Falling

The story

2009-05-05T14:00:00.143+01:00

Part 1

An Englishman the autumn side of young is smitten by a young Russian lady in London, thinking it a grand adventure to join her on her own territory, both naively thinking they'll be left alone to pursue their affair but others less friendly have plans for him. He finds himself with the one who'd set the wheel in motion in the first place, only for her to suffer her own tragedy near the forest of Fontainebleau.

Part 2

Finding himself in Paris by a strange set of circumstances, the people who admit him to their circle are themselves cast as public enemies and must flee Paris, secreted in safehouses across an increasingly enslaved Europe, hidden by sympathizers who applaud their small victories, never far from betrayal, never far from violence and always with the authorities at their heels.

Part 3

It's the late autumn of the civilized world, those of the Section who managed to survive see the money running out and with it - their options. As life descends to the bizarre, so too does unexpected assistance and that's when they finally see why they've ended up north of Jerusalem and what is required of them.

Notes on the story here

Russia 1 - East

2009-05-05T13:55:00.051+01:00

Chapter 2 here

HOME

April, 1996

It was a million to one chance, maybe even more.

‘That comes to £108.99, Mr. Jensen, with the shirts.’ The woman took the Burtons Card, swiped it and began to wrap the purchases.

‘I’ll wear the trousers, if you don’t mind.’

‘Let me remove the labels.’

So that was one job done this Saturday before the Easter weekend. It was always a pleasant drive up the A2, parking near Greenwich and taking the boat to the city. Nice to find some stability at last after he’d come down from the north seeking work, holed up in Mill Hill, scanning the TES on Fridays and visiting Hendon Aircraft Museum to break the monotony.

The break had come last November and he was back in education after a long layoff, this time as a Prep School Head, of all things, debts paid out and now, at one with the world, he skipped down the last few steps from Debenhams and made for the double doors, just as two young ladies sauntered in from Oxford Street and stopped him in his tracks.

London was a city of foreigners but these two were something else again. They had to be those ice dancers you see on television ... they were definitely continental, the way they moved ... he had to find out.

‘Excuse me,’ he asked quickly, lest they walked past and out of his life, ‘but are you … er … Russian?’

‘Da, mi Russkiye,’ the one with the golden hair replied, taking in everything there was of note on him - the cheeky grin, the fairly solid shoulders, the now balding pate, the nerve in even addressing her; she thought she liked his sheer gall.

In the 12ème arrondissement, Cafe Noir was quiet today.

Nicolette Vasseur curled a strand of fair hair round her little finger and shuffled on her bar stool, observing the other woman. ‘Will you take Philippe’s name?’

In her eyes, Geneviève should long ago have pushed her casanova into a yes or no and this was Nicolette's way of pushing her to do it but Mlle Lavacquerie was not the type to push, she was seriously indecisive. The events of five years ago in Paris had sent them both over the edge, they'd both vowed revenge on every man who'd ever treated a woman that way and Nicolette had arranged for her best friend to meet this Philippe Legrande, the only one in Bercy, so she'd been told, who would take their idea for a security section seriously.

He hadn't laughed, Philippe, he'd seen the value of Section 37, ostensibly to expose corrupt officials but it had other distinct political possibilities as well, he'd taken a shine to Geneviève and as usually happened with her, she'd fallen in love, he'd organized the finance and they were off and running.

‘The most Philippe can expect is a hyphenation,’ she murmured. ‘Anyway, he’s not even broached it. If I could think of a way, Nikki, I'd have done it already, the nightmares are back too.’

‘I can deputize.’

‘No, I have to know how the money’s getting through, why they don't just wire it to us. Why must I fly there and why in cash?’

‘Russian law perhaps? I can go if you want.’

‘No, I’ll send Marc, that's more in his line. Besides, there's no point going yet, the next collect's not until July - he'll go a week ahead of me.’

'Seriously, does it really matter? You return with the money, we do what we do, what's the problem?'

'I am. I'm the problem.'

III

‘Do either of you speak English?’ asked Hugh, customers sweeping past as he tried to maintain a place by the counter.

‘Yes, a little,’ replied Golden Hair. That seemed to be the end of that and as he racked his brain for something else to ask, she stepped into the breach: ‘We do shopping but you can come.’

‘Maybe I could even help you.’

They ran the gamut of the perfume counters and every so often they’d poke a fragrant wrist under his nose, then Dark Hair suddenly asked: ‘What do they call you?’

‘Er … Hugh Jensen. And you?’

‘Dilyara … and that’s Anya. I see you prefer blondinki, da?’

‘Not at all. Whatever gave you that idea? Are you hungry, ladies?’

‘Da,’ replied Anya but Dilyara wasn’t so sure they should go down this path. They wanted to try McDonalds and as they ate in the sidestreet of Oxford Street, perched on the black wrought-iron railing surrounding a tree, she seemed nonplussed about how to tackle the burger.

‘Hugh?’ she whispered.

‘Yep?’

‘How do you eat this thing?’

‘With your hands.’

‘I don’t need a spork or a foon?’

He glanced to see if she was pulling his leg but actually, she was deadly serious. ‘Use your hands – hold it in the paper wrapper if you like.’

.o0o.

Greenwich Park was the obvious choice - tube - tickets - the boat with the hollow, distorted commentary booming through the tannoy, all good stuff and an hour later, the three were seated, cross-legged, on the grass near the flower bed fence, soaking up the sunshine and warming to this new association.

‘Where are you both from, may I ask?’

‘From Russia,’ answered Anya.

‘I gathered that, but from where in Russia?’

‘You wouldn’t know it – it’s a town called Shadzhara.’

‘Actually, I do know it - an academic from there visited our school - not long back. Care to tell me?’

‘Hmmm. It’s in the east, halfway to the Urals, as you call them. We have about a million people, half Russian, half Shadzhari and about 80 other nationalities.’

‘You speak good English.’

‘We learn it nine years,” said Dilyara. ‘We’re on Berlitz course,’ she thought to add, ‘for Anya’s job, you know and I came too.’

‘Do you teach English? I mean, what’s your interest in it?’

‘Anya works for airline company; I do this and that.’

That caused a lull in the conversation and Hugh realized he’d have to do something to keep the momentum going.

‘Would you like to see the deer?’

With eight lanes of traffic gridlocked below on Leningradskaya, Sergei Safin was tearing at his dried fish. Before him on the table sat two empty glasses and one half full bottle of Kristalnaya Vodka.

Safin watched the man opposite out of the corner of his eye and it put him off his food. The Beast was gross, he'd seen military service, he’d done time for some minor infraction after leaving the army and then, unable to find gainful employment of the kind he’d hoped for, had simply devoted himself to the task of making money hand over fist, money Safin envied.

Attaching himself to an organization which made such money, The Beast had soon accrued some powerful protection, in return for certain favours of a delicate nature. A good arrangement all round, but today he’d been compromised.

‘Sirozh,’ he said quietly, ‘you appear to have me over a barrel,’ indicating the graphic photo on the table, turning it face down with his podgy fingers. ‘What exactly do you want, while you still can?’

‘I'd like to feel, Oleg Alexandrovich, that there'll be no accident to the head of the family.’

‘You’re in security – what could possibly happen?’ The younger man smiled, a point not lost on the Beast. ‘Why didn’t you just ask me, Sirozh? I would have agreed, without all this - this high drama. Your sister was perfectly happy to -’

‘We need a guarantee.’

‘And now you’re certain you’ve bought that?’

The younger man wasn’t certain, no and he’d had to use his sister as a sort of family insurance policy; it now looked increasingly as if it might not have been enough.

He hoped his sister would understand.

The executive meeting at the south London school on the second Monday was grimmer than usual, the Principal’s mouth a tight line as he came through, settled down, arranged his notes and began.

The prognosis was not good.

Basically, someone in the school’s recent past – the bad old days - had been cooking the books, contracting sub-standard constructors for the basic edifice and the whole thing had finally imploded. Even the damning accounts had disappeared and this was not good in such a small school, particularly in these new days, with Ofsted throwing its weight about.

Robin Wilson gave a little cough and spoke. ‘I need hardly remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that we can’t meet the cost of the renovations at this moment, given the monthly salaries we’re currently paying and something will have to give, I’m afraid. Any suggestions?’

Ashen faces stared back at him and they waited for the next item on the agenda but there was not to be one. ‘Thank you. Give it some thought and we’ll discuss this on Thursday, at 16:20. Anyone can't make that?’

The staff trooped out and he took Hugh and Paul Medhurst aside to ask them from where they felt the first cuts should come.

Both promised to think on’t.

‘Fancy a pint, Hugh?’ asked Paul as they stepped onto the flagstones, a weak sun popping out from behind a bank of clouds and immediately hiding itself again.

‘Why not?’

Silence prevailed all the way over to the Rose and Crown but the first pint loosened Paul’s tongue. ‘I know it’s not the done thing but I can guess your salary as Prep Head, given mine as Head of the Sixth Form College. You catch my drift?’

‘Loud and clear.’

‘We’d save Robin the requisite deposit on the repairs, along with four who’d be offloaded anyway – French and Maths for a start.’

They sipped silently for a minute.

‘You’d probably be retained as Junior Head,’ said Paul, ‘but on half the money. You present well.’

‘As do you. I’m obviously not going to suggest it to him but I think Robin should retain Lisa as nominal head and take on the admin himself.’

‘Josephine would double up with my role.’

‘What would you do if it came to it, Paul?’

‘Not sure really. Maybe go back to Horsham, find some work at my old school. You?’

‘I think I might do something remarkably crazy.’

‘Such as?’

‘Going to Russia.’

.o0o.

Three evenings later, at a small table at the Traveller’s Arms, down the A2, sat an Infant Mistress and a soon to be ex-Prep School Head.

Lisa James gazed over and knew she was expected to comment. ‘What do you really want from me, Hugh … to give you the seal of approval? You jumped before you were pushed - I would have waited - but still you tell me it was inevitable.’ She suddenly grinned. ‘I can guess what really precipitated it though.’

‘Does it look bad from where you sit?’

‘Which of them are you looking at?’ she asked, taking a mouthful.

‘I have Anya in mind.’

‘I thought as much, at least you’re honest. Bit of an age difference.’

‘So forget it, eh?’

‘I didn’t say that. What about children? Where would you live? How would you live on a Russian salary - what is it these days - sixty pounds a month? How would the family accept you anyway, with your track record – two wives and no children - doesn’t look so good.’

‘There were children.’

‘But not yours. Do you want kids?’

‘Not particularly but if she does, I’m still within range.’

‘Of course she’ll want and why isn’t she married already? You have to consider that too. You know nothing about her and anyway - are you sure she feels the same way about you going there?’

‘Seemed to when I phoned yesterday. Look, this is a firm job offer, so the romantic side hardly matters at this point –’

‘Oh, come off it. I've seen the photo, remember.’

‘All right, true confessions - it wasn't discussed but I'm sure she knew what was on my mind. She made no excuses whatsoever, dropped no hints that it might be a bad idea … it’s just that … well … with this thing imploding here, Lisa, it’s either the dole queue and hours poring over the TES again or else ... well ... let me get the refills.’

She drank the last few drops and gazed at the glass for want of something to do. When he returned, she said, 'It's all so sudden. Couldn't you hold on until the end of Michaelmas Term? It would help me.'

'I would do but there are a few factors - the cash just isn't there to run both you and me any more, with this offer from Shadzhara, I have somewhere to go and it's only fair on parents and kids that we announce it early and get you prepared. You'll need to work with Robin and start talking to the parents, answering their questions. For me to come back after summer and hang around like a bad smell is no good for anyone.

She looked across at him and finally said, 'I hope you know what you're doing.'

‘Anyway, what about Riccardo?’

She snorted. ‘I’m working on it.’

‘Plenty of time.’

‘Hugh, I’m approaching thirty. That’s not plenty of time.’

July, 1996

In Shadzhara, in the old part of town, it was cheerful enough today, even if cramped and stuffy in the heat.

Ludmilla Valerievna Petrova congratulated the section, the Sovyetski champagne flowed, they tucked into the kolbasa and red caviar on rye plus the inevitable salads. The mild sunshine, through one cracked pane of glass, cast a jagged shadow upon the table.

Ksenia Sharova, half-mockingly referred to as The Siren, made the speech, thanking Ludmilla Valerievna - their coup in London couldn't have been achieved without back up and so on and so on.

She hated being cooped up inside old state buildings with poor ventilation, her nylons flecked with slush from the thawing roads. It still wasn’t wise to complain too fervently; communism might have died as a political force, the oligarchs were running amok in the scramble for the dollar but old habits died hard in the security services and people didn’t appreciate the unappreciative.

In the Russia of the mid-90s, you did what you had to do, so Ksenia kept her own counsel, she and brother Zhenya accepted the accolades and awaited their return to London.

VII

Marc Lacour checked the travel case on his home scales and it weighed in under 14 kilos.

Bon.

He checked the mirror and decided the hair needed cropping before departure; also, the designer stubble wouldn’t do for this job.

Sitting at the kitchen table he'd need to replace, he looked over the five pages of notes and frowned - the cash seemed to peter out at Nizhny and restart in Shadzhara, further east. Who was getting paid for what and who was couriering it? More importantly, what sort of business was generating that sort of cash, why was it always in notes and why did Mademoiselle always have to travel to Shadzhara?

Geneviève was being dropped off in twenty minutes.

VIII

The Moscow end had been primed, Zhenya had already taken through the first tape and, predictably, had left Ksenia the task of taking through the second and more damaging.

She needed a bunny, someone who was not likely to be searched. It could be one of her countrymen but chances were they knew the ropes. Yes, what she needed was a bunny. Looking once more in the mirror, she flashed that famous smile and knew she'd always have to smile to get what she wanted. When she didn't smile, her face was hard and reflected the life she'd had.

At last, satisfied, she gathered her cabin bag, keys and the door card, looked around, hadn't left anything, took the lift down, paid the Charing Cross receptionist, saw the car pull up and the porter following with her wheelie case.

In the back seat, she thought out how she'd do it, went over it in her mind, then looked out of the window as they joined the M4, wondering about who occupied all those little boxes in a row in this green land.

.o0o.

At Orly, Marc sipped one last coffee with the petite Nicolette, she of the anxious grin and the fair hair swept up in a bun.

For her part, she thought he looked quite dashing this morning in his charcoal blouson, polo tee and cords but knowing his lack of interest in things sartorial, concluded there’d been a female behind the choice.

Now who?

Not Genevieve, she was fairly sure - Mademoiselle was more conservative. Hmmm - Francine? Nikki hadn’t heard of anything going on there and she’d have been the first to pick up on that.

Ah, she had it - the efficient young Claudette, non? ‘Claudette not travelling with you, Marc?’ The shot found its target. ‘Oh Marc, surely not with Claudette?’

‘What’s wrong with Claudette?’ came the reply.

‘Well ... er ... nothing, nothing at all. Will we hear wedding bells?’

Now it was his turn to grin. ‘The brain works overtime with you, Nikki, doesn’t it?’

He said his farewells and went through, the plane took off and in the next sentient moment, he was once again queuing at Sheremetyevo 2 immigration control, discovering that the stamp on his visa was not sufficiently over the photo and having to fork out the equivalent of $US152 plus 400 roubles for inconveniencing the authorities, all of which bemused rather than annoyed him – he’d heard horror stories of Sheremetyevo and considered he’d got off rather lightly, all told.

A taxi took him to the station for eastbound trains and it was now a case of killing a few hours until the 19.28 departure. He checked his bag in at the left luggage and went for a wander.

Aeroflot SU 241 for Moscow was open for check-in at Heathrow.

In the slow moving queue, about the only excitement, Hugh felt, was when a young lady accidentally fell against him, knocking his cabin bag to the ground, spilling all the documents, photos, and bits and pieces over the concourse floor.

At second glance, he wondered if they cloned them over there - sculpted face, athletic figure, high cheek bones and light blue-grey, melancholy eyes.

The young woman apologized profusely, in heavily accented English, scrambling over the floor, helping put them back in his pack but when he protested, she simply disappeared. Not that there was anything valuable in there – the cash and documents were in his special underpants with the holdall gusset, one of his inventions but still - he did an inventory as far as he could remember.

All through that flight, her eyes remained on his mind. Did they all have melancholy eyes like that?

.o0o.

Over Russia proper, Hugh looked down from the cabin window onto the forest below; it was easy to make out a long straight road with bumper to bumper traffic and he could see a cruise ship on the meandering river - that might be something nice to try out one day, he thought, as the last of the whisky in the plastic beaker went down the throat rather neatly.

The moment they hit the ground in Moscow, passengers were out of their seats, scrambling for baggage from the stowage lockers, the hostess pleading through the intercom for them to remain seated - he grinned - then, in next to no time, they were in the customs area.

Two uniformed, auburn haired women were sharing a private joke; one took up her place in the booth. She seemed friendly enough, which augured well and it certainly began pleasantly enough until her eye caught the visa.

The face fell, the pouting lips tightened, she left the booth to consult with her superior; an eternity later she returned; there was a problem with the photograph, the stamp hadn’t been placed correctly over the corner; no it wasn’t incidental, he’d have to wait over to one side and his bags would be held for the next plane back in the morning.

One of the airline officials now slid over to him and spoke soothingly. ‘It can be resolved, my friend, don’t worry, the consulate can solve this problem of yours.’

Nervous waiting followed, interminable waiting but eventually the official returned with a spring in his step and a bundle of documents; all was well. Did Mr. Jensen have dollars? A little matter of $US152 plus 400 roubles fine for inconveniencing the authorities.

