East of the Sun

by Janet Rogers

  ‘Meessis Preston?’ Surprised at the greeting, she looked up into the smiling face of a middle-aged man. She hadn’t really given thought to being recognised.

  ‘Yuri?’ She smiled back, happy to see the only friendly security guard she’d ever encountered in Russia.

  ‘Yes, it is me,’ he said in hesitant English.

  ‘It is good to see you, Yuri.’

  He smiled for a moment longer, but then his face grew sombre. ‘And—’ He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe he had to ask her such an unreasonable question. ‘How are you, meessis Preston?’

  The concern in his faded blue eyes was so touching that she almost reached out, both to thank him for his kindness and to reassure him, but refrained, knowing that the gesture would be a little too familiar and would only make him feel uncomfortable.

  Instead, she nodded. ‘I’m all right, Yuri. I’m here to . . .’ Vaguely she waved in the direction of the building behind him.

  ‘Of course, yes, yes. Plees, plees, come in.’ He held the heavy door for her. Gingerly she stepped across the threshold into the embassy’s reception area.

  ‘To sign here, plees,’ he said and held the visitor’s log out to her. Quickly she entered the necessary information and with promises that she would see him again, went up to the first floor.

  Like so many buildings in Moscow, the simple façade belied the beauty that lay within. She inhaled the familiar smells contained by the thick old walls and gently stroked the wooden banister of the staircase leading up to the offices. The atmosphere inside the building seemed unchanged. A quiet industriousness hung in the air, but underneath it she could feel the tremors of an embassy’s typically hectic schedule. Slowly she ventured down the familiar corridor.

  She knew the new ambassador would most likely be busy, but there were a few other people she wanted to see first anyway. She’d come without appointment, preferring to have an element of surprise on her side, but for the most part she was confident they’d all be able and willing to see her.

  Her first stop was at the end of the corridor on the first floor. She paused a few steps from the open door and glanced at the sign on it: Senior Trade Commissioner. She took a deep breath and stepped through the open door. Patrick O’Driscoll was bent over paperwork, a frown etched onto his forehead. He was entirely absorbed in the document in front of him and didn’t notice her hovering in the doorway. She tapped lightly on the open door. He looked up and for a second his face became motionless as he took in her unexpected presence. Then it broke into a smile.

  ‘Amelia? What a surprise!’ He was around his desk before she could speak and without hesitation he enveloped her in a hug. His spontaneous action immediately brought back the raw emotions that had tormented her on the walk to the embassy, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were moist.

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming to Moscow!’ he said, his hand still firmly on her arm.

  ‘I didn’t know I was coming either. It was kind of a last minute decision.’

  He seemed to consider her words for a second and then motioned her to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  ‘Are you here for long?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t really know yet. Probably a week or so.’ Instinctively she kept her answer vague, not sure why she was doing so. For some reason she felt loath to reveal more.

  Although he was third-generation Irish-Canadian, Patrick could still claim Irish genes as the source of his good looks: black hair and blue eyes and a smile that stopped you in your tracks with its attractiveness and occasional merriment. Those blue eyes became reflective now and Amelia could see he was weighing his words carefully before he spoke again.

  ‘Not that I’m not happy to see you, but why are you here? I’d hoped to see you again, of course, but here? In Moscow?’

  Amelia let her gaze slide from his and stared out the window at the cold grey Moscow sky outside. How to answer? Honesty, in limited measure, was probably best, she decided, and met his gaze again.

  ‘It seems crazy, I know, but I had to leave in such a hurry last year. There are some things I need to do and to be honest, I have some more questions. You know, about . . . what happened.’ She shrugged and felt foolish as she waited for his reaction.

  Patrick raised his eyebrows for a second and sighed lightly. ‘Is it wise?’

  His words were gentle, but he spoke to her like a father would to a child, a patient tone obscuring frustration with a stubborn child. In his position as Trade Commissioner at the embassy, Patrick had worked closely with Robert. He’d also worked on the thing she was most interested in – the Prism-Sibraz deal.

  Amelia had known him for several years. He was a friend and she suddenly found that she wanted him to understand.

  ‘Why do you want to reopen old wounds, Amelia?’ he continued before she could say anything.

  ‘They’re hardly “old”,’ she said, more sharply than she intended. ‘I mean, it’s not really as if the wounds have ever really closed.’ She continued in a milder tone, ‘I’m not trying to be dramatic, Patrick, but I feel . . . compelled – I suppose that would be the best word – compelled to try and understand more of what happened.’

  He was silent again for a moment. ‘Why?’ ‘Why?’ She was surprised at the question, but tried to answer.

  ‘Because I understood so little at the time and no more now, a year after it all happened.’ She could feel a flush on her face and knew she would have to handle this better if she was to get any information out of anybody. However justified it may be, she could hardly afford to be over-emotional.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘I understand. At least I think I do. I’m just worried about you.’

  ‘I know and it’s lovely that you care, but please don’t worry.’

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ he changed the subject and gestured to a tray on a cabinet against the side wall. ‘It’s fresh.’

