was going to ruin Nik.

He locked his car and walked to the Bar Madrid.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside. He stood still and looked around. It was a bleak modern place, cold and plastic, insufficiently warmed by an electric fire and some photographs of flamenco dancers on the walls. The handful of customers gazed at him with interest. They looked like petty crooks. None resembled the photo of Nik in the file.

At the far end of the room was a corner bar with a door next to it marked PRIVATE.

Dimka strode through the room as if he owned it. Without stopping he spoke to the man behind the bar. “Nik in the back?”

The man looked as if he might be about to tell Dimka to stop and wait, but then he looked again at Dimka’s face and changed his mind. “Yes,” he said.

Dimka pushed open the door.

In a small back room four men were playing cards. There was a lot of money on the table. To one side, on a couch, two young women in cocktail dresses and heavy makeup were smoking long American cigarettes and looking bored.

Dimka recognized Nik immediately. The face was as handsome as the photograph had suggested, but the camera had failed to capture the cold expression. Nik looked up and said: “This is a private room. Piss off.”

Dimka said: “I’ve got a message for you.”

Nik put his cards facedown on the table and sat back. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Something bad is going to happen.”

Two of the card players stood up and turned to face Dimka. One reached inside his jacket. Dimka thought he might be about to draw a weapon. But Nik held up a cautionary hand, and the man hesitated.

Nik kept his eyes on Dimka. “What are you talking about?”