‘Follow him then,’ Wax Angel said.
Tom nodded. A few minutes later, it occurred to him that he should have thanked her but when he looked back she was gone.
The Niva was rusty, with broken lights, and looked like the bastard offspring of a Jeep and a Landrover designed by someone who’d seen neither.
‘Where to?’ the man demanded.
‘How much?’
‘Depends.’
Tom chose the route.
He had intended to be dropped on the corner where the Embankment began but the Niva was warm and he was fighting sleep, so he had the driver pull up outside the embassy instead. Both the militsiya and the British guard inside watched with interest.
Dragging a five-rouble note from his pocket, Tom handed it to the man, who opened his mouth to protest and shut it again when his passenger pointed at the floor. Ten dollars lay in the footwell of the Niva, held down by the rubber mat.
The man scrawled a number on an old copy of Pravda. ‘Any time,’ he said. ‘Ask for Pyotr. Say you’re the foreigner.’
The snow-covered cobbles between the gate and the steps were as unsteady as a ship’s deck in a storm. Climbing the steps was even worse. Having reached the top, Tom was terrified that if he let go of the doorknob he’d fall over.
‘Christ, you look bad.’
He peered at the man who came out to meet him.
‘Andrew,’ the man said. ‘I’m helping you settle in. Are you drunk, sir?’
‘In the line of duty.’
His mouth twitched. ‘Can you prove that?’
‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘Probably.’
‘Just as well. You’re not popular at the moment.’
‘Sir Edward?’
‘More all the people he’s been shouting at since you weren’t here to be shouted at yourself. It’s been a bit of an afternoon. This morning wasn’t great either. He’s demanded to be told the moment you arrive.’
‘Is the medical officer around?’
‘You mean the doctor? Yes. Usual place.’
When Tom just looked at him, the young attaché sighed.
Tom left the surgery an hour later, having confirmed there was nothing worse than Georgian chacha in his system. He’d drunk what felt like his body weight in soda water, napped for forty minutes, had a partial blood transfusion and swallowed tincture of Hovenia dulcis. He’d also washed his face, brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with Listerine. The embassy doctor was ex-medical corps.
He’d been in Belfast too.
Andrew was coming out of the ambassador’s office when Tom appeared in the outer doorway. The woman with him looked away. ‘Ah, I’d heard you were still in the sick bay.’
‘How is Sir Edward?’
‘Incandescent.’
‘No, I mean confident, worried, reticent?’
Tom realized the ambassador’s secretary was listening. She looked back down at her work when he looked over.
‘He’s the ambassador,’ Andrew said.
‘I assume you have a good excuse, Fox.’
‘What did the note say?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The note, sir. What did it say?’
‘We’ve had this discussion. You know what Alex said.’
‘I’m talking about the other note.’
For a second, Sir Edward hovered on the edge of denying there had been another note. Tom watched it happen. Then the fight went out of the man and he sat back, his anger deflating like a ruptured balloon.
‘Who told you about that?’
‘A Georgian. May I ask what the note said?’
Tom knew it was the wrong question the moment the words left his mouth, for all he’d guessed right about there being a second note. A flintiness returned to Sir Edward’s face and his gaze hardened. ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘you may not.’
‘Too personal?’
The man almost rose to the bait. Then he caught himself and bit down on his anger at Tom’s impertinence. When he sat back, he was in control. ‘What it said is none of your business.’
There were two ways to read that.
The note was personal and Sir Edward was damned if Tom was going to know the contents. Or it was beyond Tom’s competence and pay scale. Either way, the man had known for a while his stepdaughter hadn’t simply run away to sulk.
‘Have you told London, sir?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Who here knows?’
‘About the second note? Nobody.’
‘Who knows about the first?’
‘My wife, and Mary Batten.’
‘With respect, sir, perhaps you should tell Mary Batten about this one.’
‘Wait there,’ Sir Edward said.