  ‘That would be nice, thank you.’ She nodded and watched as he started to get up.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘just for the record: I’m not sure you coming back here is wise, or the best thing for you, and I’m equally unsure about your chances of finding out anything else, but if I can help in any way, you know that I’ll do everything in my power.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, ‘I appreciate that. I’m sure I’ll need help along the way. In fact, I’d like to ask you to tell me again what you remember.’

  Before he could reply, the telephone on his desk rang suddenly. He reached for it. ‘Sorry, may I?’

  ‘Please, go ahead.’ She watched as he sat down again to speak into the telephone with his familiar charm. While she waited for him to finish the call, she walked over to the cabinet and poured two coffees.

  ‘How are Cathy and the children?’ she asked when he’d hung up, not wanting to continue the conversation about her return to Russia immediately.

  He smiled. ‘They’re well. Still not enjoying that special brand of Russian rudeness we all know, or the crazy traffic and the freezing winters, but the girls especially seem to be more comfortable now. Cathy would love to see you, so keep an evening open and we’ll have dinner, all right?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘And how are you doing? How do you feel about the remainder of your time here?’

  He shrugged, distractedly stirring his coffee. ‘Oh, you know this life. Sometimes it’s exciting and some days I don’t know why on earth we do what we do here.’

  ‘Mr O’Driscoll?’ An assistant peeked around the door. ‘Mr Brady is here to see you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m expecting him, thank you. I’ll be there in a minute.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, Amelia, but I have to see this guy.’

  ‘Of course, don’t worry, I just popped in to say hello. I’ll see you again later in the week.’

  He came around the desk and took her elbow as he led her to the door.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

  She
found herself hesitating. ‘The National.’

  She smiled up at him as she said goodbye and wondered at herself as she walked down the corridor. Why did she hesitate before telling him where she was staying? You’re getting paranoid, Amelia, she told herself as she took the stairs up to the Ambassador’s office.

  ‘Tell me I’m not hallucinating!’ Ratna shrieked as she saw Amelia appear in the doorway.

  ‘You’re not hallucinating.’

  She allowed herself to be pulled into Ratna’s hug, but when her old friend’s arms stayed around her, she suddenly felt awkward in the long embrace. Her body had become stiff over the previous months, no longer used to physical contact of this nature. For a moment she didn’t know how to respond, but then, briefly, let herself enjoy the motherly warmth of Ratna’s ample body.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re here! When did you arrive?’ Ratna didn’t pause to hear Amelia’s answer. ‘It’s amazing to see you! You’re far too thin, of course.’ Finally she took a breath and stood back to look at Amelia. ‘Sit down, sit down!’

  ‘I’m here for a short visit,’ Amelia said when Ratna had settled down a little. She repeated the same vague story she’d given Patrick of a trip to tie up loose ends.

  ‘Well, I know it can’t be because you’ve missed this place,’ Ratna said more soberly, not mentioning the nightmare of the previous year.

  Amelia looked around at the outer of two offices, and then towards the door that led to the ambassador’s office. The last time she was here, Robert had still occupied that room. He had walked in and out of this office so many times. She could almost see him come through the door and smile at her, almost waited for his familiar footfall.

  She turned back to Ratna. ‘Nothing seems to have changed here.’

  Ratna leaned her elbow on the desk with a sigh. ‘Absolutely nothing!’ She pulled a comical face and grinned.

  Amelia recalled the amusement and profound relief she’d felt upon first meeting Ratna. The initial culture shock of living in Russia had been softened by Ratna’s warmth, sense of humour and fearlessness. The daughter of Indian immigrants to Canada, Ratna had been raised in Toronto according to the new country’s principles of independence. Her parents had automatically believed their daughter would still practise her culture, and could never have imagined that she would become so fiercely self-sufficient that she would forget all about the old notions of obedience and servility and kick out her lazy husband after three short years of marriage. Undeterred by the protestations of all involved, she’d continued to raise her son by herself. Frighteningly efficient, she’d been a crutch for Robert and a friend to Amelia in Moscow. Since the events of the previous year, they’d exchanged a number of e-mails, but, for reasons not entirely clear to herself, Amelia wanted to keep from Ratna some of the more complex reasons behind her visit.

  ‘What’s he like?’ Amelia asked, nodding towards the door of the inner office.

  ‘He’s fine. It’s been eight, nine months and he’s doing just fine. Not nearly as handsome and dynamic as Robert, of course,’ Ratna said, flashing a smile.

  Amelia felt the urge to hug her again – for mentioning Robert’s name and for conjuring up his image without the tentative caution everyone seemed to use when talking about him.

  ‘That would be impossible,’ she agreed, and paused, wondering if her next request would be suspicious. ‘I’d really like to see him,’ she said gently.

  Ratna frowned lightly. ‘He’s quite busy today.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, that’s fine. I didn’t expect to just waltz in and demand an audience,’ she said, trying to sound light-hearted.

  Ratna scrolled through his diary on her computer screen. ‘Can you wait a few days? Let me see – how’s Monday morning for you? I can put you in for eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Sounds good. Thank you.’

  Ratna entered the details of the appointment with the speed of lightning and then looked up at Amelia.

