Eastern Europe’s most feared spymaster was struggling with his budget.

‘How can the Paris assassination possibly have cost that much?’ he demanded peevishly. ‘I could have done it myself for half the price – first-class travel and a weekend with the wife at the Ritz included.’

‘There were the bodyguards to be disposed of too, General. And the investigating magistrate to be squared.’

‘Even so. These “miscellaneous expenses” – that’ll be booze and call girls, if I know Grigorski. Where is he, by the way?’

‘Just back from Turkmenistan, General. He’s been overseeing the forged currency operation there.’

‘Tell him I want to see him.’

The aide withdrew.  

The General fingered the paperweight in front of him. A souvenir of the Sochi Winter Olympics, it took the form of a globe with a skier who became engulfed in snowflakes when you shook it – ironic, he thought, given the amount of snow they’d had to import to make the games possible. Grigorski had been there too, in charge of hacking the phones of visiting dignitaries. The man was a pain in the neck, with deplorable personal habits, but he was undeniably versatile and efficient.

The General’s eyes returned reluctantly to his spreadsheet. All those millions of roubles gone on electronic equipment and IT! In his days in the field, he had been as keen on new technology as the next man, but now it was out of control, like a monstrous fledgling constantly demanding to be fed. Yes, there was fun to be had in shutting down a city’s power grid or paralysing a country’s health service – but it didn’t compare with the good old days of cloak and dagger. How he missed the dead-letter drops and the nights with binoculars by the Berlin Wall!

The aide returned. ‘Major Grigorski, sir.’

Grigorski looked even rougher than usual, with two days’ growth of stubble covering his thick jowls. His broken nose was red with sunburn, while the scar that bisected his bald patch – a memento of hand-to-hand fighting in Chechnya – was preternaturally livid. His breath had heavy hints of caried teeth and unassimilated alcohol.

‘Sit down, Major. How was Turkmenistan?’

Grigorski settled his bulk uneasily into the chair, as if a stranger to furniture.

‘Everything went according to plan, sir. Five hundred thousand forged notes in circulation, and a false trail leading to two top treasury officials.’

‘No bodies at the bottom of the Atrek?’

‘Not required this time, sir.’

‘Just as well, I suppose. But always good to keep your hand in.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The old ways are best, eh?’

‘No doubt about that, sir.’

‘So.’ The General picked up the paperweight again, turning it thoughtfully in his hands. A blizzard descended obligingly on the plastic figurine. ‘I’m sending you to London.’

‘London, sir? But I thought Crimea – that unfinished business…’

Grigorski’s disappointment was understandable. Crimea had been his finest hour, directing Russian special forces masquerading as a local militia. Smoke and mirrors did not get any smokier.

‘It can be finished later.’

‘But the airliner we shot down,’ he continued. ‘If it comes out that the orders were issued by –’

‘It won’t.’

Grigorski nodded. He was a man who picked his fights carefully. There was no point in antagonising the General.

‘What does the London job involve, sir?’

The General watched the last snowflakes settle. ‘Gaining control of the British financial system to disrupt what is left of democracy there. Also laundering five billion dollars for the Party Chairman. And you can start by growing a proper beard.’