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BLAKE JOHNSON WAS RECEIVED WITH COURTESY AT THE American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, as befitted President Jake Cazalet's most important security adviser, the head of a secret White House operation known simply as the Basement. An aide took him to the Ambassador's office, a fine young Marine captain in dress uniform bearing medals from Bosnia, Iraq and Afghanistan.

"The Ambassador's hosting a cocktail party, mostly for those who weren't invited to Brussels for the conference."

"And who would that be?" Blake asked.

"The dregs of every embassy in London, Major."

"I know the feeling. And it's not 'Major'—Vietnam was a long time ago."

"Once a Marine always a Marine, Major. My dad was in Vietnam, and my grandfather was in North Africa and in Normandy on D-Day."

"They must be proud of you. That Navy Cross speaks for itself."

"Thank you, sir. I'll alert the Ambassador." He went out. Blake helped himself to scotch from a decanter on the sideboard and moved to the window at the terrace and looked into Grosvenor Square, the roads shining in the streetlights, rain pounding down.

He stood under the canopy, inhaling the freshness, savoring his drink, and the door opened behind him. He turned and it was the Ambassador, Frank Mars, a friend of many years' standing. As little more than boys, they'd served together in Nam. Mars shook his hand warmly.

"It's good to see you, Blake, but also a bit of a surprise. I thought you were in Brussels with the President."

"Well, at first I wasn't going, but the President decided that his meeting with the Prime Minister and President Putin might veer into my territory, so he decided he wanted me in Brussels anyway. I'm meeting Charles Ferguson tonight and we're flying over together."

Ferguson was the head of the group of special operatives often referred to as the Prime Minister's private army. Blake had run many operations with him, and the tempo had only picked up of late.

Mars topped up their glasses and they stood there, looking into the square. "All the years I've known this place and now I have to look down at those great ugly concrete blocks protecting us. The terrorists have accomplished what two world wars could not."

"Not to mention the Cold War," Blake said. "Still, it all helped lead to this, those years of strife, the atomic submarines, the cancer of communism, East versus West."

"We got it wrong with Berlin in 1945," said Mars, "allowing Russia to take the city. That's when they first sensed they could roll over us. I remember the first trip I made behind the Wall in Berlin. It chilled the soul."

Blake gestured to the left of the square to the statue of Eisenhower on its plinth. "What do you think he'd make of it? After all, it was he, Roosevelt and Winston Churchill who were responsible."

"I'd remind you that Joseph Stalin had something to do with it," Mars pointed out.

Blake nodded thoughtfully. "And now we have Vladimir Putin. Think the Cold War is on its way back?"

Frank Mars put a hand on his shoulder.

"Blake, old friend, it's not on its way, it's arrived. From the moment Putin became President of the Russian Federation, he had an agenda. We've seen it unfold bit by bit, and he's got the money to back it up, all that gas and oil. I think he's capable of anything. And there's something else about him that's very dangerous indeed."

Copyright © 2008 by Harry Patterson.