Anyway, it got the clunk of stamp on passport and now followed the unwanted attentions of the unofficial, deregulated taxi drivers, vying with each other for his fare. He’d prepaid Intourist for a taxi to the station and his lift was meant to have been here by 17:00 but there was still no sign.

Hugh bought a drink, found a free table and watched the door for a man in a hurry.

.o0o.

The driver rushed in at 17:45, thin and wiry, rubbing his moustache, knowing he was late. He also knew how to cut through Moscow’s peak hour traffic, Hugh’s hands gripping the door handle as the Muscovite mounted footpaths and shaved parked cars with his wheel arches, all the while keeping up a jaunty monologue.

‘You only true Moskvitch if you born inside Garden Circle ring road.’

‘Watch the old lady!’

‘Da, da .. ya Moskvitch –’

‘Tovarishch, the old lady! For goodness sake.’

‘No to worry, friend,’ puzzlement on his face. ‘Everything normal, khorosho.’

The Volga shot through gaps and brushed curbsides but they got to the train on time, screeching to a halt at an angle to the traffic, the driver grabbing Hugh’s case and shoving his way through the throng towards the carriage in its grey-green livery, Hugh tagging along as best he could, avoiding random passengers lugging tartan pvc bags, carrying their worldly possessions most like.

He’d taken half a ‘lux’ and was relieved to see a frizzy-haired chap with stubble, French as it turned out, which augured well. Expecting to have to speak Russian, he could practise his French instead, that is if the other could stand it and if not, the man was bound to fancy a tipple or two.

.o0o.

The train gave a shudder at 19:28, creaked a little, then shuffled out of Moscow into the more open countryside, slowly picking up speed.

The wooden sliding door was flung open, and with the increased noise came a uniformed woman, perching on the olive vinyl bench with a sort of bus conductor’s leather satchel at the ready. Some passing girl in the corridor said they wanted tickets, passports and some money, the Frenchman was still non-plussed so Hugh pretended to translate and all was well.

After she’d collected, neatly folded and stowed the items in her satchel for the night and offered heavily sugared tea in glasses jammed into ornate metal holders, there was relative peace and both finally felt they could relax for the first time. The silver birch trees began to rollick past outside as the train settled into its rhythm and both men settled back on their bunks.

Neither Hugh’s French nor the Frenchman’s Russian passed muster, so they settled on English as the medium, both wanting to know what the other was doing heading for this eastern outpost.

Marc thought Hugh’s story the most romantic he’d heard in a long while.

‘Do you really think so?’ asked Hugh. ‘Tell you what, if you give me your mobile number, Marc, I’ll give it to her best friend Dilyara tomorrow –’

‘Not to Anya herself?’ he smiled.

‘- and I’ll say there’s a wonderful Frenchman who came here just for her and who’s expecting her call. What do you say?’

Lacour handed over a card, Hugh apologized that he had no business card in return, they lapsed into silence again, lying on their bunks, until Mark came out with, ‘I’m not really French, you know, though it helps a lot with the girls.’

He had Jensen’s attention.

‘Actually, our family roots are French but two generations ago, they went to Warminster, of all places, settled down and I’m from that branch of the family.’

‘I thought the English was a bit too good, yet you retain the French accent.’

‘My parents returned to Châtelet-en-Brie when I was four, I grew up in Melun and the French generally take me as one of them. Your accent has something in it as well, I think. South African? Educated but it has something else.’

‘Bit of antipodaean, actually - the family’s split between both places.’

‘So we have our first common ground. Let me show you some photos of my two elder sisters.’ Hugh scrutinized each in turn and the family resemblance was there – the long-bridged nose, the pleasing curve to the jaw, the wavy hair.

‘And this one?’ Hugh asked.

‘That’s Marie-Ange. I don't know why I brought that really. It's in the past now.'

Hugh produced his, of Anya and Dilyara.'

'Ah, I see.'

.o0o.

The train came to a shuddering halt only two to three hours out of Moscow, Shadzhara still another nine hours or so away.

It had started raining some time earlier, the window of the compartment was partially fogged and droplets were trickling down outside of the pane. Rubbing the glass, Hugh could just make out some figures over by another stationary train – obviously they were at some station and much as he tried to glimpse its name, it was to no avail.

People were jostling for position out there, holding up crystal chandeliers and all sorts of glassware for passengers to peruse; a handful of passengers actually did step down to buy and were immediately set upon by up to fifteen vendors trying to push their wares onto them.

He remembered he’d read about it now - Vekovka, where the workers were paid in their own products and had to sell them to passers-by to survive. This was a legacy of the Soviet days no doubt.

Appalling.

One girl of about twenty, cigarette hanging from her mouth, had become bored, she was now joined by a young spiv, clearly on the make, right under the carriage window and though neither Marc nor Hugh could make out the words, the tone was guttural and the intonation harsh.

‘Fancy her?’ smiled Marc and Hugh’s look said it all. ‘So what type do you fancy?’

‘I suspect it’s more a case of what they fancy,’ he sighed.

‘You were quite charming to that girl in the restaurant car.’

‘Marc, you’re what … eight to ten years younger than me, maybe unmarried, you can play the field but I have my eye on one only.'

'Bon chance.'

Sergei Safin was bored, waiting for the call.

The tie had been loosened, his shirt opened at the neck, only the pips on the epaulettes of his khaki jacket indicated his rank. Feet up on the other wooden chair in the office, he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, ran powerful fingers through his unruly fair hair and then the cacophany of the phone began.

‘Da? Khorosho. Da. You’re sure? Khorosho. Kama Camp? Tomorrow morning, all right, I’ll find him; he’ll be the centre of attention, won’t he?’

The woman continued at the other end and Safin assured her: ‘Ladno, I promise - I’ll just observe, that’s all.’

He replaced the receiver and went out for a drink.

.o0o.

07:12 saw Lacour and Jensen both stepping over the tracks at Shadzhara railway station - no roofed in platforms here - and there were three cars waiting to take a largish party, including Hugh, straight down to Kama Camp, the resort by the Kama River. These were his new school colleagues but of Anya and Dilyara, there was no sign.

Marc Lacour bid adieu and seemed to slip into the shadows.

Hugh took one quick look at the Kama as their car pulled out and drove past the imposing white Kremlin with its leaning, brown bricked tower and rattled past low, cream coloured buildings, broad waterways and stone Venetian bridges.

The oppressively hot day was improved not one bit by the potholed road and he settled back for the panorama, the Lada alternately racing past and suddenly slowing to a crawl, then back to breakneck again.

An hour later, they turned left into another road and he saw the river on the right. They eventually slowed, turned right through the Soviet green wrought iron gate – there was an inscription in Cyrillic in the wrought iron archway, which he suspected might say something like Arbeitet Macht Frei and now they came out on a domed, flying saucer shaped building, which, had it been in the west, might have been labelled art deco.

A short distance from this, to the left, was a long table under the silver beriozi trees which they now joined, many guests, many speeches, every new speech by someone further down the table a signal to raise glasses.

A young man standing behind Hugh saw it as his job to keep the foreigner’s glass full of vodka.

.o0o.

The speeches wore on.

The day wore on.

Hugh excused himself and stumbled some distance in search of a tree, just as Dilyara appeared from the forest, an exotic bird in olive bathing costume and yellow wrap. On autopilot, he kissed her cheek and she nodded - so Mr. Jensen had come to her home after all.

Swaying slightly from the heat and vodka, which impressed her not, he reached into his pocket and extracted Paul’s card.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

‘It’s a Frenchman who’s patiently awaiting your phone call at his Hotel, handsome chap and he’s heard all about you.’

Dilyara glanced again at the card and commented, ‘And what if I already have a perfectly good boyfriend?’

‘I’m sure you have to beat them off with a stick, Dilyara. Do you think you could show both of us the city tomorrow?’

She murmured, ‘I think Anya has plans for you tomorrow.’

Reason now reached Hugh’s foggy brain, he went to put the card away but her hand stopped him, she took it and slipped it inside the neck of her costume. ‘Never know what might happen, do we? Did you bring your swimming costume?’

‘Er ... no,’ he slurred.

‘Pity,’ she replied, finding a place on his cheek and kissing him there; she turned and went back to the forest.

He stood there for some seconds, turned and stumbled back to the others.

.o0o.

The next morning, Anya finally turned up with her father in a red Zhigoulie, the local variant of the Lada, she sat in the front, he in the back; the ride wasn’t too bumpy but it was in silence.

The city came into view, they drove through the outskirts and then the father pulled up outside a flat in the Kvartel area - Anya called it ‘the edge of geography’ - one of those long housing blocks, nine storeys high, a hundred and forty flats in one block. Within the kilometre square, houses were interconnected by a labyrinth of service roads, most connecting with others, some not, some leading to archways through one of the houses, all surfaces potholed and in need of urgent repair.

Her own flat was a brisk twelve minute walk away, through the yards between these service roads and houses, bleak yards generally, some leafy and pleasant, all of them with tubular metal rug-beating frames and broken children’s play equipment.

She went inside, then returned some minutes later and a rapid Russian conversation ensued, the father not happy, thick fingers drumming impatiently on the roof of the car. Anya poked her head through the window and announced, ‘They’re redecorating your flat; you can’t stay here. Would you mind staying with me instead?’

‘For how long?’

‘For the rest of the summer.’

Gulp.

All belongings were deposited upstairs at her house, he met Anya’s mother in passing and the usual head self-consciously dipped, broad smiled greetings were exchanged, then Anya asked, ‘Can you be ready in five minutes? To go to the Garden.’

‘Garden, what garden? Do I need to pack?’

‘Pack?’

‘Clothes, things, you know, to take with me.’

‘Enough for a few days, da.’

Seven minutes later, they were en route for The Garden, to Zhilploshatka, on the outskirts of town and the heat had not become any less oppressive. Hugh stole a glance across at her in the car, she allowed herself the quickest of smiles and just as quickly, it faded. He wondered what was going on here.

He was also wondering why the Russians always had to rush to and fro - was there some legal time limit to each journey or were they just charged by the minute?

Dilyara met Marc at Cafe Giuseppe, on the broad, tree-lined administrative street called Kryemlyovskaya, high up on the ridge, looking down over the old town. It was shortly after opening, 09:45.

If she was expecting a wolf, she found a lamb, a well-dressed lamb too, with perfect manners and with the grace to ask what her tastes were. She hoped he wouldn’t ask because the silly reason she’d chosen the place was no more than that it was originally called the Hotel France.

Besides, it was the perfect stepping off point for the little tour she’d organized but she’d have to put him straight on alcohol. Also, there was something she’d read, that in France there were certain sensitivities about Muslims in some quarters and she wasn’t sure how Marc was placed that way, whether he’d react negatively once he knew she was Muslim.

After a coffee and cakes made on the premises, he paid up, they embarked on their tour and the conversation was little more than desultory, again using English as the medium, he asking about her family and friends, she asking about Paris and French life in general.

‘You say you live in three rooms?’

‘Da.’

‘You mean three bedrooms?’

‘Three rooms. One’s a living area during the day, one’s a study with books and one’s for storing things. At night, they become bedrooms.’

‘Really?’

They sauntered along the footpath a hundred metres or so and then Dilyara suddenly cut through a clear area between two buildings and they were separated by a stone rampart. When they eventually met up again, she murmured something in Russian, he asked, she explained.

'Privyet na sto lyet. It's for good luck, you know, so we're not separated for real.'

'Ah.'

By Lake Nabak, the two of them leaning over a parapet set above the lower walkway, his calm presence was pleasing, quite different to the local guys, yet his conversation lacked their earthy repartee. His awkward self-assurance, if there were such a thing, was hard to get a line on.

For his part, it was her long dark hair and eyes which did the damage. He'd heard they were exotic in this part of the world and now he saw it was so. They paused by the lake wall.

‘When must you leave?’ she asked.

‘This evening – this is the last day.’

‘Will you return?’

‘Now that I have a reason.’

‘You’re French,’ she chuckled nervously, ‘you’d say anything.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry. I just get a bit anxious when I like someone a lot.’

‘Dilyara, if you like, you can visit me in Paris. Would you do that?’ As she didn’t reply, he added quickly, ‘Then perhaps I could phone you sometime?’

She smiled and wrote the number on the piece of paper he offered, with the pen he offered. He folded the slip carefully, placed it in his wallet and as he was clearly not going to make any other move himself, she quickly touched his cheek with the fingers of one hand and then her lips, causing him to blush.

XII

‘Does everyone have a garden outside the city?’ asked Hugh, as the car slowed over a broken section of asphalt.

Anya turned round to face him. ‘Families need somewhere to grow fruit and vegetables for the winter. Only those who work stay in the city – those or the poor.’ The father drove on, not sure if he liked the yabber yabber yabber of the English language or not.

The rough approach road was like something from ancient photos of cities, bordered by rickety wooden fences. Eventually they were adjacent to a green painted weatherboard doll’s house, overhung by leafy trees which had grown to full height and width over the decades, the vine-entangled verandah on the far side looking out upon row upon row of cabbages, potatoes and tomatoes, with the berry trees behind that again - all irrigated.

They went through.

In the far left corner, above the toilet, was the Tin Roof she’d said was for suntanning, accessible only by stepladder. In the far right corner was the banya – the Russian sauna they’d apparently enjoy in the early evening.

And in the middle, under a huge apple tree, was The Table, the centrepiece of the whole garden.

From around the corner of the doll’s house now came an elderly couple and the pieces fell into place. It was their garden, their pride and joy. The grandfather was a good looking cove, about Hugh’s height, with wiry strength in a thin body; the grandmother was not undernourished and now she beamed from ear to ear.

She saw Hugh gazing at The Table and asked, through Anya, ‘Lunch. You must be hungry.’

The reason he’d really been scrutinizing the Table was the mobile telephone carelessly left lying there. In the west - yes at that time but here, in this province … well, he was puzzled and besides, it wasn’t like his chunky vodaphone – it was the small, two piece, snap-open variety.

XIII

Zhenya was sitting in the kitchen of Ksenia’s soon-to-be-offloaded flat in Hadi Taktash, an area she didn’t mind in the least vacating and consequently, the price of the one room apartment was only going to realize around eight thousand dollars.

It’d been bought three years ago for four and a half so she wasn’t losing on the deal and yet she’d need to find another twelve for the two-room in the new area north of the river, where they hadn’t destroyed the forest. One of the first with extended credit in this land, it struck her that this was merely the vanguard for an almighty rush of credit once it became generally available to the average punter but what the heck – the new place was a dream with its parquet floors and stocked with western whitegoods.

Zhenya sipped on his black tea, long legs either side of the reversed chair and gazed at her. ‘So why face-to-face, Ksush? Why not by phone?’

‘You know why.’

‘What’s your problem? You’re sounding more like Valerievna every day.’

‘It’s Finmart, Zhenya, that’s the problem.’

He groaned. ‘Did she put you up to this?’

‘Zhenya, if you compromise the section, it’s not only you who go down, I’m tarnished along with you ... I don’t want that.’

He narrowed his eyes, grinned and asked, ‘Are you going to arrange an accident?'

‘I just might if you don’t wake up.’

Zhenya sprang up and almost immediately slowed down again, deliberately placing one foot before the other, with veiled menace, until he was behind his sister, a position she’d never have allowed him to occupy had it been anyone else. Even now, she was poised to counter him.

He slipped first his hands, then his forearms over her shoulders and she knew the move of old. ‘Don’t worry, Sestra, don’t concern yourself,’ he reassured her in his version of a silky voice, hands now clasped together in front of her neck and turning his forearms inward towards her arteries.

She sat motionless.

Then he laughed, released her and returned to his chair, all bonhomie. She, on the other hand, continued to sit motionless, her eyes observing.

.o0o.

In an office on the outskirts of Shadzhara, Viktor Igorovich wound up his festivities about 23:00.

His old cronies from the tax police were putting on the regulation knees-up and they fell roughly into two categories – those who understood and wished him all the best with his new English language venture and those who failed to understand how he could give away the camaraderie for some vague notion of self improvement.

Actually, he’d been learning English for years, he'd been part of the soviet youth underground which listened to British music whenever bootleg copies found themselves past the Iron Curtain and there was always the Samizdat. Now he’d made a promise to himself to knuckle down and pursue English to the point where he’d be taken for a native, he’d buy cassettes, he’d travel … if he could scrape together the money, of course.

That day he swore off all but the odd social drink and the cavalier lifestyle. Putting his Paul McCartney cassette into his player, he readied himself for bed, frowning at the triceps in the mirror - ten days off training and he was already going soft.

Chapter 2 here

HOME

Russia 2 - The Garden

2009-05-05T13:54:00.023+01:00

Chapter 1 here ... Chapter 3 here

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I

The meal in the Garden hit the spot - meat and vegetable soup, marinaded chicken pieces and salad, everything fresh, especially the berries they’d picked to have with the tea and Hugh saw that they were a tea drinking nation, in a highly ritualized way, as in the days of the Raj.

Anya explained that the best tea came overland, presumably meaning from Ceylon but surely that meant over the sea?

Never mind.

If language was a barrier, the spirit of goodwill was not and he was being plied with bowl after bowl, until it dawned on him that they were going to keep doing this until he somehow stopped them. Anya’s eyes were creased with laughter and when she judged the moment appropriate, told him to say, ‘Na yel’sa,’ with the stress on the ‘yel’, then, ‘Spasibo.’

