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or wait for P-J?”
    “What?” Charlie frowned.
    “The press conference.” Halliday frowned back. “I didn’t know there was going to be one until I bumped into Dawkins first thing this morning.”
    “And I still don’t know anything about it,” said Charlie.
    “You’re not involved?”
    “No,” said Charlie.
    “And here comes P-J,” said Halliday, looking farther down the corridor along which the woman was hurrying toward them, raising her hand in greeting as she got close to Halliday’s open office door.
    “When I couldn’t reach you by telephone, I went to the Savoy to find you; messages never get through,” she announced, breathlessly. “You all set?”
    “I think I’m close to being set
up
,” qualified Charlie. “Who asked you to find me . . . bring me here?”
    “Dawkins,” replied Paula-Jane. “The embassy’s being overwhelmed by media approaches. The ambassador has decided upon a press conference, so you’ve got to be there. It’s scheduled for eleven.”
    It was ten forty, Charlie saw. “There’s obviously an internal e-mail direct to the ambassador, from the communications room?”
    Paula-Jane gave an uncertain laugh. “What’s happening here?”
    “Nonsense is what’s happening here,” replied Charlie. “If Dawkins gets in touch with you again, tell him the press conference is canceled, and that I want to see him one hour from now.”
    It was the same communications officer in charge as theprevious day, so there was no identification delay. Charlie began his e-mail to the ambassador, insisting a press conference would further sensationalize an already oversensationalized media situation. For it to have been held would unquestionably destroy any possibility of a successful investigation and, for that reason, he was advising the third secretary that it should be canceled. He, certainly, had no intention of taking part. There had already been procedural difficulties upon which London had adjudicated, putting him in charge of the murder investigation and he took full responsibility for the cancellation. It was inevitable that it would inflame the media, which was unfortunate and would not have occurred if there had been proper consultation, which there should have been from the third secretary, knowing of the previous day’s London ruling.
    Charlie copied the message to Dawkins, Stout, and the two resident intelligence officers to coincide with his sending it to the ambassador, and chose the commissary office to confirm his Islay single malt order in which to lose himself for fifteen minutes beyond the time the press conference had been scheduled to begin.
    Paula-Jane was waiting for him when Charlie returned to the
rezidentura
level. She said: “All hell’s broken loose.”
    “I’d have been disappointed if it hadn’t,” said Charlie.

    The moment he entered the ambassador’s suite, Charlie recognized Sir Thomas Sotley as the quintessential career diplomat, from the top of his gray-tinged head, past the old Etonian tie, the Savile Row suit, and the family-crested signet ring, to the tip of his hand-tooled Lobb shoes. Jeremy Dawkins, a younger clone apart from the tumbling-forward blond hair and already fury-flushed face, was to the right of the ambassador’s antique, green leather inset desk. Behind them was almost an aerial view of the Moskva River.
    “What’s the meaning of this?” immediately demanded the ambassador, waving the printout of Charlie’s e-mail like a penalty flag. There was no invitation for Charlie to sit.
    “I’d hoped it was self-explanatory,” said Charlie.
    “It is self-serving, unforgivable impertinence for which I demand an explanation,” spluttered the outraged man.
    “There was no intended impertinence.”
    “The third secretary is responsible for the general administration of this embassy and got the approval of the deputy Director-General for the conference, to discount some of the most preposterous media fantasies. By refusing to