He vanished into his outer office and shut the door. All Tom could hear was muted conversation. How much of the embassy was bugged by the Russians? How much, if any, by us? The Americans had found a Soviet bug behind their great seal, that damn eagle in a circle behind their ambassador’s desk.
There was something fitting in that.
On a side table was a photograph of Anna and Alex. Anna looked younger and Alex untroubled, barely into her teens. Both were smiling in the shadow of the Colosseum and their smiles seemed real, despite the tourist backdrop.
‘Rome,’ Sir Edward said. ‘They liked Rome.’
He retook his place behind his desk and said, ‘Mary will join us.’
There was an awkward silence. Sir Edward picked up a file and hid himself in whatever was inside. Mary Batten entered without knocking. She was wearing a blue skirt suit that looked almost mockingly smart. Her dark eyes met Tom’s, and some question was asked that Tom failed to answer, because she looked at him coldly and waited for Sir Edward to put down his file.
‘Thank you for dropping by.’
Her face tightened at the ambassador’s careful politeness.
‘Major Fox has something to say.’
That wasn’t the way Tom would have put it. All the same, he sat back in his chair to order what thoughts he had and looked up to find Mary Batten watching him.
‘This is about being forced into that car?’
‘You know about …?’ Of course she did; she’d just mentioned it. ‘You’ve been having me followed?’
‘We’re following the man following you.’
Sir Edward stopped reading his memo.
‘You were told about that, sir.’
‘If you say so.’
‘The question,’ Mary Batten said, ‘is why do the Soviets have a KGB colonel shadowing a British major? One who, without wishing to be rude, is expected to retire as a result of recent difficulties.’
‘Difficulties?’ Sir Edward asked.
Tom had an instant picture of two men dead on the floor of a Boston bar. One was an IRA commander, the other black ops for army intelligence and so far under cover Tom doubted even he remembered where his true loyalties lay.
Tom could still hear the crack of his own Browning and the sudden shocked silence of the customers, with only the commentary to a Red Sox game and the rise and fall of a distant cop siren to break it.
Then the breeze from the door as he left.
‘The best that can be said,’ said Mary Batten, ‘is that nothing can be proved. It’s probably wise not to go into it now. Still, I can see why London decided to park you here to decompress. What did Erekle Gabashville want?’
‘You know him?’
‘Of him, certainly.’
‘His sons were kidnapped. One was left dead at the Kremlin Wall, the other is still missing …’ Tom watched Sir Edward glance at Mary, who shook her head. Obviously neither had heard about the body. ‘Gabashville wants his revenge. But mostly, at this point, he simply wants his other boy back.’
‘Who is this man, Mary?’
‘Vor v zakone, sir. Mafia, with connections.’
Sir Edward kept his gaze on her and waited to see if she had anything else to add. When she didn’t, he said, ‘By connections, I
’m assuming you mean high-level protectors. Why would anyone murder the child of a gangster with connections?’
‘Maybe his protector’s no longer so powerful,’ Tom said. ‘Perhaps it’s revenge, and the killer’s been waiting for this moment. Apparently the Politburo’s at war with itself. The Soviets are big on fighting wars through proxies. Beziki’s definitely a proxy. Maybe whoever killed his son is too …’
‘Beziki said that?’ Mary’s gaze sharpened. ‘About the Politburo?’
‘As good as.’
‘Interesting choice of location for the body.’
‘Very, sir.’ Mary Batten agreed.
‘You’d better tell Mary how this connects to Alex.’
From the look on her face, Mary was already busy joining the dots between the ambassador’s stepdaughter being missing and Beziki’s son being dead, and not liking where those thoughts led her at all.
‘What Sir Edward’s been keeping private,’ Tom said, ‘is that he received a second note. Not from Alex this time. It contained …’ Tom glanced at the ambassador. ‘I’m not sure what it contained.’
‘When did this one arrive, sir?’
Sir Edward looked worried. ‘Just after Tom told Anna and me about the fire.’