Things began to be cleared away.

The two of them went for a wander after that, he in boat shoes and long shorts, she wearing a light cotton shirt reaching down to her knees, gathered in at the waist, flip-flops on her slender feet and sporting a broad-brimmed straw hat.

The sun was beating down something awful, as five minutes or so later they reached a little lake, where she shed her outer shirt, revealing a one piece costume, quite modest but clingy all the same.

Gingerly, she stepped into the water, turned and beckoned him, now revealing herself to be a powerful swimmer, making it to near the middle of the lake well before him and he was no slouch in the water.

As he swam up, she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, laughed, released him and swam hell for leather back to the bank but this time he pipped her by a head.

.o0o.

At the garden once more, they sunbathed, she on her tin roof, he below on a deck chair, a nice afternoon really and as evening closed in, the grandparents came back from a visit to a neighbour.

Anya came down the ladder and showed him two Nivea caps. ‘Do you know what these are for?’

‘Er … no.’

‘I read you shouldn’t suntan your nipples – it’s bad for your health.’ She went back quickly to the doll’s house to change, leaving him to muse on that.

An hour later, a whiff of smoke emerged from the banya chimney and anxiety gripped yet again - did they … er … expect him to … er … join them there … in the nuddy? He breached it with her but she explained that no, as guest, he’d be the first through - he asked if the grandfather needed any help getting things ready.

Apparently not.

Clutching a towel and a clean change, he followed her to the outer door which creaked open, they went in and this was clearly just the outer room for changing; she now patiently waited for him to do so and noted his redness from the sun.

Then they went into the next room and the heat hit.

Here was a wooden slatted floor, presumably over concrete and it was clearly used to being awash. Big swishes of some birchy type were in the corner and she saw him looking askance at those. Grabbing one, she began to hit her back and neck with it and he understood.

‘You’re doing that to me? Or do I do that to you?’

‘It’s for you, Hugh; you take it in with you.’

.o0o.

Supper on the verandah, two hours later, comprised fish, tomatoes, black bread and oukrop [dill], with watermelon then tea for afters. The crystal clear air and the quietness of the Russian countryside, the banya, the food, the grandparents and finally her – they'd all begun to seep into the soul on what was really his first proper Russian day.

It was time to retire for the night; she went to one room with them, he to the other and of course, it had to be like this.

All proper and above board.

Deep silence now fell on the Garden but of course, Hugh couldn’t sleep, not on this first night of possibility. He turned over on his back, put hands behind his head ... turned on his side, then onto his back again ... restless, listening, waiting. He willed her to come, willed her but she didn’t come.

She obstinately didn’t.

Then, suddenly, she was there, silhouetted, almost naked in the moonlight, the outline of her dishevelled hair wreaking more havoc than he cared to admit. Sensing he was wide awake, she reached into a drawer for a T-shirt, took one look over her bare shoulder at him and went back to the other room, threw the T-shirt on the chair - she hadn’t needed it anyway - and flopped onto her bed.

Turning onto her side and staring out of the window, the half light crossed her thighs and she didn’t really know what to think. If he’d been sweet on Dilyara, well, she’d have been most annoyed - angry, in fact. He was an opportunist, her Mr. Jensen, trying things out and never having the vaguest notion what he was in for but so was she and he was her captive for the summer.

Did she need that?

Just what were his intentions?

What were hers, if it came to that? She needed to organize her defences.

Why had she invited him here anyway? He was like a fish out of water and it wasn't so much the age but that he had absolutely nothing in common with anyone here.

II

Dilyara occupied the flat her parents had vacated when they’d left the city and retired to the forest.

That much was excellent but the down side was that her younger brother, by one year, also occupied the flat and despite the agreement they had and despite the good relations between the two, it was next to impossible to bring anyone home. Lying on her bed, she reasoned she’d have to go to Marc instead but the difficulty was that he’d already left for Nizhny Novgorod that morning.

On a whim, she phoned his mobile and hoped he wouldn’t be angry at the expense.

Actually, he was delighted. ‘You’re in Shadzhara? Oui? Can’t hear you well … Oui … Excellent … Excellent … Pardon? Dilyara, that’s not possible … Non, non, you don’t see … I am on a job from home … they are paying me for results and it is ... well ... delicate … Non, non, not that but I might have to move fast, to go here and there –’

He listened to the low voice at the Shadzhara end, stared at his mobile for a few moments and replied, ‘I know all that … yes, I know you wouldn’t but you would still be my responsibility, if anything happened. These are serious people.’

There was dead silence at the other end.

Then he conceded, ‘Alors. All right but when you arrive, you’ll have to take a car to an address I’ll give you now – it’s not exactly where I’m staying … All right?’

He gave the address and a time on the morrow to meet, she put down the receiver and he snapped his mobile closed.

Alors.

III

The next sound at The Garden was the squawking of the birds in the trees outside the little window next morning, Hugh heard the crackling of potatoes being fried in the kitchenette, yawned, got up, dressed and went outside to greet a lovely day. The grandmother beamed and handed him a towel, indicating the wash basin around the side of the house.

Anya was on tiptoes, picking berries and breakfast was almost ready on the verandah. He wandered over, she kept her eyes trained on the berries above and asked, ‘What do you expect from me, Hugh?’

He smiled. ‘I expect nothing but I hope for everything.’

‘I’m taken, I have … a boyfriend.’

‘Where is he?’

She stewed over that one for a few moments. ‘Shadzhara’s like a village, Hugh - don’t you understand that? People would talk. They’re already talking and it’s still only summer.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘I didn’t make any promises in London, did I?’

‘No, you didn’t, not at all. Look Anya, I can stay in my new flat, keep my distance from you and maybe meet someone else, do my year and just return to Britain. No one gets hurt, no one is under any pressure. I’m not asking for anything.’

‘Yes you are. Just by coming all this way, just by accepting my invitation, just by thinking you can pull this off, you’re making a very big statement.’

He accepted her point with a self-conscious smile. ‘We all work on signals, don’t we? I never detected any really negative signals from you and believe me, I’ve listened out for them and looked for them because no one likes rejection. So on that basis, here I am.’

‘Like the smell of blood to a shark.’

‘Did you have to say that?’

‘Don’t mind me, Hugh. It’s just me – I’m defensive when someone gets close. I like someone close but then I close the shutters. I’m not so sure about the long term with you.’

‘As you wish.’

The grandfather took a phone call over at the table and then another call followed. This time he handed the mobile to Hugh.

‘Da?’

‘Mr. Jensen?’ A female voice, Russian, familiar somehow, accented English.

‘Who’s this?’

‘You might remember me from Heathrow – in London.’ He smiled at the ‘in London’. ‘I think I might have dropped my cassette by mistake while I was helping you. Did you find a tape by Linda, by any chance?’

‘I’ll have a look. Linda, you say? We’re not in the city just now. Who are you anyway? What’s your name?’

‘Please put it in an envelope and post it to the address I gave the man I just spoke with.’ There was a pause. ‘Please?’

Hugh handed the mobile to Anya; she closed it and asked the same question, ‘Who is she?’

‘Miss Heathrow.’

‘So let’s look when we go back, which is soon by the way – I’m on duty tomorrow. Can you be ready in an hour?’

IV

Ksenya looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and saw some crows feet starting to appear - just the faintest sign of them, which could surely be put down to laugh lines but she was loathe to cake on the makeup, as it tended to put them off.

Golden-haired, blue-eyed, never had to work too hard on the slimming - nature had been kind so far but thirty was not so many years away and as age encroached, her usefulness as an operative steadily diminished. She knew that full well.

She bit her lip and thought of the useless affairs that one job after another had turned into - the snappily dressed Shaidullin had been the last of them in Nizhny and he’d tricked her - anyway, he was married to a lovely woman who seemed to have no idea whatsoever.

Zhenya and his maverick attitude were more of a problem. She could always disown her brother but better he was technically ‘in’ where she could exert at least some influence. Valerievna had more power over him but in the end, no one did. There really was a screw loose with Zhenya, personable though he was.

She’d shut out her childhood memories well enough but some of it kept coming back at times and it was better nobody got close enough to uncover her past, her weakness. Looking down at her light blue jeans and the white and pink trainers; she thought she looked clean and good.

Well, clean and good on the outside anyway.

V

Back in Shadzhara, they found the cassette in the pack, sat down on the sofa and listened. It was basically just songs about Tibetan dames, except at the end where someone had recited random numbers. Hugh shrugged and asked for an envelope.

‘First we write it, just in case,’ said Anya.

‘Write it?’

‘Make another cassette.’

‘Ah.’

They posted the packet and it was Anya who mentioned it first. ‘How did she know my grandfather’s mobile?’

He’d like to have known that himself. ‘No idea, seriously. She couldn’t have got it from me.’

‘I don’t think I like that.’

It was too stifling in the flat, so they went for a walk. At the back of the housing block was a brook with a log across it and beyond that, a field where people took their dogs, plus some half finished, elongated, concrete structure to one side. Not a bad place for a stroll.

The air was decidedly better here and they spoke of this and that, sitting on the grass; she plucked some camomile flowers, wrapping then round and round with three long lengths of grass and placed one behind his ear.

.o0o.

They got back about midday, the sky already darkening, a storm was on the way and when it finally hit, the air instantly filled with torrential rain of such intensity that nothing could be seen further than five metres.

‘Come, come,’ she urged, stepping onto the glassed-in balcony, staring down through the opened panel. The paved roads below could be seen now in the first abatement of the rain, they were full to the top of the kerbs with swirling water, people were protecting themselves as best they could, either leaning into the gale or else turning their backs to it and crouching down.

Lightning flashed and now a second wave came, this time with hailstones. Hail - in the middle of summer, in the middle of the day!

By now, they were leaning out through one double window together, her hair whipped across his face and when he moved it back over her shoulders, she seemed to misinterpret it, turned to him and it was line ball who kissed whom first.

VI

Dilyara found the address without too many problems but there seemed no one about inside the hotel foyer, so she went over to one of the functional armchairs, plonked herself down, adjusted her skirt and waited.

It must have been a good twenty minutes before Marc emerged from the little room behind reception and indicated, with a nod, a door at the far end of the foyer. Once they were through, he pulled her back against the wall and indicated that they were to remain silent. This wood-panelled room had a fire exit at the other end, it wasn’t a storeroom, it wasn’t for hotel guests, it just seemed to fill the space and nobody could think what to do with it.

His body tensed up beside her and, in turn, he could feel her sensuality, which was not what was required at this moment of danger.

About seven minutes later, footsteps approached and two figures, male, came through the door, Marc beckoned her, they slipped back into the foyer, he locked the door behind him, pocketed the key and nonchalantly slipped out of the double doors onto the street, straight into the back of a cream Zhigoulie, the driver pulling out from the kerb and setting a good pace down the prospekt, Marc handing him the key to return to reception, with apologies, later in the day.

Still they didn’t speak until they reached a side road leading down beside the forest. Pulling up outside what looked like a hostel, they went inside, paid the dyezhournaya a substantial sum, went up to the second floor and took a position in an alcove, overlooking the street where they’d pulled up.

Marc now allowed himself a smile. ‘You see, Dilyara, it was never going to be fun for you, was it, running here, running there, unable to relax?’

By way of answer, she came uncomfortably close, looking him straight in he eye. The tension in his frame did not drop away, even though he kissed her with a semblance of affection. He felt he needed to explain his reticence but she touched his lips with her forefinger and whispered, ‘This is your show here, Marc, your work. I’ll do as you say, only please don’t send me away.’

That one tore through his defences.

VII

September, 1996

By the 29th, Anya’s birthday, Hugh was settled in at the new flat, the possibilities of the area had been explored and he’d started the new job.

Today they were visiting Pizzeria Giuseppe, formerly Hotel France, high up on Shadzhara’s most stately tree lined promenade, closer to Spassky Tower, with the Kremlin to the north; the street then running south along the ridge to the heritage listed National Library, University and gymnasium, about half a kilometre away. In places, the street commanded grand views of the city waterways, looking west.

Giuseppe’s was regarded by most as a place you went for special occasions. Divided into two main rooms, the smaller closer to the door and the larger inner room where orders were placed, the white cement-rendered walls, hung with Italian prints, the white café furniture and the window ‘boxes’ running the entire length with plants and foliage, looking out over Kryemlyovskaya - these created an ambience unusual outside Moscow cafes.

A bevy of girls, dressed in dark green frocks, trimmed with dark maroon, set off the scene. It was a case of going up to the counter, ordering and paying, then waiting for the food to arrive. Sometimes they’d bring it to the table, sometimes you’d have to go up to the counter, especially during busy periods. Anya quite enjoyed the mind-boggling varieties of ice-cream and the champagne; he liked the pizza at this place, especially pizza s’myasom [bolognaise].

They ordered and took a table near the window, just inside the main room, noting all the comings and goings, which was the main purpose of the exercise, truth be told. Anya mentioned a birthday call from Dilyara.

‘Any news?’

‘She has a new boyfriend; you know him, she says - Marc Lacour.’

Hugh grinned. ‘Ah, so she activated the visitni.’

‘Pardon?’

‘He was on the train with me when I first arrived, he gave me his card and I gave it to her at the camp the day before you arrived.’

‘You directed her to another man?’ She could scarcely contain her smile. ‘Oh, Dilya would really like that ... not.’

‘Well, it seems to have worked out all right.’

She glanced across at a neighbouring table and he followed the glance, his eyes resting on an auburn haired siren, maybe twenty seven, long hair held in place in a bun by a wooden clip in the shape of two hearts, completed by hooped golden earrings and black leather, stilettoed shoes.

‘So?’ asked Anya, ‘Whose is she?’

‘Who cares?’

‘Keep watching.’

The snazzily dressed boyfriend, about forty, came back with the pizzas and wine and they were clearly in that terminal state of two people with countless unresolved petty grievances, adjacent to each other, not saying a word.

‘The Odd Couple,’ she laughed, a trifle too loudly.

‘Shhh!’

And yet there was something easy in that relationship, a sort of rapport born of long proximity.

After they’d departed, it was time for a wander through the whitewalled Kremlin as far as the tower, leaning like Pisa, in seven tiers of brown brick. The legend was that the last Mongol princess, seeing the approach of Ivan Grozny [the Terrible] and knowing he wanted to marry her, had thrown herself off the uppermost tier of the tower, rather than suffer such humiliation.

Like most legends, there were anachronisms and contradictions but who cared? It was a smashing tale.

VIII

October, 1996

Russian dinner table conversation now was largely about Operation Desert Strike in Iraq and Lukanov’s assassination in Bulgaria. Clinton was also making big noises in America and here, in Shadzhara, it was the first holiday of the academic year - ‘Dyen Uchitilya’, or ‘Teachers’ Day’, when the staff usually packed into a bus and made the 100km trek for a resort in the Republic of Mariel and so the Friday afternoon found Hugh on their bus for Klyenovaya Gora, Maple Leaf Mountain.

She went with him to the school to see him off and cast a critical eye over the assembled staff for any potential problems, in the form of young females. There was one, but sources said she was married, although Anya had not detected a wedding ring. The thought drifted across her mind that this one might be out to make a play, concealing the ring but as there was nothing she could do to alter the situation, it was best put out of mind and instead, it brought a smile to think how he was going to cope once the cognac-fuelled women launched into song.

Everyone but Hugh knew this was once of the few chances in the year for the married women to let their hair down and not to have to cook and clean; things were bound to get quite festive.

The ex-Soviet bus rollicked away from the school and she went home to prepare herself for Dasha’s elder child’s first birthday; Anya was scheduled to be collected at 19:00.

.o0o.

The usual suspects were at the party, those who always cracked jokes did crack jokes, those who always made loud noises and shrieked did make loud noises and by the middle of the evening, she could feel a headache coming on.

It was a relief to be able to go to the kitchen and help out with the preparations, resisting all calls to come back to the main room and get drunk. So what if they thought her high nosed – it helped her through this party. She replayed her last words in her head: ‘helped get her through this party’.

Goodness.

About 23:00, Grisha and three henchmen crashed the dinner and turned it upside down; spying her in the kitchen, minus her minder; his bile rose, he swaggered in and delivered a few choice words, she promptly put the apron away, ordered a taxi, excused herself to her hostess and went home.

She and Hugh were going to tie the knot and to hell with them all. Or not. She was terrified. Well, they were going to talk it over anyway, once he returned.

IX

Klyenovaya Gora, set at the foot of a mountain forest of densely packed maple trees, was famous for the spring water, which could only be accessed by stepping down from a high, narrow wooden bridge, crossing a gulch connecting the lakes.

The party arrived in the early evening, dusk having already fallen, they settled in then went down for the supper and dancing. The younger set were more into dipping in the lake at midnight and Hugh made a mental note not to join them.

The tables had been formed into a large U in the dining area on the first floor, conducive to socializing and that’s where he saw the raven haired one opposite. A couple of mutual glances suggested that this might be a pleasant way to pass the hours but the company was building up to the raucous stage and he was caught in endless conversations with women trying out their English on him.

In the end, he got away, slipped over and suggested they go for a stroll, quickly collecting coats, hoods and gloves and heading for the outer door before they’d be missed, neither realizing they’d already been missed.

The approach road to the hotel was lined either side with floodlights, but beyond that was forest. Side by side, they strolled down the path towards the main road, talking about this and that, reaching the end disappointingly quickly, at which point he turned to look at her, her face framed by the furry hood, not unlike something out of Dr. Zhivago, only not on celluloid but here now, in the middle of Russia, not half a metre from him, awaiting his next move.

