Rozanov ordered a car from the motor pool for four o’clock. Because he was going against Moscow’s nightmarish traffic, it took only forty minutes to reach the Kremlin’s Borovitskaya Tower. He entered the Grand Presidential Palace and, escorted by a waiting aide, made his way upstairs to the federal president’s office. The Gatekeeper was at his desk in the anteroom. His dour expression was identical to the one usually worn by the president himself.

“You’re early, Alexei.”

“Better than late.”

“Have a seat.”

Rozanov sat. Five o’clock came and went. So did six. Finally, at half past, the Gatekeeper came for him.

“He can give you two minutes.”

“Two minutes are all I need.”

The Gatekeeper led Rozanov along a marble hall to a pair of heavy golden doors. A guard opened one, Rozanov entered alone. The office was a cavernous space, darkened except for a sphere of light that illuminated the desk where the Boss sat. He was looking down at a stack of papers and continued to do so long after Rozanov arrived. The SVR man stood before the desk in silence, his hands clasped protectively over his genitals.

“Well?” asked the Boss finally. “Is it true or not?”

“The London rezident says it is.”

“I’m not asking the London rezident. I’m asking you.”

“It’s true, sir.”

The Boss looked up. “You’re sure?”

Rozanov nodded.

“Say it, Alexei.”

“He’s dead, sir.”

The Boss looked down at his documents again. “Remind me how much we owe the Irishman.”

“Under our agreement,” Rozanov said judiciously, “he was to receive ten million on completion of the first phase of the operation and another ten million for the second.”

“Where is he now?”

“In an SVR safe house.”

“Where, Alexei?”

“Budapest.”

“And the woman?”

“Here in Moscow,” answered Rozanov, “awaiting a departure order.”

A silence dropped between them, like the silence of a cemetery at night. Rozanov was relieved when the Boss finally spoke.

“I’d like to make a small change,” he said.

“What sort of change?”

“Tell the Irishman he’ll receive all twenty million on completion of both phases of the operation.”

“That could be a problem.”

“No, it won’t.”

The Boss pushed a file folder across his massive desk. Rozanov lifted the cover and looked inside. Death solves all problems, he thought. No man, no problem.

39

LONDON–VIENNA