Tom thought of Black Sammy, the Sad Sam cat, hanging flayed in his kitchen, felt the bile rise in his throat and decided he should tell these two about that too.
Mary looked grim.
And Sir Edward … Tom spent the rest of that evening replaying Sir Edward’s reaction. The blood drained from his face. There was no other way to describe it. The man went pale, and he gripped his desk so hard his knuckles turned white.
For a moment, Tom thought he might cry.
‘You don’t tell my wife,’ he said finally. There was a quiet fury in his voice. A steeliness, as if a blade had just been unsheathed. ‘This isn’t something Anna needs to know. You keep it to yourself.’
‘Sir …’ Tom protested.
‘I’m serious, Fox.’
‘But at least tell me what the note said.’
‘It’s secret. I mean that. As in, I don’t know your security clearance off the top of my head, but I very much doubt this is something you’re authorized to know.’
To Mary, the ambassador said, ‘Get me a line to London.’ He nodded towards his door and his secretary beyond. ‘Don’t leave it to Grace. I want you to place the call yourself. Fox, you can go. Mary, you’d better stay behind.’
Tom left. Fury at being cut out of the conversation followed him like a cloud.
16
Supper with Beziki
In the three days that followed Tom heard nothing from Sir Edward, had his request to see Mary Batten turned down and was invited to supper by Beziki on the afternoon of the third day. Partly out of bloody-mindedness, mostly because he was fucked if he was going to be condescended to by Sir Edward, he asked Anna Masterton if she’d like to come too. He didn’t mention the cat, though.
The place Beziki suggested was shut for refurbishment, according to a sign outside. The shutters were closed, right enough. And the scaffolding on Gorky Street had made Tom wonder if he and Anna had come to the right place.
They had. Inside, chandeliers glittered, candles flickered and the tables were laid with cloth and silver. On the wall, an engraving showed three hunters cross-legged on grass. They wore muted robes, heavy beards and criss-crossed cartridge belts. The man who handed Tom a wine list could have been their grandson.
‘Has Alex’s relationship with Sir Edward always been difficult?’
‘She took her father’s death badly.’
‘So you mentioned. It was recent?’
‘Alex was six. We were divorcing anyway.’
Empty Shampanskoye glasses stood in front of them. These had been hurried across the moment they entered. But no one had offered a refill and Anna was jumpy enough to leave if Erekle Gabashville didn’t arrive soon.
‘More wine?’ Tom asked.
At her suggestion, he ordered a Tsinandali, which arrived in an ice bucket with a crisp napkin over the top. Tom sniffed the dribble he was poured and nodded to say it was fine, waiting for Anna to take the first sip.
‘How polite,’ she said.
‘Shouldn’t you be somewhere?’
She hesitated on the edge of taking a second sip.
‘I mean …’ Tom looked at his Omega, a present from Caro, as were his cufflinks. As was his shirt come to that. ‘Seven thirty on a Wednesday night. Isn’t there bridge, or something? An embassy wives’ committee to attend?’
‘Don’t be a shit. Edward’s in meetings. Everyone’s in meetings. Well …’ She shrugged. ‘Everyone who matters.’
‘I’m not.’
‘There you go.’
‘He’ll ask how your evening was and you’ll say fine?’
‘Something like that. I won’t lie. But I’m not going to volunteer information unless he asks for specifics.’
‘Tell me again …’
‘I had a call from a militsiya major. Svetlana something. Her English was perfect. Her manner less so. She said she’d heard my daughter was delinquent. And a foreign teenager answering Alex’s description was shoplifting in GUM.’
‘Why didn’t they stop her?’
‘Alex has embassy credentials, for God’s sake. She isn’t even officially missing. Edward won’t tell the Soviets and he won’t tell me why. Maybe the major was just being kind and thought I should know?’
‘What did you do?’
‘Went straight to GUM, obviously.’