An exceptionally beautiful face it was too and the turned-up nose was entrancing.

Taller than Anya, her hair was dark and he knew it to be waist-length, plaited behind into a single ponytail; she was slender to a fault, almost bony, her eyes complemented her hair, an altogether different article to his love. Calmer and more deliberate, the voice was light and her accent seductive.

Yet there was something curiously vulnerable about Alla – vulnerable but wilful.

He took her gloved hands and felt the long fingers grasp his. For some crazy reason, he leaned forward and kissed her upper lip, then asked if she wanted to go into the forest itself. It simply hadn’t occurred to him that she might not.

She shook her head. ‘I’m frightened of the forest.’

‘You – frightened? But you’re Russian!’

‘Why can’t Russians be frightened?’

‘Because they - well, they can’t. At least, I didn’t think so.’

‘There are wolves in that forest, Hugh.’

‘Really? I thought they’d killed them all or driven them away or something.’

She shook her head. ‘My grandmother told me about them.’

He looked at her sharply. This was a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, surely with some experience of life and here she was speaking of grandmothers and wolves.

‘Don’t worry, Alla, I can’t see them being near a populated hotel.’

What the hell was he saying, telling a Russian about her own backyard? He awaited the rebuff but she dropped her eyes instead, chuckling but still holding on to his hands. ‘Do you think we should walk back?’ she suggested, ‘The others might be waiting for us.’

‘Are you bored?’

‘I’m cold.’ Another surprise.

‘How can you be cold? You’re Russian.’

‘I’m human. You have some strange ideas about us.’

‘I’m learning, Alla, I’m learning. All right, let’s walk back.’

She snaked her arm through his, her long, thin, gloved fingers clutching his upper arm but then stopped short. ‘Hugh!’ she gripped his arm more tightly.

‘What?’

‘Over there, in the trees. Do you think -?’

‘Stay here. I’ll find out,’ he ordered. ‘Hold the lamp post, it’s safer.’

He plunged into the forest, rambled about for a while, then came back to her. ‘Nope, no wolves whatsoever.’

She visibly relaxed and as they walked back, she asked in turn what things frightened him.

‘Seriously?’

‘Da.’

‘Occult things, the enemy.’

Back at the hotel, three of the women caught sight of them and ribbed them mercilessly, which confused Alla and she hurried up to her room, Hugh following on some time later but not to his room.

Instead, he took a chair in the rectangular bay on their floor, this bay wedged between two rooms; some of the younger ones now came up with a cassette player and music, keeping the volume reasonably low but urging Hugh to get up and dance, which he was loathe to do but in the end he got up, made desultory moves and then Alla appeared from her room.

The slower numbers began and as the young people drifted away, she came into his arms and swayed with his rhythm. Their lips inevitably met, by now they were alone, the last people having drifted off, the cassette had finished and the unstated question arose.

There were two rooms to choose from, weren’t there?

She used his moment of indecision to excuse herself and slipped into her own room, turning at the door to smile and say good night. Standing in the middle of the carpet, he wasn’t sure what had just happened, he shrugged and went off to bed himself, wondering whether there really were wolves in that forest.

X

In Nizhny Novgorod, Valentina Alexandrova was scrutinizing the top document in the file that Viktor Bukovsky, her Senior-Sergeant, had brought her. She stepped across to the light and put on her reading glasses, which Viktor considered made her even more attractive.

‘What do we have on this Deputatov?’ she asked, turning round to face Bukovsky. ‘Why would he be of any concern to us?’

‘He’s connected with a Ronald Seymour, of dried goods fame - shady character in Velikobritannia, if reports are to be believed.’

‘Why would he be of any concern to us though?’ she repeated.

‘They’re setting up in Nizhny.’

‘I see.’

‘And some members of the security services are being seconded to ease the way through the regulations.’

‘Surely that’s a matter for the tax police, not security.’

‘Da but the FSB are also useful for their intimidation value.’

‘Why are we involved? We’re only Militsia.’

‘If we get involved, no one’s toes get stepped on between sections –’

‘In other words, we get to be the patsies.’

‘That’s not the construction they’d put on it, Valentina Vitalyevna.’

‘No doubt, Viktor, no doubt.’

XI

Next morning was idyllic at Klyenovaya Gora; there’d been light rain and the fallen autumn leaves glistened on the paths as the whole gang went for a hike towards the lake and then further on to see the wooden plaque to Pugachev who’d come this way some time in history.

It was de rigeur to attend and thus the Head of English, Tanya, found herself beside Hugh at one point.

‘Alla’s married, Hugh.’

That was that - Klyenovaya Gora had ended for him. The remainder of the stay, he was a gentleman to her, even assiduous to her needs but she knew by his excessive chivalry that they’d done for her. It was something a little more practical she’d had in mind anyway, nice though the chivalry was. Never mind, time might alter things back in Shadzhara.

.o0o.

Late on the Sunday, they took the bus back and he was dropped at the top of Chuikova, a short walk from Anya’s flat.

She undid all the locks, opened each of the double doors, the padded wooden inner door and the metal outer, Hugh stepped through and went to embrace her but she pulled away. Instead she asked about the trip.

‘Amazing place. Very beautiful.’

‘Just like Alla, da?’

He glanced at her. ‘Alla?’

‘Hugh, you’re hopeless. This is a village – everyone knows everyone. They told me how you went into your shell after you’d heard she was married. Wasn’t very flattering for Alla though.’

She indicated one of the armchairs for him to sit in and headed for the kitchen. He followed her to help but a restraining hand on his arm prevented his egress and she gave him the remote control to the TV instead.

Not being a TV person, he sat on the divan, at a loose end, heard the kettle boil and her steps returning. He watched her ritualistically setting out the salads, then she sat near him. ‘Tea’s still too hot. Listen, Hugh, we have to decide a few things.’

‘Da.’

‘Everyone thinks we’re making love. What do you tell other people?’

‘That it’s our business.’

‘Whether we do make love or we don’t, they still think we do.’

‘So?’

‘I’m the indecisive one. I give you no chance at all, sitting right back in the armchair, then I give you every chance, then I snatch it away and you’re accepting all that! I need a push - you have to make a bold move.’

'I'm shy.'

'You!'

'I am, you know. I'm not shy right up to it, I'm not shy during it, I'm just shy making that first ... well ... reaching out. Once we're there, it's fine.'

'Why?'

'I don't know, seriously. Maybe it's the fear you'll be disappointed.'

'Were the other women disappointed?'

'Well no but there's always that chance, isn't there? And you're a bit stunning and very active, rushing this way and that.'

'Much of that is nerves.'

'I see.' He slowly exhaled, thought for a few moments, then took her hand.

XII

Viktor Igorovich, lecturer at Shadzhara State University and teacher of Business English, was always going to run into Hugh Jensen. They were introduced in Hugh’s school staffroom, fell to talking and while Viktor went off to speak to the Director, Hugh asked his Head of English about the man.

‘Military background, spent some years with the tax police; completed a degree in business, taught himself English – you be the judge of how good it is.’

When Viktor returned, he invited Hugh back for lunch at his place, on the strength of their discussion about the Russian art of making real Bloody Mary.

Well why not?

Lessons over, they took two trams back to his apartment near the old airport and Hugh had a chance to observe the Russian on the other side of the aisle. Physically hard but vulnerable in manner and yet with calm self-assurance, most certainly in charge of his own life, this one.

At the apartment, Viktor had a matter on his own mind he wanted to broach and broach it he did.

‘As a westerner, Hugh, you come to Russia rich by our standards but if you remain, then your spending power’s going to decrease to the point where certain things are going to happen. One moment.’

He concentrated hard on holding the hunting knife at the right angle, tip just touching the inside of the glass above the meniscus of the tomato juice and letting the vodka slowly trickle down the blade, forming a one finger layer on top of the juice.

‘Vot! Krova’vaya Mary! Now you try it. Sorry, I was distracted – yes, things are going to happen. The first watershed is that you’ll find you can no longer return to the west. I don’t mean by law – I mean financially. No, no, more of an angle, not so fast with the vodka.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘That’s enough vodka. Now, it’s got to be drunk quickly. First, the burn and immediately after it, the smoothness of the juice. To your health!’ They knocked back the Bloody Marys, barely hitting the sides on the way down.

‘I’m talking, my friend, about your Anya.’ Hugh nodded for him to continue. ‘Well, she’s past the age where most girls marry in this town and the question naturally arises with you and her.’

‘I’m serious about her.’

‘Then do you plan to stay here or go back to the west?’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘And don’t forget that Shadzhara is a city full of eligible ladies – I could name three straight away who’ve already indicated they’d like to meet you.’

‘I get the picture.’

XIII

Marc was back in Paris.

The mobile phone bill began to present some difficulties but Dilyara was preoccupying him more and more and the frustrating thing was the lack of opportunity to meet. He was constantly being sent to Germany, to Italy, to Britain but not to Russia - at least not for now. She’d cry on the phone and he judged her not to have been the crying type. He promised he’d work out a way, either through business or else he’d take a break.

He’d speak with Geneviève, who actually knew the situation anyway. The Dion documents had to be dropped off at her apartment that evening and it was a good chance to have it out. Geneviève didn’t live any great distance from Marc but her street was nicer, abutting a park, with trees dotted along the edge of that park, the apartment block contained only four flats and each was largish. Genevieve had done well from her work.

In her living room now, she handed him a cognac. ‘L’amour, Marc?’

‘Ne sais pas. Possibly. I can’t think straight.’

‘How much leave do you need?’

He shot a glance at her. ‘Give me a week, no longer and I’ll bring her here - there’s too much danger in Shadzhara. She has qualms about coming to a man’s place, parents, family you know, so I’ll need her to stay with one of the girls. Claudette?’

‘I’ll speak with her.’ She poured more coffee and then got down to business. ‘Renata.’

‘Oui?’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Mademoiselle, you know what happened there; it simply wouldn’t have worked. Why are you bringing it up now anyway – it was long before Marie-Ange.’

‘When did you last see her?’

Marc’s annoyance showed. ‘Who knows? Five months ago.’

‘Not after that? Not yesterday, after you returned?’

‘Why this fixation with my ex-girlfriend?’

‘She was found dead yesterday in a warehouse off Rue de Bercy. She’d been shot in the back of the head. Bullet apparently is not one of ours. I’m sorry, I had to know.’

XIV

November, 1996

The first flurries of snow now came to this part of Russia but were then washed away. Half the time Hugh and Anya were at his flat and half at hers and they’d set up a fairly workable routine by this stage. On the world stage, Clinton had beaten Dole and on the local front, Yeltsin had had a major surgical operation.

There was no news on Dolly, the cloned sheep.

Somehow, December came around and when the first dump of snow was followed by another and another, it was clear that it was here to stay. The wind was also hard at work, causing large drifts and walling in doorways.

By the end of December, they were under a foot and a half of hard packed snow, with drifts here and there up to the waist. The temperature had dropped to an average minus 20 degrees but it was like a yoyo - one day minus 5, the next minus 35, everyone rapidly changing through a range of outer wear, each item costing about one year’s salary.

On the last Friday, in Baumana, watching his footing carefully, picking his way along the icy cobblestones, heading for the underpass and the Hotel Shadzhara on the other side, where there was a sort of currency exchange, he saw her. Coming up the steps towards him was Miss Heathrow.

As simple as that.

For the most fleeting of moments, their eyes met, she turned on her stiletto heels and as fast as decorum and the necessity to be inconspicuous dictated, hurried away back down the underpass. He stumbled down the steps after her, trying to stay on his feet, trying to read her all the while.

Possibly late twenties, three quarter length navy coat, coordinated beret, dark hose, maybe 70 den, ankle length boots; she was probably about 164cm in her stockinged feet, athletic.

Underground, there were only the flower, magazine and cassette vendors with their rickety tables on the damp stone, mosaic concourse floor amid lots of look-alike girls of her type, and that’s where he lost her. He skipped back up the icy stone steps, down again then gave it up as a lost cause and decided to head home, pausing only to slip a few roubles to one of the old ladies slumped on the steps.

It was going to be a bitter winter for her this year.

.o0o.

When Hugh mentioned it that evening, Anya didn’t immediately pooh-pooh the incident. ‘Anything unusual about her?’

He shook his head and she moved on to her news. She’d been to the doctor that day and it seemed she might need spectacles, a prospect to shrink from with dread, it seemed. Useless to speak of cosmetically enhancing contact lenses, of how the most beautiful women on the planet wore glasses; useless to assure her that men adored women with glasses because it actually softened their features.

‘I don’t want to be soft, I want to be perfect.’

He gazed at her and sat her down on the divan, hand in hand. ‘Why so fierce? Why do you think softness can’t be perfect, Anya? I mean, what would you say a man wants from a woman - softness or fierceness?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know that newsreader from Channel 1, the one with the Angelina Jolie jaw, the dark hair pulled back severely and tied up in a bun behind - do you think she’s beautiful?’

‘She’s very elegant.’

‘I don’t think she’s beautiful at all. She never smiles, looks at you as if she’s going to execute you and what’s she trying to prove anyway? I mean, who advises her to do that?’

Anya shrugged. ‘So what do you call beautiful?’

‘You and every part of you that you don’t like. You want to be tall and gangly, you think your breasts are too small and that you’re not as classically beautiful as the models on Vogue. I think you’re better than them, you’re certainly far better than the ones in Elle. With you, it’s the harmony of the whole package, that’s what drives a man crazy, that and your amazing curves, plus your ultra-femininity. I could go on forever.’

‘Don’t let me stop you.’

‘You’re effervescent and yet conservative, not letting me say or do low things; Viktor calls you my narcotic and you are; Shakespeare wrote a sonnet on this sort of thing,’ he chuckled. ‘Number CXLVII.’

‘Hugh?’

'Yes?'

'Tell me what's really wrong.'

He sighed. 'It sounds pretty pathetic, especially from a man but if I'm going to marry you, I have to actually ... er ... marry you. There's this religious thing about marrying first.'

'Why didn't you say so? We could have set a date and I could have waited. What did you do with your other women?'

'It sounds stupid but when I wasn't so serious, I wasn't so pedantic. I look at you and want to do it correctly.'

She checked what she was about to blurt out and said instead, 'All right, Hugh. If you're serious about me and you want this, why don't you ask?'

'Really?'

'You don't understand, do you? You have to ask first, then I have to spend a whole week thinking about it - without you.'

He asked.

Chapter 1 here ... Chapter 3 here

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Russia 3 - Flights

2009-05-05T13:53:00.023+01:00

Chapter 2 here ... Chapter 4 here

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I

Philippe took Genevieve to the 19ème arrondissement for a seafood supper.

She loved seafood.

He was the perfect host, which she also loved, they went to see an old Truffaut film afterwards, which he knew she loved and he paid assiduous attention to her throughout the remainder of the night, which she also loved.

As a rule.

What she did not love was that he felt the need to do this, at this time and in this way, knowing, as she did, that the tickets they’d used this evening were light blue in colour but the tickets slightly protruding from one corner of the little plastic window in his wallet, behind the driver’s licence, were maroon, which meant a matinee - either one he’d already attended or one which was coming up.

The worst of it was that she could discuss it with nobody - not Nicolette, not Louisa, no one.

She felt entirely alone.

Plus Marc was a worry; he never complained but everyone knew his heart had gone out to the Russian girl. The girl had been checked out and nothing had come up on the sheet so it must have been just a love at first sight thing.

Well, better to get her over to Paris and take a good look at her; Nikki could arrange the details as a surprise for Marc’s birthday.

She turned to the suave, debonair Philippe. The central and overwhelming issue for her was that she was being treated as a wife and told lies by omission, whereas, at this stage of the relationship, he should have been pressurizing her to comply with his own demand for marriage.

She hated that she couldn’t break free.

II

Riccardo came home for December, the main work on the treaty completed, the phone was switched off, the doors locked and the lights doused for a night and a day.

On the third evening Lisa took him to Charing Cross and they walked along the Embankment, catching the little tearoom just as it was closing. She looked across at him - the curly hair of the Italian the not particularly dark or swarthy face - his family were northern, from Vincenze, notables in the local community and he was the favoured son.

When Lisa had been invited over to meet the family, the impression had been good both ways.

Like many a Brit before her, she’d taken to the Italian language with gusto, with a grounding in art and architecture to set it against. Nights with Riccardo were usually set to the Italian language but coffee table conversation was in English. While it concerned art or travel, he was voluble but the moment it came round to the EEC, sorry, the EU, he went into his shell. She dwelt on this a few moments and tried it again. ‘You’ve already talked about the Treaty of Amsterdam, so why the cloak and dagger?’

‘What do you understand about Amsterdam, Lisa?’

‘It replaces … no, redefines Maastricht, the citizen’s place in the union, more power for the parliament -’

‘More democracy.’

‘As you wish. And I think you were working on the peacekeeping proposals -’

‘What do you know of those?’

‘Is this the Inquisition? I don’t know – you were setting up some peacekeeping force to go to Africa or wherever.’

‘Good, Lisa. That’s correct. That’s all it is – a humanitarian force.’

She gave him a quizzical look, then they walked on.

III

December, 1996

On the 29th, Anya finally told him yes but she wanted to know something. 'If we're fiancees, then does the rule about waiting matter any more?'

'Don't you think I've been thinking of that?'

'And?'

'I don't know. We'll decide that tonight.'