  ‘Are you up for a glass of wine sometime while you’re here?’

  ‘Of course. Fortunately some bad habits never die.’ Amelia smiled again, realising as she did so that she’d smiled more in one day than the previous twelve months put together. ‘I’ll call you.’

  The silent hotel room was a welcome retreat after seeing so many familiar faces and places reminding her of Robert. She switched on the television and clicked through the mainly Russian channels before settling on a Discovery programme about orphaned elephants in Kenya. Vaguely she could hear the normal hotel noises – the muffled sounds of footsteps and the occasional opening and closing of a door.

  The visit to the embassy had left her feeling drained. It had always been Robert’s domain and it hadn’t felt right to see others move about that space so freely, without missing him, or paying some kind of daily tribute to him. On her way out his photo on the corridor wall had briefly stopped her in her tracks, his familiar, beloved face smiling into space. The shock of seeing him had been physical and she’d been unable to stop herself from saying his name. Robert, what happened to you? But she’d moved away as soon as she’d heard footsteps coming towards her, realising that she had a far better chance of being helped if she didn’t appear to be the unbalanced wife of the previous ambassador.

  When she’d stepped outside the embassy, the cold air had helped to clear her head. Snow had started to fall lightly and without thinking, she’d started to walk. In reality it had been too cold to walk so far, but by the time she’d crossed New Arbat and turned onto Bolshaya Nikitskaya Street, she’d been numb and had decided to press on until she reached the hotel at the bottom of Tverskaya Street.

  She was awoken by a soft knock on the door, but didn’t immediately identify where the sound had come from and was still half asleep when the chambermaid entered.

  ‘Prastitye . . . I am sorry,’ the young woman said as soon as she saw Amelia’s sleepy face lift from the pillows. Apologetically she started backing out of the room, but Amelia jumped up and gestured for her to come back inside. Quickly the woman disappeared into the bathroom with a stack of fresh towels and just as quickly she was gone again with a brief nod. Fully awake now, Amelia stood purposelessly in the room for a minute and then remembered that she still had to call Mara, the one person she could trust with the truth about her return to Moscow.

  As she lifted the receiver, there was another knock on the door. The maid must have forgotten something, she thought, but when nobody entered, Amelia put the phone down again and went to open the door. The passage was empty, and an envelope lay at her feet.

  Puzzled, she bent to pick it up, wondering why the delivery person hadn’t waited. She returned to the desk and with the telephone wedged between her shoulder and ear, she opened the thin, cream-coloured envelope.

  Inside was a piece of paper, a bright yellow square folded over into a triangle and then into another. There was no doubt about the tone of the message:

  It is too late. Go home.

  3

  The time difference between London and Moscow was insignificant – a mere three hours – and there was no real reason for Amelia to wake up, but it came as no surprise when she did. Only recently had she started experiencing the bliss of sleeping through the night again, but it had been a fragile new milestone she had known not to trust. And now there was something else that added to her restlessness. A message that couldn’t have been any clearer: It is too late. Go home.

  She was unnerved by it, yes, but in a way it also confirmed that her gut feeling to return was the right one. Someone had a reason for not wanting her here. That much was obvious. Was it because they, whoever they were, wanted to keep something hidden?

  As she lay in the dark, the uncomfortable pounding in her chest told her it was useless to try and let herself drift back to sleep. She reached for her mobile phone: the glowing screen showed it was only a few minutes before four. She held her breath and listened. The hotel was quiet, so quiet that she didn’t want to disturb the silence with the n
oise of the television, but without the aid of a distraction there was no chance she would be able to sleep again. Being back in Moscow had stirred up too many memories of the person she had once been and a life that no longer belonged to her.

  The reading light cast a soft yellow light on the folder she’d left untouched next to the bed a few hours earlier. Out of it she pulled a wad of newspaper clippings and print-outs. By now the first article was so familiar she could quote from it, so she picked up the next one and scanned through the information:

  . . . three years ago Sibraz, a Russian mining company with extensive operations in Siberia, identified what it believed to be a prospective diamond deposit, but the company was unable to explore the deposit on their own and had to look for a partner to share the exploration costs. There were more than enough interested parties, but, according to industry sources, the list dwindled as it became clear just how protective Russians are of their exploration licences. It was rumoured that their conditions were extreme and that they were unwilling to share much control with any future partner. The winner, or rather, survivor, was Prism, a medium-sized Canadian mining exploration company with a reputation for taking big risks and more often than not earning big returns from those risks.

  A joint venture was formed between Prism and Sibraz and exploration on the Kola Peninsula was supposed to commence six months later. However, things were slow to start and countless rumours surfaced about the fragility of this particular JV. There were even hints of the deal falling through last summer, but the stories disappeared until a week ago when Prism unexpectedly announced that it had sold its stake in the joint venture for an undisclosed sum to European Mining & Exploration (EME), a UK-listed junior mining company.

  The next several articles gave more or less the same account. All mentioned the fact that the joint venture was never very stable and all speculated about the reasons behind the sudden sale. One of the last clippings contained a comment from Prism’s CEO.