Three hundred yards long, a hundred yards wide, three storeys high and roofed in glass, the department store had a hundred and fifty shops selling nothing very much and four hundred thousand people a day looking to buy it. Finding someone in there who didn’t want to be found would be damn near impossible.
‘Any sign?’
‘Nothing,’ Anna admitted. ‘I’d just got back when you called to ask if I wanted to go to supper. You didn’t say we’d be meeting someone else.’
‘Did you get the major’s number?’
She scowled as if he was the one changing the subject. ‘No. I should have done. But I was so excited someone had seen Alex … I know it’s stupid. It’ll be the first thing my husband asks.’
Alex in GUM? Shoplifting?
If she’d simply run away with her boyfriend and they were both at large, then possibly. But Tom figured her boyfriend was dead, killed in that fire. And Alex, well, wherever Alex was, he doubted very much she was wandering department stores. Although the shoplifting was a nice touch.
It’s what delinquent Western girls would do.
Tom wondered who was winding Sir Edward and Anna up and why. He’d barely done more than consider the question before the manager hurried from behind his counter and headed for the door. He helped Erekle Gabashville out of a full-length sable and folded the fur coat carefully over his arm. Tom rose to meet him.
‘What’s she doing here?’
‘You should meet her.’
The man’s eyes flicked to Anna, who sat very still and looked so serene she had to know she was being discussed. All signs of her earlier jumpiness were gone. Tom couldn’t help being impressed.
‘How should I name her. Lady Anna?’
Tom nodded. It would do.
She was Anna, Lady Masterton.
Tom didn’t believe it mattered. Caro would though.
But then Caro was Lady Caroline Fox, daughter of an earl. She wouldn’t revert to her maiden name when they divorced. She’d regard that as common. She’d remain Lady Caroline Fox until she became Lady Caroline Someone-Else.
At various times Caro’s father had been minister for education, minister of defence and home secretary. These days, his own father being dead, he sat in the Lords and on a handful of committees.
Invariably committees that mattered.
He’d decided early on that Margaret Thatcher might not be ‘one of us’ but she was going places and
only a fool would stand in her way. It was a good call and the last few years had been kind to him. He’d begun to talk about his legacy.
After the recent riots in Brixton, Orgreave and the Beanfield, Tom wondered if his legacy would be what he thought it was.
Beziki asked Tom to say he was delighted to make Lady Anna’s acquaintance.
Anna Masterton said how sorry she was to hear of Edvard’s death and she hoped his other son would be returned safely.
‘You told her about that?’
‘I thought the two of you should talk.’
The manager stood squirming on the periphery of this. He knew who and what Gabashville was, without knowing what made him suddenly furious.
‘What matters,’ said Tom, ‘is that we save the children.’
‘Bit late for you though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Tom agreed, feeling pain wash over him like lava. ‘It’s too late for me. It’s not too late for you, though. It’s not too late for her.’
Beziki gripped him by the shoulders.
‘You’re a good man.’
‘There are many who would disagree.’
Letting go, the Georgian laughed. ‘You and me both.’
Turning to the manager, he reeled off a list of dishes and the order in which they should be brought and the length of time to be left between each. Then he nodded politely to Anna, pulled out a chair and seated himself. She winced and he shrugged as it creaked under his weight.
‘You’ve eaten here before?’ Anna asked.
‘Often,’ Beziki said. ‘Never with someone so beautiful.’
Leaning across, he took Anna’s hand and kissed it, then sat back and nodded as dish after dish was delivered from a kitchen that must have half guessed his order in advance.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we all know God doesn’t exist. And Georgia is part of one big happy union. All the same, it was hard work making the world and God was exhausted by the time he finished Russia. That’s why it’s so flat and boring. Being hungry, he told the angels to bring him food. The food was so good he forgot about improving Russia and sent for more. In his hurry to eat it, scraps fell from his plate on to Georgia. That’s why Georgians still respect God. Also why our food is the finest.’
‘I’ll be sure to include that in my report on religion.’
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