They went to the centre by tram and just before it crossed the main bridge, they both looked at each other and jumped off, slipping and sliding out onto the frozen river, past fishermen fishing through holes in the ice, until they found a raised ice knoll.

The rims of their hoods forming a near hermetic seal for five minutes, they then walked along the frozen river round to the Lenin Memorial, where half the population would later be celebrating the lead in to the New Year.

Around the large, orange bricked building were a dozen or so giant, translucent ice sculptures, a large hot air balloon, various beer marquees, a giant lit up tree and a festive spirit; people were starting to arrive. Usually the families got there about seven, little boys and girls, be-coated, be-hooded, sweet faces of wonder taking in everything, parents also touched.

But first the ballet was on, up the road from the Memorial and across Freedom Square. They crossed the flagstoned state square towards the opera house, hand in hand, snowflakes as large as coins falling silently and softly on their hoods and jackets.

Inside, the presidential box hung half-over the orchestra pit and the opera house still sported the U.S.S.R. hammer and sickle, above the heavy main curtain.

.o0o.

Later, at home, she sat him down in the living room and brought tea and torte, which worried him. She wanted to talk.

‘Do you think I’m mercantilnaya?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning do you think I’m marrying you just for your money?’

‘What money?’

‘That’s what people are saying though. Not to your face, no one would do that but they’re saying it behind your back.’

‘I see.’

‘Hugh, we have to get out of this city.’

‘It’s not going to be any better in any other city, love. If it becomes too much for you, we’ll need to consider our options. How about going with me for a trip to Cyprus?’

Her face answered that. ‘I’ll arrange the booking,’ she said quietly. ‘We can't do it through the airline but a firm I know can book a hotel in Larnaka. When do you want it for?'

'End of next week.'

'Hugh, we've waited this long. Let's wait until we get there.'

She looked at him anxiously and he grinned. He'd decided to go for it this evening but she was obviously one for the big occasion, as he was.

IV

Olyesa heard her sister leaving the flat.

When Alina left that way, on tiptoes and closing the door with the softest of clicks, there was usually trouble brewing. She checked the wall clock and went over to the window - it was 09:28 and it was a non-study day for Sis, who usually liked her beauty sleep.

Two and two were put together and they came to a porn shoot.

Dressing as fast as a Russian girl ever can, she was finally satisfied and called the number for a cab. Fifteen minutes later she was seated in the back of a white Volga in her grey fur jacket, anxiously glancing between the front backrests and becoming more and more depressed as they drew close to where she was certain her sister would be.

She paid the man and now had to decide how to get inside the building. The air was chill and the sky dark grey.

Posters of fashion models adorned the windows in an otherwise tawdry street on the side of a hill leading down to the main road, the building sparkling new and brassy, out of keeping with the other run-down houses. She was sure she was right in her hunch about Alina – she’d been here herself once before.

They would never have taken the front entrance, as the premises didn’t officially open until 11:00, so she slipped around into the sidelane, glanced up at the CCTV - now why would that be necessary here - and decided on a bold move. She’d already have been on CC video so the guy inside would have recognized her if he was a regular, in which case, he’d either check with Alina but if Alina was already ... well, he’d …

Yes, the door opened, she smiled and sweetly slipped inside to the desk area, dropping a well known name in this organization and knowing he’d check the screen for confirmation. The moment he turned his attention to the screen and hit one or two keys on the keyboard, she flitted through the far door and ran down the corridor, flew upstairs, found the second door on the right and burst in.

What she saw nauseated her and Alina’s stupid smile made it doubly bad. If Olyesa had had a gun just then, she’d have killed all the males present in that room.

V

Dilyara arrived in Paris.

The usual sights were shown her - they lunched at the first stage Eiffel cafe/restaurant, went to the Louvre, took a trip out to Versailles and he, in turn, asked about Peterhof which she’d never seen, having not been to St Petersburg before.

Late afternoon saw them in the Champs-Élysées, munching at a supper in a second floor cafe nearer la Place de la Concorde, before being taken back to the 12ème arrondissement and through the door of a cream brick building, where the first thing which struck her was that Marc was the only man in the room.

A pretty, fair-haired girl with her hair up in a bun came forward, introduced herself as Nicolette and then introduced Dilyara to what seemed the rest of the staff. Eventually, she was led through to a back room, larger than the others and here, clearly, was the boss.

‘Enchante,’ said the lady. Charlie’s Angels sprang to mind but Marc was clearly not the king here, he seemed more ancillary than anything and Dilyara half thought that he’d planned it to look that way.

Another man, stockier yet maybe more handsome, now came through from the outer office and was introduced as Jean-Paul Martin. As there didn’t seem much point hanging about too much longer, Marc asked a girl called Claudette to take Dilyara back to her apartment to prepare for the evening.

Marc himself had to stay on a few minutes longer.

The moment she was out of the door, Genevieve turned to him and gave her verdict. ‘Nice enough girl, of course, certainly not planted, not married, pretty and seductive, doesn’t seem to have had too much trauma in her life, had a good upbringing but not a lot of prospects. What are your plans, Marc?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Plans,’ Genevieve smiled. ‘Will you just keep her on as your lover and fly to Shadzhara each time you want to make love?’ There was a confused silence and then Genevieve added, to Nicolette’s amusement, ‘Before you tell us it’s none of our business, you know the score on anyone brought into or near the Section - it needs vetting.’

As the silence continued, Genevieve took a kindlier tone. ‘Marc, you know the work we need you for but all of us, sooner or later, are going to come up against this question of relationships. Are you any further advanced on that?’

‘I know she wants. Making it work is the question.’

‘Well, no need to decide that now. Your lady awaits you back at Claudette’s apartment and there’s the evening ahead of you.’

VI

January, 1997

Hugh had forgotten Russia’s infinite capacity to surprise, dismay and entangle in red tape.

A few days before departure, he was sitting in Giuseppe, late afternoon, dreaming up possible obstacles to the trip and then one suddenly struck him.

Exit Visa.

He’d need an Exit Visa to leave the country and he’d forgotten all about it - Anya couldn't be expected to know about that. It usually took ten days processing but on the other hand, if he was prepared to pay -?

He went straight to the visa place by car and paid.

Curiously, the travel agency had also failed to reserve the selected hotel, with the result that they’d lost the reservation and had ended up booked for Limassol instead.

.o0o.

They took one of the non-Shadzharan trains late morning and due to the non-coordination of Russian transport, it involved staying the following night at Izmayalovski 4 hotel complex on the outskirts of Moscow.

Rollicking along towards the capital, they occupied the whole of the four berth cabin but she seemed out of sorts on the top bunk.

‘Are you comfortable?’ he asked.

‘No, this is not a calm train. It goes up and down.’

He broke up laughing, reached down from his top bunk, got her a drink from the bag and she felt a bit better but still spent the remainder of the night and early morning nose to the open window at the top.

.o0o.

Next morning saw them alight and find a taxi, a Volkswagen Passat the man was clearly proud of, dropping them at Izmayalovski without too much drama and one of the most boring afternoons they'd had now unfolded. They walked in the park, they walked through another park.

They went back through the parks and caught the Metro to Red Square, looked around, went into GUM, caught the train back, it was almost supper time but they'd eaten enough and so they went to their room, switched on the television and watched one inane programme after another.

The frustration was building.

.o0o.

The night at Izmayalovski 4 passed, the bulk of it in each other’s arms but the trouble came at breakfast next morning.

As they entered the dining room, the waiter/offitsant came up to Hugh, beaming, then uttered a few curt words in Russian to Anya, who went through to gather breakfast at the other end of the long rectangular room. He invited Hugh to take a glass of the special hand squeezed orange juice but when Hugh went to take another for her, the offitsant regretted that it was one per customer.

At the table, he handed her his juice and she pushed it back vehemently.

‘But I brought it for you.’ Then he saw the tears in her eyes.

‘Go on. Tell me the worst.’

‘That juice is only for foreigners. Russian girls aren’t allowed, plus he called me ‘ti’.’

‘What!’

He stood, took the juice back and handed the man the glass. In Russian, he added, ‘You had no right to call my fiancee ‘ti’ without asking.’

The officiant began a mongrel apology but a slight smile was playing at the corner of the lips.

Anya had been watching it all, honour had been satisfied but Hugh wasn’t. ‘Are you finished, darling?’ he asked. She looked at him swiftly. ‘We’ll eat at the airport.’

VII

Viktor Igorovich had had a visit from an old colleague, a former security colonel, as beefy and fit as himself.

It was to talk over old times and nothing more, nevertheless the conversation moved onto an incident in the south of the country, near the Chechen border, about a convoy of refrigeration transports they’d flagged down - the owner of the frozen food business finally nailed on non-payment of taxes.

They’d made the driver at the head of the convoy contact his boss in Shadzhara. Yes, yes, the boss would pay the back taxes within the month, no problems.

‘No,’ the tax police had retorted, ‘he’ll pay half today or we switch off the refrigeration, here and now.’

Later, they’d interviewed the owner himself and he’d begged them to give him just a few more days to clear the backlog. There was money coming in, don’t worry.

Where from?

From Britain - they had a man over there now.

And how was the money to come in? They’d got it out of him eventually – there was an Englishman living in Shadzhara who’d bring it in.

‘Living in Shadzhara or visiting Shadzhara?’ Viktor now asked his friend.

‘Living in.’

Viktor knew of only two ‘Englishmen’ who ‘lived’ in the city at that time and Hugh was one of them. He said nothing but reflected.

Also, Viktor had another matter very much on his mind, having fallen, some months back, for a Shadzhara girl working as a finance manager at a local bank. Twenty nine years of age, Roxana was tall, with short, dark hair and an adventurous character which stood out a mile.

Hugh had considered it wise, at the time, not to voice his own concerns about her and hoped they’d ultimately prove unfounded.

Last summer, for example, she’d broken her collar bone with a stunt she’d pulled in jumping off the roof off a cruise boat into the river, only to strike her shoulder on the railing before bouncing off into the water - that had almost killed her. Hugh knew a wild one when he saw her but Viktor loved her to distraction - why was it always the way that we fall for the most inappropriate partners?

The two of them had joined Anya and Hugh at a bar in Freedom Square to drink and natter one evening and later they’d all gone on to the Flamingo Club.

Dance is a good indicator of character.

Anya would be forever devising clever little dance moves to the faster numbers but would leave the close-in, slow dance moves to him. For his part, he preferred just the close-in - to stand a metre or so from a woman and gyrate the hips was not only unmanly, as far as he could see - it was also a waste of bloody time, excuse his French.

Viktor and Roxana, solid people physically, were also of the tactile school and cut a swathe on the small dance floor with their strange, idiosyncratic form of classic-foxtrot hardstep.

VIII

Anya and Hugh reached Sheremetyevo and the last stage of check in before boarding.

‘Away at last,’ he muttered to her.

Immigration at Sheremetyevo simply said no, just a minor technicality the travel agent had overlooked, so no flight for Anya. Of course, smiled the official, Hugh could go if he wished.

Was the man a fool? As Hugh's shoulders sagged, the man was puzzled that the foreigner did not start getting heavy - they usually did. He lifted the receiver and said a few words.

A short prayer later, the tour operator materialized from nowhere, whisked Anya away in a flurry of activity – on site lawyer, documents, lots of cash paid over, smiling officials and so on to the final barrier and through.

The stewardess, in a pleasant voice, asked Anya to give up the hard won exit seats for the next five hours and forty five minutes to a couple holding three pet poodles, some rows back.

‘No,’ Hugh shot back.

IX

The matter of Marc and Dilyara hadn’t resolved itself.

Genevieve had kept a close eye on it right throughout the Paris visit and as she’d said to Nicolette, ‘I’ve been willing to accommodate it, even help with it against my own feelings for Marc but his work’s dropped off of late. Am I wrong in saying this? Will you take him for a coffee and sound him out about it, Nikki? He wouldn’t accept it from me.’

Marc was seated at a side table in Café Noir in the 12ème arrondissement, the slightly austere décor and wooden chairs suiting his mood and the exquisite coffee compensating for his melancholy. Nikki knew the place well although it wasn’t one of her regular haunts.

He watched her petite figure silhouetted in the doorway and then that idiosyncratic little rush forward on light feet, once she’d found her target, lips pursed but ready to break into a winning smile at any moment. A real little actress, Nikki but a transparent one too. She had a good heart.

He ordered her favourite aperitif and she opened with, ‘Sorry, Marc. Desole. When did you decide?’

‘Couldn’t have worked. She wanted to be based there and to travel here. I needed the opposite. Both of us need someone nearby most of the time. There wasn’t any anger, just sadness.’

‘Desole.’

X

Anya and Hugh settled into their room, he checked out the literature and she went out to the balcony. She looked out over the azure Mediterranean, the blue pool below in the hotel complex and the shops along the foreshore, then came back inside.

He asked if she'd like to go on a safari tomorrow and handed her the brochure. She read it and smiled. 'Let's go for a walk.'

By the water, she took off her sandals and waded in the shallows, he took off the boat shoes and did the same. He told her about the scene in Naked Gun when the odd couple fell in love and ran along the beach arm in arm, only to catch a couple running the other way by the neck, the second couple ending up flat on their backs in the water.

She didn't see anything funny in that but as he was suppressing laughter, she began to laugh along and he half looked out of the corner of his eye for a couple running the other way.

Night fell and they crossed the road to have a pizza.

.o0o.

There they were, both kneeling on the bed, facing each other and both knew what was going through the other's mind.

She said it first. 'Tomorrow evening?'

He looked at her and burst out laughing again. 'No one's going to believe we're doing this - neither of us seem the type. It's like a bedroom farce, you know - I wonder how long we can keep it going?'

'Only till tomorrow.'

‘You want it to be special, same as me. What if it will be a disappointment?’

‘It won’t.’

.o0o.

In the cool of the morning, they took breakfast al fresco in the outdoor restaurant attached to the hotel, gazing over the water. She loved the mackerel, which she knew the Russian word for but not the English and Hugh thought it was ‘herring’ until the waiter set them straight.

‘See, I told you it wasn’t herring.’

He grinned.

The white Landrover collected them and took them to some of the most picturesque spots on the island and now, on the way down the mountain from the statue of Makarios, they stopped off at a hillside café; Anya went for a wander over to a stone wall to be by herself for a while.

The driver had introduced himself as Konstantine, doubling as property owner and general man about town and he’d taken a shine to Hugh. While Anya went for a wander through the store, the two men went into the main bar section of the complex and two ouzos were produced by an old lady.

‘How long you have your girlfriend?’ the Greek asked, toasting Hugh’s health.

‘Well, over a year, actually.’

‘I have Russian girl too.’

‘Really? For long?’

‘Three weeks. Why you keep yours? I know she is pretty but –’

‘We’re going to marry.’

‘Marry!’ The man was genuinely shocked. ‘I meet them at nightclub, they come home, they want me arrange visa, I leave them at nightclub and go to other part of island. Weeks later I go back to nightclub and get new one.’

Hugh was nauseated. He made hurried apologies and went to look for Anya, who smelt his breath and disapproved.

.o0o.

Hugh weighed up whether to tell her or not.

He did tell her, as they lay on their backs and strangely, she was neither surprised nor shocked, just a little saddened. ‘Babe, you’re so naive. Don’t you understand what Russian girls are doing? Some of them are so low – they’re low to start with back home - and they give us all a bad name. What do you think happened in Izmayalovski? This man’s just the same. I’m glad you didn’t tell me that on the mountain.’

‘Would it make any difference if we married sooner rather than later? Would that stop it, do you think?’

She dropped her head and her hair lay across the quilt. ‘Of course it would,’ she whispered, ‘but I’m terrified of marriage with anyone, not just you - you know I have issues with that. Plus, I’m indecisive and you’re too passive. I'm going to marry you but there are unanswered questions.’

‘Such as?’

‘Where would we live?’

‘Anywhere they speak English or Russian. Even French.’

‘Italian?’

‘If necessary. Even German - we both learnt it.’

‘What about Cyprus?’

‘I’ll ask around tomorrow about work, salaries, houses and so on. We might have visa problems, plus neither of us knows Greek. It’s not insurmountable though.’

‘Ask.’ She paused and the silence was deafening.

Eventually she spoke. 'Did you bring any?'

'Yes.'

'I'd prefer you to use mine and don't ask why. And no, there's only you.'

It was quite clear early on that there were issues. He'd never rated himself a great lover but neither had women complained before. She wasn't complaining now either but all sorts of little stop-start hiccups were coming into it. She didn't want him doing this, she didn't like to do that.

It became obvious she wasn't used to foreplay and seemed to want to get into it quickly. Now, the fact that she did fall victim to the massage and he saw the defences fall away told him that at least she was happy enough for it to go ahead. Yet she'd stop him, move a bit and then let him continue. It wasn't something he'd ever experienced.

When they did finally connect, the first few minutes were good, pretty well par for the course - she was delectable, they were moving well together and then he went over the top, as he usually did first time in the evening.

‘Have you always been like that?’ she asked.

‘Like what?’

‘Quick, like that.’

‘First time, if you’re attractive.’ She said nothing and lay beside him, kissing, until he was ready to go again but she seemed to have something on her mind. He asked her to say it.

‘Well, it’s a problem, isn’t it?’

‘What is?’

‘That. Being so quick.’

‘Why? If I hadn’t, it wouldn’t have been too much of a compliment for you.’

‘Is it going to happen again?’

‘If you mean this evening - no, only the first time - if you excite me, which you do. I can't speak about the other way round.’

‘But it is a problem, isn’t it?’

He looked at her. ‘For whom? Have you been reading books on lovemaking - journals? Who told you it was a problem?’ She didn’t answer. ‘For what it's worth, the first time is always as you've seen and after that, it's when we want it and how we do it. That's just me.’

He began again but it was obvious from her body movement that she was brooding. The fact that it was about twenty minutes down the track that he stopped again and nothing had ... er ... escaped didn't seem to have occurred to her. Or perhaps it was something else. He pulled out and lay beside her.

'We've been pretty well making love for a year or more, though it's true we haven't done the last part until now. You know how I move, what I'm like, all my little faults plus the things you like. You've done certain things to me, so there don't seem to be complexes. If you'd really disliked intimacy with me, you'd have shown me through your body language ... but you never did. So what is it?'

'I don't know. Just the way you're doing it is very ... rude.'

'Rough? Uncaring?'

'No, just rude. You're looking inside me and doing things like that. I'm a bit - private, you know. You take so much for granted. I think I didn't expect that ... from you. I thought you were ... more timid.'

'You mean you'd prefer me to be?'

'Well, I look up to you. You know I love you so much.'

What she looked up at him as he didn't dare ask but he was starting to get ideas and those ideas seemed to preclude sex. It started to dawn that she saw him differently to how she might have seen some of the Russian males.

'Well, shall we continue or don't you want?'

'I want but I don't want. I can't get the two images together.'

'Let's stop then.' He held her close, which she warmed to and eventually they dropped off to sleep.

XI

The director of Hugh's school had called a crisis meeting over the growing balance of payments crisis, it had not been deemed necessary for him to attend and perhaps it was better he didn't.

A profoundly unsatisfactory situation, which had simply not occurred in Soviet days, Svetlana Anufreeva was moved to throw up her hands and cry, ‘Da, so here is this democracy we all wanted. Now what shall we do with it?’

Milya Aleeva was in tears and most of the women were close to it. Payment in the New Year of the wage arrears, all three months of them, had not occurred across the nation or at least the word was that the money had arrived but someone was holding it back for ‘administrative reasons’, the mood was ugly and Russia had slipped into the payment trap.

Businessman A did a job for B but B couldn't pay him because C hadn’t paid him because D hadn’t paid him. Everyone was looking after Number One and the result was dysfunction. This was the standard Russian reaction to any crisis - all would meet, decide who was to blame and then decide what to do about him [or her], without actually solving the problem itself.

Inevitably it resulted in written resolutions served on authorities who made placatory noises and then ignored the matter.

Thus it was today, heads nodded defiantly, much tea was consumed and then they all went home and tried to make ends meet on their last remaining roubles or dollars if they’d had the sense to stash some of these away.

XII

They had to make a decision between The Holy Land and The Pyramids.

The overnight boat to Egypt, the Louisa, deposited them in Sinai, where they boarded the bus for Giza, following a route parallel to but not visible from the canal; they crossed the Nile and the bullrushes were very Moses indeed, thought Hugh, the outskirts of Cairo were appalling, either derelict or part of some new housing project, all in the same mud brick and he could scarcely imagine a worse way to live.

True, much of Russia was dire but at least there were new building projects underway there to clear the slums and put in new multi-storey housing. Here, there was a small canal with a boat being rowed along it.

At Giza, the beaming tour woman warned Hugh, ‘Don’t go on camel. They say it free but it not, it end up cost you much money, even for photograph.’ She now took him aside and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Your woman, she very beautiful, be very careful, they take her away, you never see again.’

Anya desperately wanted just one photograph on a camel and as if on cue, the dark camel rider, white teeth gleaming, cantered up.

‘How much?’

‘Two pound.’

‘Two Egyptian or two Cyprus pounds?’ The man didn’t seem to understand the question, so Hugh stood astride the exit path and watched the proceedings, took her photo then demanded the man let Anya down.

‘Meester, a little ride, yes?’ ingratiated the Egyptian.

‘No no, down, down!’

With her feet once more on solid earth, Anya wanted to take her own photo of Hugh on the camel and he made a fundamental error in climbing up. The instant he was in place, the rider suddenly whipped the camel into action, clomping awkwardly but swiftly along the sand beside the second pyramid.

‘Turn around!’

‘Just a ride, meester.’

‘No, turn around now.’

Some police driving nearby on the bitumen saw was happening and began calling to the rider through a megaphone but then the full horror of the situation struck Hugh. The police were on the road but the camel was on the sand and out there was the Sahara.

As he went to slip off the camel, the rider’s ‘brother’ was suddenly alongside, the two of them pinning him between them, the police addressing them the whole time through the loud hailer.

The riders immediately introduced the topic of money. First, a moderate amount, then more and more. They started trotting back, the police car keeping pace all the way.

‘Why did you go so far? Anya demanded, when he finally climbed down.

‘Sorry, my love, I just got carried away.’

He made a mental note not to tell anyone about that bit of stupidity on his part and by the time they’d reached the papyrus place, she’d largely forgotten about it. Now came the trek back to the boat, the passport business again, the boarding ramp, a photographer wanted to take their photograph, Anya was impatient, they ordered dinner in the cabin, with oodles of ice-cream afters, she thawed out and he asked why she'd been so grumpy.

'Long trips. I hate them.'

'But you were so keen to see the pyramids.'

'I was but that doesn't mean I have to like the trip.' She saw his expression and relaxed, placing a hand over his. 'Don't worry, Babe, it's all right. Everything's all right. We didn't talk about last night today.'

'Need we?' he asked. ‘We talked about last night last night. If you’d like though …’

She smiled at him. 'No. No, we don't need to.' She put everything back on the tray, put the tray on the flat area near the door and went to the narrow bathroom. When she finally slipped into bed beside him, she put it on and then they were suddenly into it.

She seemed fine with the first peak and snuggled up to him in the break, then began some variants of her own. It was almost as if last evening's stutters had not occurred. He wasn't going to mention this - not in the least and gradually, avoiding places where she seemed overly sensitive, it became better with them.

They lay beside one another later and she said, 'I do love you, Hugh. I have trouble saying those things. Just hold me.'

XIII

March, 1997

That awful time came round when everything thawed, the once beautifully white but now dirty brown snow disappeared and the simple business of walking doubled in time - it was difficult.

Trucks would fly past, shooting sheets of muddy water over trousers and the sun began to struggle out from behind the clouds. This was the time when last year’s rubbish, thrown into the lakes, floated to the surface and perfect girls in expensive ersatz-label outfits had them ruined by passing trams.

In Britain, Major had called a dissolution and it was possibly best to be out of there at that time. John Smith’s death had seemed a trifle too convenient but who was Hugh to comment anyway?

Apart from fairly vacuous conference speeches, Blair was a pretty face but it would have been good to find time to look into the man and that other one – what was his name? Brown? The pundits seemed to feel that Blair would cruise in but there was something just not right about the man.

Hugh wanted to get over and tell Britain, ‘It’s a trick, it’s a cookbook,’ like something from the Twilight Zone.

XIV

April, 1997

Genevieve poured Marc and herself another cognac in her sitting room, walked across to her window and stared down onto the tree lined street below. She went over to her bureau and extracted a file. Going carefully through the sheets inside, she found the one she wanted, took it out and quietly laid it in front of him on the low glass table.

He skimmed over it and whistled.

Marc felt that some sort of defence had to be mounted. ‘There might be a mistake, Mademoiselle. This is a close friend of yours mentioned here.’

‘She’s been three times to Russia, Marc.’

‘Even so.’

‘It would explain the money.’

‘Maybe but I couldn’t believe she -’

‘I could. She might be quite close to me but remember how I came to know her. She was never a childhood friend.’

‘Do you realize what you’re saying? The one who introduced you two -’

‘I know.’

‘You trust no one, do you, Mademoiselle?’

‘I’ve been shown to have been wrong too many times.’

Marc whistled again and shook his head.

XV

May, 1997

Summer was on the horizon, they hadn’t made a clear decision about their future and now Hugh made a major error. They’d discussed living in the west but she couldn’t do that yet. There was her job and this was the holiday season, there were family issues and his things were currently in three countries.

They'd not sorted out the wedding, neither of them had insisted and it had just kept getting postponed. Now he brought up the issue of whether she wanted. 'I want, I want,' she insisted. It was hopeless.

He said what was on his mind. 'I think it's both my age and the way I look. If it is, be honest and let me find someone else.'

She was shocked by that. The notion of them suddenly parting after they'd - got it sorted out perhaps - it was mortifying. 'No, no, it's not that. It is a bit but I know everything about you and still I'm with you.'

'Habit? Don't wish to be alone?'

'Maybe some of the last one. There are men who want and I wouldn't say no either but I know you and I don't want to start that all over again. You're enough for me and I have a say in what happens. That's not always the way with Russian men. I like this, you're fine and I love you.'

What was at the back of his mind now was that it was no time to spend time apart from her, whilst she was in this mood and yet he had to get down to Australia to see his parents who'd decided to see out their days there, instead of coming back to England. Worse - he had to get back to England as well, to collect most of his belongings.

He broached it, wincing as he told her and the result was predictable - she was dead against. ‘No, you can't,’ she pleaded. 'This is the time with us where we need to be together, to arrange the wedding, to do what we need to do. This is a very important time.'

‘I know that but my mum’s not well - it’s age-related. She’s waited a year for this, I've kept her on promises until now and it would be cruel not to go to her. She hasn't asked, she's not pressurized me in the least and that’s all the more reason. I really have to do this, love, especially as she'd want to know about you, about our plans and so on. Your mother and you are so close, you'd understand. Maybe I'm not as close but this would me on my conscience, you know - I'd be moody and irritable.’

‘How long?’

‘Three weeks in Australia and two in Britain.’

‘Half the summer!’

‘One time only, I promise. Australia's been booked for months and it goes through Britain anyway, the route. It's a one-off and next time I'd time it much better and take you out as well.’

‘I need you with me, Hugh, I’m telling you straight. This is exactly the time we should be together. Why can’t you go in September?’

‘Work, of course. A teacher can't not be there. He has to be there, especially at the start of a semester - you know that.’

‘When do you go?’

‘Mid June.’

‘Koshmar. There's something I have to tell you and I don't want you to start imagining things. There are many people, I meet them each day and they put pressure on me.'

'Men.'

'Yes, men. I do love you but what am I to do? I don't mean that I'm dying to make love to someone but what am I actually going to do? Have you thought about that? Go to the dacha? Stay in a boiling flat in the heat of summer? Sit here on my own and watch TV? I'm not being selfish or clinging to you but what will I actually do? I'll be phoned the whole time, once they know you've gone and I'm alone. I don't know if you can see the danger but in our culture, it's - expected. I can keep most of them away but I'd have to be a hermit. I wouldn't be able to go to parties because single women are never that. You know I have no real girlfriend to go with, especially after we've become so - close. There'll be invitations for me to go with a group somewhere, where we'll drink and laugh ... and you know. It's the summer. Please don't do this.'

'I checked two things - if I could make the ticket later, even though I need my clothes and things now - people are holding them for me in Britain until the summer, only until then. Yes, I can get them to wait. There were no tickets except twice what I paid, plus the cancellation. I do hear what I'm saying to you and how it looks. I asked about another ticket for you but your leave isn't due until November. You said this. I feel trapped.'

'I see your situation but I also see real danger for us - real danger. You can't expect to come back and for things to be the same. I'm not threatening you, Babe, seriously I'm not but you have to know what you are doing in leaving now, in the first half of this summer.'

Chapter 2 here ... Chapter 4 here

HOME

Russia 4 - North

2009-05-05T13:52:00.024+01:00

Matryoshka 4: North

Chapter 3 here ... Chapter 5 here

HOME

I

‘Ksenya, I’d like you to follow up on Gospodin Deputatov - his exact connection with Ronald Seymour, any other irons he has in the fire, trace the money, sniff around and find if this is solely a commercial venture.’

‘And Zhenya?’

'Create a second project for him to protect you over.’

‘I think I have just the thing. Once I’ve sorted out the fine details, Ludmilla Valerievna, I'll put it to you.’

II

June, 1997

Twelve hours after kissing Anya goodbye at the station, following a frosty morning, interspersed with tears, where he'd repeatedly tried to reassure her, Shadzharsky Vaksal, Moscow, came into view, the train ground to a halt and he was deposited on the platform, fending off taxi drivers and working out the best way to take the Metro and bus to the airport.

As he made it by tram to the bus station a short distance from Rechnoi Vaksal, he simply couldn't see any other way out. - he'd just have to pick up whatever pieces were left when he returned. He'd phone her at her grandmother's, he'd speak for however long it took.

It was unsatisfactory.

III

First stop was London and almost immediately, the flight to Australia, via Abu Dhabi, a journey requiring patience and J.J.Cale’s soothing musical vignettes. The wait at Abu Dhabi would be near interminable but at least there was a nice lady beside him to talk to.

It didn’t take long to swap stories and find she was divorced, in her late thirties, with one university age daughter; she’d married young by western standards, was deputy-manager of a north-western travel agency and was flying to Adelaide to discuss partnerships in that fair city. Seemed strange, he thought but then again, who was he to say?

.o0o.

By Abu Dhabi, they were really well into conversation and he realized she was a lovely person, which tended to bring out all his gallant qualities - getting her more wine, taking her meal tray so she could fold her seat table and so on.

Christina, that was her name ... mature and languid and dare he say it … English. They walked around the transit lounge at Abu Dhabi and now came the best news of all – they had the same seats to Bangkok and might be able to organize the seats to Melbourne, where they’d then need to part. As for her, she hadn’t seen this level of gallantry for some time and was in no way averse to it continuing.

In one of those moments which occur, they were physically pressed onto one another by the moving crowd near the food concession and in a passing split second, their heads came close and he touched her lips with his, then the moment passed.

She laughed unselfconsciously and said, ‘Let’s enjoy the moment for what it was.’

She nodded, he offered his arm and she almost freaked. No one did that any more on first meeting. ‘Do women do that in Russia?’

‘Yep. Roads are rough over there - it makes sense. I was forgetting myself. Sorry.’

She looked at him and suggested they needed to get back to the plane. On the way, her hand took his and their fingers intertwined, her concession to outmoded behaviour.

Back on the plane, once again in the air and after the meal, they both decided to forego the movie, he gathered some cushions from empty seats, stacked some on the centre seat, with one on his lap, giving her others to put behind her head and back, then invited her to put her feet up over his legs.

She did that for some time, chuckled and arranged things differently, asking him to come to the centre seat, placing a cushion against his chest and resting her head there, which necessitated his arm going around her.

‘Would you like a wine?’ he suddenly asked.

She looked up at him and nodded, he buzzed the stewardess and soon they had two red wines and peanuts, another thing he liked about her – a woman who drank red. They toasted friendship and he told her that, in Russian, they called it druzhba.

Both decided to wait for Bangkok to tell the other about their partners.

The cups now gone, she snuggled into a comfortable position and drifted off, another thing he appreciated – that he had on his hands a woman who actually tired. That set in motion a train of thinking.

.o0o.

They didn’t get the seats in Bangkok but managed to negotiate with the man beside him on the Melbourne leg who saw he was getting a female fellow passenger anyway into the deal and so there they were together one last time.

.o0o.

They confessed an hour before landing when he showed her a picture of Anya; Christina marvelled; she didn’t have one of Martin but described him.

‘Do you love him?’ asked Hugh.

She sighed again. ‘That’s what we’re going to discover, I hope.’

They exchanged contact details, quite detailed in fact, landed and reluctantly, parted. He watched her slip out of his life.

Next, he couldn’t find the pick up point for the shuttle bus taking him to the Travelodge. At five minutes past midnight, he found the pickup area, the shuttle appeared and a restful night at the airport motel was only punctuated by the strenuous groans of the porn stars next door. He wondered why he couldn’t hear the frenzied guitar music.

The call to Anya, before falling asleep, was OK and of course it was early evening there but she suggested they make phone contact only every few days, not everyday.

On a whim, he phoned Christina when he was sure she’d landed and would be waiting to collect her luggage.

IV

Marc went to Prague - coordinating and arranging protection for Nicolette and Francine - who in turn had been briefed on keeping an eye on Marc himself.

Actually, his main purpose was to trace the way the money began in Nizhny Novgorod, went to Shazhara, returned to Nizhny and then seemed to jump to Prague. From there it ended up in Paris but didn’t seem to be funding anything openly. At least it didn’t seem to produce any known effects within their world in Paris, save that Genevieve often went away for a few days, a couple of weeks after the transfer.

The money was always activated in Nizhny following an EU meeting somewhere to discuss the Helsinki Headline Goal, the EU Petersberg tasks incorporating Genevieve’s section. That’s where her primary funding came from.

The thing was, after the three weeks were up and Genevieve had returned from her trip away, the section always took a hit of some kind and she seemed incapable of dealing with it. Nicolette usually took the reins and brought some sort of order back.

To say Marc was puzzled was putting it mildly.

V

Hugh’s mother and stepfather, Jack, were shifting house at long last, possibly for the last time, and the clearing out was going to be a major job.

At this stage in their lives, the stately green two-storey with the sweeping, circular driveway and weeping willows had to be relinquished in favour of a compact villa unit but after seeing the new unit, he had to concede that it made sense.

Here was the City of Melbourne again, set at the head of a large, almost land locked bay, dotted with water traffic in the summer, a picture of golden beaches and from Canadian Bay Boat Club, thirty kilometres south of Melbourne, along the curving coastline, if the sun was in exactly the right place in the late afternoon, the skyscrapers of the distant city acted as giant lighthouses, flooding the water with golden light.

Their house was just up from the beach.

They dropped into a routine and once all the niceties had been attended to and the photos viewed, the guests politely received and his chef role assumed, it became glaringly obvious that though this was family, his own family, they had remarkably little to say to each other from the point of view of shared experiences.

This was because they were here and he was there and neither could be expected to be interested in the minutiae of day to day occurrences in a different country and a different generation. Hugh did his best to keep the jaunty flow going and to be sure, they appreciated his presence and he theirs.

Yet he felt like an interloper.

There was another aspect too. His mother was ever so slightly slipping into repetitive behaviours, which smacked of age catching up and these were ... well, they were a little wearing on Jack and the situation was only going to get worse, not better, over the next few years. There were ample opportunities to observe it each day, as he took her for drives down the peninsular, to the top of the hilltop Arthur’s Seat, with afternoon tea at the restaurant commanding a view of the purple green shoreline of the Bay far below, stretching all the way round to Melbourne.

He might need to come out to live here and bring Anya with him, if she’d come. Possibly she’d need to bring her own mother.

The other thing he did in this time in Melbourne was make exorbitant phone calls to a less than patient Anya back in Shadzhara and visit a few old chums.

VI

The closest thing to a best friend Anya had, Liya, was in crisis. She’d been taken on as sports reporter for the main republic gazette and of course had got herself into the hockey team milieu, assuming that there were rich pickings to be had in that pool of manhood.

Anya came straight to the point, ‘Li, your chances are zero. The man’s into kalichestvo, not kachestvo. Body count's more important than quality.’

‘We have an - understanding.’

‘He told you he had to go away but he’d be thinking of you, yes?’

‘Well?’

‘Liya, you’re so blind.’

The phone rang, the black phone on the wall and Liya sprang for it. After a highly embarrassing call, Anya's groaned, ‘You’re crazy, you know. Where did he phone from?’

‘From the football supper - Cafe Sport.’

‘There is no football supper - they shifted it to Safar for Friday next.’

Liya went white, then rallied. ‘Well clearly there’s some mix up – I’ll ask when I see him.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow - he promised to phone.’

They both sat in silence for some time.

Eventually, Liya asked, ‘So what’s it about?’

‘Pavel. He’s getting a bit close and I’m not sure I want to resist.’

‘Er … Anya? Hello. What about Hugh, your fiance or so I thought?’

‘Hugh went away after I warned him of the danger -’

‘I don’t think you explained it well enough, you didn’t spell it out. Most women would just wait for their guy – is this to punish him?’

‘Not at all. I am waiting, aren’t I but that doesn’t mean I can’t go out. Why must I be a hermit crab, just because my man’s gone away?’

‘Pavel only wants one thing.’

‘So?’

‘Come back to the sports palace with me now. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

VII

Departure day swiftly arrived in Melbourne, farewells were completed, it was now back on board Gulf Air, back through Abu Dhabi, back through the wasteland of strange nights and days merging together, back to the rude awakening of London again.

It all seemed to happen that quickly.

Big Ben, the Thames and all the familiar spots passed by, en route for a little known gem of a B&B at 51 Lee Terrace, Blackheath.

Lisa had put him onto it, the people living three doors from her old family home. The moment he got in and deposited his things, he was on the phone to Lisa herself - would she like to go out to the Travellers Arms for a meal?

Again, it all happened with great rapidity.

Two hours later, they were seated in an alcove, over a drink. He asked about her art course, about whether Riccardo was going to make an honest woman of her and received a playful slap across the cheek for that, how her new little putt-putt was running – she’d sold it – and how her parents were.

He asked about Blair’s landslide and she seemed to like the new PM. It was time to order.

Red headed Lisa’s Biafran figure made her taste for salads a bit difficult to fathom but, as long as Hugh had known her, she’d invariably ordered some variant of salad. She ordered true to form again and he sidled up to the bar. The barmaid wrote down ‘chicken’ instead of ‘steak’ for him but as he’d changed his mind anyway, it was no matter and he paid up.

‘But you asked for steak,’ admonished a female to his left, with the slightest of Russian accents. Hugh swung round and lost the power of speech.

‘Preev’yet,’ grinned Miss Heathrow, looking into his eyes, her own peering from under masses of golden hair.

Hugh slowly released his breath and the barmaid looked on, bemused. ‘Priv’yet, kak pozhivai’tye?’ was all he could think to ask.

‘Normal’na, Can we find somewhere else to talk?’

‘I’m with a friend -’

‘So I see. All right. Let’s meet tomorrow.’

‘Za chem?’

‘We need to speak, Hugh.’

‘You know my name?’

‘I know much about you. Trust me on this. You know Charing Cross BR station? Good, then I’ll see you in the Burger King on the main concourse, at 10:00, OK?’

‘OK?’ she repeated.

‘OK,’ he agreed and she was gone.

He went back to Lisa who’d been observing with more than passing interest and told her all, including the intended meeting at Charing Cross on the morrow.

‘Stop and listen one moment, Romeo. Strange women from Russia whom you’ve met once or twice before do not, repeat not, accidentally turn up at out of the way pubs. Did you give her any indication you were coming here?’

‘None at all.’

‘Don’t go, I don’t like the sound of it. I know it’s your own business but ...’

He pondered, sipping his drink. They ate and then returned to the topic. ‘I have to go, Lisa, for exactly that reason. I have to know how she knew.’

VIII

Viktor phoned Anya about 15:30 and he got straight down to business. ‘I had a call from London last evening – from Hugh - and he asked if I had anything on Miss Heathrow, as he calls her –’

‘Oh yes?’

‘He was with his friend Lisa for a meal ...’

‘I’m not worried about Lisa. I'm worried about the other one though. Do you think she’s with him?’

‘How can I know? Perhaps. I made enquiries and some interesting things came out. She has a brother - balnoi, a known nutter - plus their section head has a daughter at Hugh's school.’

‘Wow.’

‘Wow indeed. I tried to get a file on Miss Heathrow, I can usually get these but not this time. Hers is classified.’

‘I see. We need to at least warn him.’

‘Can you contact him? The number he was on was a payphone.’

‘I’ll have to go to his flat to get Lisa’s number. I didn't bring it with me.’

.o0o.

18:25 saw her in Hugh’s living room, wondering where to start.

She saw the address book almost immediately and it was full of names – British Embassy, Americana Vacations, DHL – ah, here we go – girls’ names and numbers. Interestingly, some written in by girls themselves. Quite a few Russian names amongst them. She saw the names of two of her own friends - was there no end to girls’ treachery?

Then she found the one she needed. Scribbling it down, she checked the fridge before leaving, saw some tins of salmon-stuffed olives and a note, ‘Help yourself, my darling.’

Scooping the tins into her holdall, she made her way home, went through the rigamarole of calling Lisa and finally got through.

Lisa listened and then said, ‘Yes, I saw her at a distance. She wants to meet him tomorrow. I've been trying to contact him myself but his B&B hasn't seen him today. I’ll keep trying.’

They talked about this and that for a bit and then Lisa asked, ‘Do you know anything about this woman?’

‘Yes, she’s dangerous.’

IX

Ten o’clock duly came around next day; Hugh was seated in the Burger King, toying with his Whopper, facing the door from his side of the restaurant.

Many people were coming and going but not her. The echoing station announcements, the crescendo of passengers gathering to read the big board from time to time, the constant traffic through the doors of the Burger King - they all passed, but not her.

He bought more fries.

.o0o.

At 10:30, he bought another cola.

A youngish man opposite finished his Flamer and got up, dropping his napkin on Hugh’s table as he passed. Hugh glanced at the scribble on it. ‘If you want to see her, be at Rock Circus at midday.’

Just that, then the man was gone.

Hugh gathered his things, went outside to the pay phones and called Lisa. Yes, yes, she’d wait until 15:00 for his call but no later, all right?

.o0o.

By midday he was at the Rock Circus, Piccadilly, at the entrance way where they give you the headphones. No Russian girl in sight and he was peeved. OK, he’d give her another thirty minutes, then that would be that.

About 12:30, he bought a ticket, took the headphones and went in himself, past Elvis, Freddy Mercury and the other artists in wax, past the macabre, ephemeral, impermanent world of rock, past the hideously expensive café and into the sound show auditorium.

During a lull in the music, in the darkness, to his left, a voice casually asked, ‘What kept you?’

Hugh didn’t even look; he waited for the show to end and for the inevitable decanting of the audience. She stood close and he felt begrudgingly disturbed by her presence. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ksenia but close people call me Ksusha.’

‘Davaitye, Ksenia, paidyomtye k McDonald’s v Leicester Square.'

They got there twenty five minutes later, ordered, paid, collected, found a table by the window and the woman began her explanation. ‘I live in Shadzhara and that’s why you saw me there.’

‘Why did you run away?’

‘It was less complicated.’

‘Go on.’

‘Zhenya, my brother, the one you saw in Burger King, he works for security, as I do, but he also works on the side for a foreign company –’

‘I don’t buy that you can work ‘on the side’, as you put it. Surely it’s clearly stipulated that you can’t and you’d be dismissed for any breach.’

She sighed and settled down to explain, his eyes rivetted on her bow lips. ‘In Soviet times, there was enough money, because the state provided all the other services, including housing and health, and so you only needed to cover food and other personal items for yourself.

The only way to put food on the table now is to give excellent service, to be completely loyal to your superiors and then that little bit of extra cash which makes ends meet – well – it’s just understood. As long as you’re not greedy.’

‘But that’s corruption.’

‘There speaks the westerner. Look, if you pay a person fifty dollars a month, when his living costs are eighty dollars a month, then I don’t call that corruption.

That’s why we do a little work for companies. They’re aggressive against one another, fighting for a place in the market, and they don’t hold back. That’s why my action in helping you didn’t help you. It only brought you to their attention.’

‘Whoa. What actions in helping me? Why should I need help? How do I come into this?’

‘I dropped that Linda cassette into your bag on the concourse floor. Now I’m sorry I did it. It had details which compromise the head of the rival company to the one Zhenya works for. If you’d been searched, it would have just been a foreigner’s music cassette – no drugs or money or anything like that.’

‘But that doesn’t explain why I need help.’

‘Well, I also did something else. I arranged, through my section chief, for your passage through customs to be eased and it went on record in Moscow. Those loyal to the rival company picked up on it and that’s why you have a few problems now.’

‘Again I don’t buy it. Even aggressive businessmen are sensitive to nuances and though I’m not important, I do have a certain profile in the city - I’m known. If something happened to me and if it was investigated - it might happen to be brought home to you.’

‘Possibly.’

Hugh studied her melancholy eyes which made you feel you were the only one in the world and her world-weary demeanour excited pity. She sensed her charm was doing its job, didn’t press the matter but asked, ‘Will you see me tomorrow?’

‘Za chem?’

‘I’d like to.’

‘You know your power, lady, don’t you? This time, be at a place called the Village Deli in Blackheath – you come up the walkway from the platform, turn left and it’s there on the corner, 14:00 for coffee. Tell Sandra – she owns the place – that you’re waiting for me, and this time, make sure you’re there on time. Also, if you’re early, I can recommend the turkey sandwiches.’

X

July, 1997

Lisa had had a call from Riccardo - he wasn’t going to be over for some weeks.

She sat down heavily on her fluffy bed with the light blue floral duvet and looked around the room. It had been done up, she’d cleaned the place and made it more cheerful. All to no avail.

‘I suppose I’ll have to go over there again,’ she muttered.

‘I need to go to Prague,’ he confessed.

‘Wonderful.’

‘I told you this sort of thing was going to happen, Lisa. Of course I want to see you but I’m tied up in this project and we have to see it through.’

‘When?’

‘It’s to be signed in October but there are some problems.’

‘In Prague.’

‘Si.’

‘But the Czech Republic is not in the EU.’

‘It’s part of the Visegrád Triangle and it’s important.’

‘When may I come over there?’

‘Can you come next Thursday?’

‘I suppose so.’

XI

On a whim, Hugh phoned Marc, re-established the connection and asked if Genevieve's section had anything on Ksenia Sharova. Marc was more than surprised by the request but promised to go through his secure channels.

Now Hugh had a little surprise for Ksenia - Lisa had jumped at the chance to actually meet the famous Mata Hari face to face and the result was Sandra’s Deli at 13:30, turkey sandwiches and the inevitable salad.

About 14:15, Lisa asked, ‘So where is she?’

He glanced at the door and wondered too. The feeling was starting to come over him that he’d been stood up again, that both of them had been stood up. Quiet anger smouldered beneath the surface.

The doorway darkened and through came Mr. Burger King.

‘Ksusha not here yet?’ he asked. Hugh wondered how he could possibly be Ksenia’s brother. Then again, the term ‘brother’ had a looser definition in Russia.

The young man saw that ‘Ksusha’ was indeed ‘not here’, bit his lip and made a few calls on his mobile; long legs straddled the white-painted wrought iron chair, he became progressively more agitated, announced, ‘I think they got her,’ jumped up and strode out in three steps.

The other two looked at each other, shrugged, paid up and prepared to go. Just then, Ksenia walked through the door and as Hugh began a cutting remark, he checked himself. The woman was definitely on edge and anything but the confident operator of yesterday. ‘I’m sorry, Hugh, really I am. I really was genuinely delayed.’

Lisa and he looked at each other again, sat down and ordered three Smoothie fruit cocktails. Ksenia was strangely quiet as they sipped and then she seemed to come to a decision. ‘Can we go somewhere out of London for a few days - somewhere to hide for a little while, before returning to Russia?’

‘Hide – in Britain? Ksenia, this is an island – there’s nowhere to run. If someone’s after you, they’ll find you.’

‘Please.’ She was earnest and Lisa shrugged again. ‘There’s trouble for all of us now. I’m really very sorry.’

He stroked his chin. ‘All right, let’s go for a trip north.’

Lisa stared at him, flabbergasted. ‘Does that include me?’

‘Of course, can you pack in a few hours?’

‘You know I have to go to my mum’s place. I don’t believe this is happening.’

He turned to Ksenia and asked if she’d give Lisa and him a minute alone. She got up and stood by the door, watching the passing traffic and keeping an ear peeled to the conversation at the table.

‘Hugh, are you crazy? Remember Anya? Remember the phone call from Russia?’

‘Yes I do. Look at it this way, Lisa. This woman lives in our town and is in security - she has the power to destroy my position there and maybe hurt Anya. If I go along with her game, it might reveal a few things.’

‘Oh, I’ve no doubt of that.’

‘You know what I mean. I’ve already made a call about this woman and I have to phone the guy back later for details. I’ll call Anya from the B&B too. Just to be sure, if I don’t catch her, her answer machine will be on and she can re-call you if you’ll leave yours on too.’

‘Hugh, are you going to tell Anya what you’re doing and with whom? And can you convince your own girl of your motives because you haven’t been able to with me.’

‘That’s your cynicism, Lisa. I’ll call her from the north, from the hotel. If she calls you first, please tell her to expect a call tomorrow morning, about 09:00 her time.’

He gave her a kiss on the cheek, thanked her, paid up, asked Ksenia if she was ready and they were gone.

X

Marc was in touch with Genevieve by secure line.

The gist was that this Hugh Jensen lived in Shadzhara with a girlfriend who was friends with his Dilyara [ex-Dilyara] whom this Jensen had given his, Marc’s, card to and that had started the affair. Now M. Jensen was asking Marc about a Russian security matter.

‘How did he know you were in security?’

‘Dilya’s trip to Paris made that obvious. What should I do?’

‘We’ll give him some of what he asks but openly. We have Michel over there now and he can keep an eye on this M. Jensen. Keep on friendly terms, Marc, at least until we know more. All right?’

‘D’accord.’

XIII

Anya opened the door once the man had announced himself.

Quite sheepishly, he came through, took off his shoes and was shown into the kitchen, where he sat on the semi-circular bench against the wall, while she got the tea and makings.

‘I … er … have that report I need translated. Liya said you could help.’

‘After tea.’

With everything now on the table in front of them, she sat down herself about a metre away and asked, ‘Tell me about yourself. I’ve seen you in the press office a few times.’

XIV

The call from the B&B drew a blank so Hugh called Lisa again and said he’d phone from the north. Anya might phone her in the meantime.

By 17:15, he and the Russian woman were on their way to Kings Cross, soon to board the Inter-City, heading for York.

She was clearly agitated and though the perma-smile remained on the lips, the eyes were shifty and to his questions, she was often distracted. She seemed to be scanning the station from where she stood and even asked him to stand at a distance, to keep an eye on the roof above and for things coming from behind the wall she was backed against.

When the train was ready and they’d boarded, she still didn’t relax – not until she’d paced through three cabins and their interconnecting walkways - only then did she finally settle into her seat, allowing him the quickest of smiles.

He returned the smile.

The ordinariness of the journey north, the plain uncomplicated rollicking, the buffet trolleys with their chicken tikka sandwiches, all of it was surreal and the girl opposite now gradually calmed, in proportion to the miles out from London but it wasn’t reassuring, it was possibly more worrying than her earlier nervousness.

Plus - they hadn’t booked any accommodation.

He’d planned to take the Sprinter from York to Scarborough but then remembered Robin Hood’s Bay and the Victoria, overlooking the North Sea. If he went further north, past Ugglebarnby, then he was getting into home territory and he didn’t particularly wish to meet anyone he knew, even with someone like Ksenia.

Especially with someone like her. No, Bay would do fine.

.o0o.

They finally made it to the Victoria about eight and the first shock was that there were no single rooms available – just one state room, with fabulous views over the North Sea. He had to make an instant decision and she watched with great interest; he looked across at her, turned to the man and said, ‘We’ll take it.’

They could change hotels next morning and he would keep his distance for one night.

Once through the door of their room, Ksenia rushed over to the window and gazed down on the view below. She extended her arms and spun round like a ballerina, which she may well once have been – too intoxicating for words. ‘It’s so good, it’s so good,’ she squealed.

‘Ksenia – right from the start – I plan to marry Anya.’

‘All right, Hugh, no need to bring that into the conversation. Can’t we still enjoy the evening?’

‘Without a doubt.’

XV

Marc sent a message by secure-line to Genevieve, which she showed to Nicolette, then sent back to him, ‘You feel up to it?’

He replied, ‘I’m all right about it but will she be? Shall I book?’

Genevieve replied in the affirmative and he was set to fly the next day to Shazhara. He phoned Dilyara on her mobile; she was shocked and thrilled, all in one - of course she’d see him at such short notice.

Bon, thought Marc and then in the next moment, wondered why he was re-opening an old wound. It was in the nature of the Section that operatives appeared for the night and sometimes departed in the middle of it. So it was no surprise when the phone rang while he was laying clothes in the pack and it was Nicolette, saying she’d been assigned to watch him that night.

That was another thing – their security arrangements always had the operatives guarded before departure; they’d taken to calling it ‘being watched’. He didn’t mind Nikki with her sparrow frame and frisky manner but he preferred his women with a bit more meat on them. Actually, he reflected, the section was fairly lean itself that way; Mademoiselle must starve them before joining, herself the most normal looking of the lot.

Nicolette gave the signal on the doorbell; he put down his ham croissant and let her in. She’d always had trouble with the zips on things and this time it was her soft leather ginger handbag. She pulled at it, tugged at it, grimaced at it and then thrust it at him to do.

He didn’t do much better for some time but then managed to get the clip free of the material. A three pack of condoms spilt out on the floor, plus her compact and he glanced at her. She blushed and was about to tell him not to get any ideas when she thought – why not play him along a bit.

In the skimpiest of navy short-hemmed dresses with white polka dots, the material clinging to her shape, she was like some delicate flower and the thought suddenly leapt into his mind and then out again. She picked up on every changed line in his face, every change in his deportment, the way he too quickly took up and polished off his croissant.

‘You want something to eat?’ he called over his shoulder, heading for the kitchen.

She didn’t but something was driving her on at this point and the kitchen was where she had to be. ‘Ah, oui, un café.’

She followed him in and when he spun round, coffee pot in hand, dropped her eyes in that devastating way which normally trapped the high and mighty into revealing too much about themselves.

He was more bemused. ‘Nikki, what is it with you this evening?’

And yet he was more than uneasy. She deemed it time to move half a pace closer. ‘Hell, he thought,’ and her body was hard up against him now, the lips so, so soft and she was waiting.

‘Nikki, this is crazy. We don’t do this on duty, you know that.’ She was silent, he pressed his lips against hers and her hands went up to his shoulders, then he pulled away, breathing unevenly. ‘Nikki, no, I can’t.’

She stepped back, still staring him in the eyes.

He poured her a coffee, which she accepted without comment, raising the cup and sipping on it, without shifting her gaze. Then she smiled as he sat on the other side of the round peninsular table and indicated her place.

She sat down where she’d been told to.

He added, ‘I don’t believe you’d have gone through with it.’ No answer, a record silence for Nikki. ‘Would you have?’

‘I don’t know, Marc. I was curious.’

‘But you don’t make love for curiosity’s sake.’ Nicolette raised her eyebrows at that and smiled that smile of hers. ‘Well, I don’t anyway,’ he said.

‘Then you’re a catch for some lucky girl, Marc.’

‘You’re not getting round me that way,’ he laughed. She let his misunderstanding of her remark pass and decided on poignant silence again.

He came out of it and realized, ‘Hey, you’re playing with me. You’re the coldest girl in the section, Miss Ice. In Barbizon -’

‘Quite.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Marc, I might have done it, you know, just this night. I might have. You’re not … not threatening to me. Merci for the coffee - see you in the morning, all right? Six o’clock.’ She darted across to him, kissed his lips again and disappeared.

He was wistful for a few moments, drained his coffee, then did what was necessary.

XVI

Dusk was a good two hours away, so Hugh suggested a short repast, then maybe a wander down into the old fishing village.

With her apprehensive yet excited about the one-in-four descent down the narrow, tortuous path to the village, they stopped at the first pub halfway, tucked into a little nook between the high walled buildings.

‘What’s here?’ she asked.

‘Some of the best real ale in England. I used to come down here quite often for quiz nights. You want to try the ale?’

‘You mean beer?’

‘Natural beer – the real thing.’

‘Strong?’

‘Not really, except for Old Peculier.’

‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’

‘Old Peculier - it's a strong, dark ale made locally, well almost locally, over at Masham. Three pints is more than enough for a regular drinker - it's 5.6 percent. The other beers vary from about 4.4 to 4.6 percent.’

‘That’s water,’ she scathingly replied.

‘In settings like this, we drink real ales for the flavour and for the ambience.’

He ordered a half of XB for her to sip on and she looked at it dubiously. ‘It’s foaming,’ she complained.

He laughed. ‘If the foam remains on the inside of the glass, then it’s been prepared properly and it’s ready and this one is ready and if you don’t try it soon, I’ll take it from you and drink it myself.’

She sipped cautiously and then a little more.

She liked it. She tried a little more.

The landlord called him over and had a quiet word. Hugh agreed, paid for two more beers and for something-extra as well and they went and perched on the primitive bench next to the rough-hewn wall – this was a historic pub. The landlord slipped out the back and returned with a soft, wrapped package.

Foam dripping from her pink lips down over her chin and with a smile turning up the corners of those lips, she asked, ‘What is it?’

‘My turn to be mysterious. I’ll tell you later.’

Her exotic appeal was attracting too much attention from the locals, so he suggested, one half later, that they continue down to the stone apron by the water. Night had fallen as they picked their way down the path, Ksenia leaning heavily on his arm.

From the apron which lapped the North Sea, she took in all the tall, narrow, stone houses crowded either side and thought they were like giants gazing down on her.

He filled her in on the history. ‘These villages are the stuff of legend – look at those old coracles turned upside down over there - fishing nets shabbily draped across them at the end of the day. Admittedly, that's a bit Ye Olde for mine but you still get the idea of what it must have been like.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In the old days – smuggling! That’s what they did here - it’s pure theatre.’

‘Do - do they do it today?’

‘I don’t know, doubt it but the joke might be on us and they might still do it. They used to launch boats from here, I think.’

‘Dangerous?’

'I've been here in a storm and wouldn't like to be standing where we are. By the way, see that little alley over there? There's one of the best little fish ’n chip shops in Britain over there, in my humble opinion.’

Her smile became broader. ‘Let’s walk over there now.’

‘Yes but it’s closed at this hour. If you want, we can come back down tomorrow.’

.o0o.

At the Victoria, her story was straightforward enough, he perched on the end of the bed, listening.

At school, she’d been a champion volleyballer; she’d been neither tall enough nor skilled enough to step up a class but she’d always stayed in shape through aerobics and dancing. There’d been one young man in her life named Airat whom she’d met at the Institute, the relationship seemingly not going anywhere. Her brother occupied most of her thoughts and of course, she adored travelling.

As she spoke in her sweetly accented English, it was brought home, in no uncertain terms, just what he had on his hands here and as her story became more animated, the bedclothes fell away and despite quickly retrieving them, it was too late for him. If he were to survive the night, he’d have to get her dressed. Then it struck him that he’d forgotten about the present.

He went to get the package. ‘Here.’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, if you don’t open it, you’ll never know.’

She tore open the packet and it was an XB rugby shirt, in royal blue with white trim, the XB motif woven into the left breast. She looked at it for a few moments, then slipped it on, juggling the bedding all the while, then jumped onto the floor, shaking the hem down with her hips but it hadn’t covered anything for that half second and that glimpse was playing havoc with his mind - she was playing havoc with his mind and she knew every last nuance about it all.

She span round in front of the mirror, all innocently happy and the oversized shirt threw those thighs into mesmerizing relief. ‘How do I look?’

He was genuinely struggling to get the words out and all that was emitted was a strangled noise.

She slipped across, planted a kiss and he stuttered: ‘I was worried whether you’d like the colour.’

‘It’s perfect, Hugh. Thank you.’

He went over and switched the light off, undressed and went across to the chaisse-longue, which puzzled her mightily. Surely he’d at least try it on. ‘Ksusha?’ he called across from the window.

‘Da?’

‘Have you ever slept in the same room as someone and not ... er ...’

She was highly amused. ‘In Russia? Is that your plan tonight?’ Then she asked, ‘Why did you take the double room?’

‘You were there – you know it was the last one available.’

‘Why did you take the double room?’

He never answered.

‘Good night, Hugh.’ She turned over and faced away from him, he lay on his back until he could hear the sound of her even breathing but couldn’t sleep and couldn’t stand her being over there.

About 03:30, a rainstorm hit the area from nowhere and between the sheet lightning and the thunder, she woke up, looked across and saw him sitting up on the chaisse-longue.

Chapter 3 here ... Chapter 5 here

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Russia 5 - The Legendary Saltersgate

2009-05-05T13:51:00.020+01:00

Chapter 4 here ... Chapter 6 here

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I

Marc alighted at Shadzhara after an uneventful train journey and there was Dilyara on the main concourse with a friend, she dressed in white T shirt and jeans, the other in an airline uniform; they kissed in the Gallic manner, then she introduced the girl as Anya; Marc said the right things, some dark-haired, swarthy man in his mid-thirties came through and started talking to Anya, they took their leave, Dilyara and he went out to the Sputnik.

Marc looked across and decided to try a long shot. ‘This Anya – she’s not Hugh’s girl, is she?’

‘Of course. Are you interested?’

‘Nice girl, not my type.’

‘That was the correct thing to say, Marc.’ He was well aware of that.

The rest of the journey back to her flat was uneventful and she’d prepared a nice late breakfast. Out of the blue, he commented, ‘That wasn’t Hugh with her.’

Dilyara thought for a moment and replied, ‘No.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘No.’

They ate the blinii pancakes with honey and had half an apple each, after which she asked how he felt. Did he want to go to the city, did he want to be shown more sights? Did he -’

He kissed her.

II

In the morning, Hugh woke first, got off the chaisse-longue, took a shower, dressed, then went downstairs. Ksenia pretended to be asleep until he’d gone.

At reception he asked for an international call and they sent him to the booth. He tried Anya at home, twice, then at her mother’s but there was no answer; he thought it best not to try the grandmother; he tried the airline instead and was told she wasn’t working that day so he tried Lisa’s number.

No, she hadn’t heard and would Hugh give her some number she could try if all else failed? He did, saying he’d phone again in the evening, put the phone down and stared at the wall of the cabinet.

He left the booth, thanked the night manager and asked if coffee might be forthcoming. The manager said breakfast was up in half an hour and would he take the coffee in the lounge?

Ksusha appeared at that point, dressed but sleepy, so he ordered a second coffee and they went through to the lounge where it was brought to them with some toast and jam. She sensed his mood and got straight down to it. ‘You phoned Anya?’ There was no mal-intent in the voice.

‘I’m in the process of marrying Anya, as you know.’

‘In the process of?’

‘We plan to marry but haven’t set the date.’ Ksenia raised her eyebrows, as he went on. ‘We didn’t part well and she didn’t want to be left behind. This thing with you would kill off what I came to Russia for.’

‘Have you finished?’

‘Da.’

‘I have no designs on you, Hugh and I don’t mean that in a cruel way. Though you’re not all that young, you’re interesting and I like your way. Whatever you’re offering on this trip, I’m not going to refuse and you’ve been a surprise so far, a very pleasant surprise. So, what’s the programme today?’

‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to try a different number.’ He asked the manager and went to the booth, leaving her sipping on her now cold coffee.

III

After they’d managed to disentangle, shower and dress, Dilyara took Marc to the university and the national library, thence down the road to Giuseppe again, just as a party of Russian women also went in.

They were gracious enough to allow the couple to order first - pizza with salami and a salad plus some of that champagne which made Marc wince. They sat over at a side table and waited for the order to be filled. They watched the women placing their orders too.

There was a call on his mobile ‘Oui? Hugh?’ Dilyara’s ears pricked up. She gave him a questioning look and he nodded. Dilyara was now concerned.

‘Oui, my friend. Actually, I saw her yesterday. Yes, I was with Dilyara and Anya was there. Seemed … well, all right. Non, non I don’t know that. Look, I’ll hand the phone to Dilyara. Yes, she’s here.’

Dilyara’s throat was dry as she took the phone. ‘Yes Hugh, lovely to hear you too. You can’t? Well, she might have been out a bit lately. No, I know she doesn’t usually. I think she was with Liya. Yes, I’m listening. Yes, I’ll be as honest as I can but I’m not promising anything.

Well, put it this way – there’s nothing for her to worry about. She’s all right, in good health, she’s working. Yes, there might be but I’m not saying any more, all right? Now I’m going to hand the phone back - lovely to hear your voice.’

Marc spoke. ‘Oui, Hugh? Yes I was. Yes she was there. Hugh, I’m going to save you time. Do you have Anya’s work mobile? All right, Dilyara will phone her,’ Dilyara winced at this, ‘and ask her to be ready to take a call from you. What time will you call her? Bon. OK, is there anything else I can do for now? All right, mon ami, bye for now.’

The champagne and pizzas arrived.

Hugh came back to the chair with another coffee pot and he looked white. Ksenia waited for him to speak and when he didn't, she said, ‘Something’s happened with Anya, hasn’t it?’

He answered, ‘I’ve arranged to phone her thirty five minutes from now. This is pretty ungracious towards you, I … I'm sorry.’

‘You’ve been talking to her already?’

‘No, that was her friend now, she’s arranging the call as we speak.’

‘I see.’

When breakfast was eventually served, it was Ye Olde English. The storm had abated and the sun was out but a pall hung over the two of them while Ksenia tucked into the dishes and Hugh picked at his tomatoes.

The time came for the call and he went off to the booth. Ksenia had just about finished breakfast when Hugh returned, ashen-faced. He sat delicately in his chair, averting his eyes; she put two and two together, decided that it didn’t amount to a family tragedy and concluded it had to be about some man Anya was on with.

‘Care to tell me?’ He was silent so she asked, ‘May I give you my thoughts?’ He nodded. ‘OK, so she has a man with her. This doesn’t mean you’ve lost her although you men think anything a woman does with another man is the end. It might be the end, it might not. If you tried to go home now or if you keep calling her, you really would lose her.

She might be punishing you but that’s immature. She might be attracted to his type and that’s more of a problem for you. Either way, she needs to find out and so do you and I don’t mean by screwing me. If we make love, we do it because we want to, with no reference to anyone else, is that agreed?’

‘She mentioned you,’ Hugh commented.

‘Oh really?’

‘Da, she asked if I’d seen you.’

‘Intriguing. And you said?’

‘I asked her why and she said you were dangerous.’

‘And then?’

‘I said that if I saw you again, I’d bear that in mind.’

‘So you lied.’

‘Yes and no but I take your point. I can’t expect you to know how it is with us - she’s very vulnerable, very private, in her own little world. We weren’t a normal couple – it was a unique relationship in every way and it was forged under pressure. We didn’t go clubbing, neither of us could stand big company, we were private.’

‘Hugh, I’m going to ask you a very direct question.’ She looked straight into his eyes. ‘Because of your feelings for Anya and this wedding you keep referring to, in a room, alone, with me, are you going to leave this hotel today, so I can't seduce you? Because, according to their rules, you’ll have to leave one hour from now.

Alternatively, are you and I going to enjoy each other for a few days, give her the time to think what she really wants - and she will do that now she knows you were concerned enough to telephone you - and then, when we go back to Russia, everyone's had time, away from each other, to really think things through? Please tell me.’

He dropped his eyes and stared at the floor. About a minute later, he said, ‘I stay.’

‘So what are we doing today? Do you have a plan?’

‘Oh yes, there’s a plan all right.’

‘I’ll leave that in your hands but I need to go upstairs first. And Hugh?’ She leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you.’

.o0o.

Perry’s tea rooms were by the River Esk – they’d be a winner, with their surprise ducks clustering around her feet; then across the moor was Grosmont and the art gallery; lunch might be either at Goathland or they could take the steam train to Pickering, if the restaurant train was working.

That would be super-cool but he’d never actually done the journey himself.

The primary function - survival against a supposed hidden enemy - well, quite frankly, he’d lost interest in all that. Time for danger later, but first a little jaunt on the wooden walkway along the cliff top to Boggle Hole. They might even walk further along the old disused railway line, around to Ravenscar Hotel for a spot of afternoon tea. He told her to put on her strongest footwear and not to forget the jacket.

‘I don’t have a jacket.’

She didn’t, but that’s what he’d arranged with the landlord the previous evening. Some girl had left hers there on a recent visit but if Mr. Jensen would bring it back by nightfall? No problem. He’d also borrowed a brolly because the weather had looked predictably unpredictable.

They went down to Bay again first and she reminded him about the fish ’n chips. They bought haddock, chips and mushy peas with curry. ‘We can eat them on the way.’

‘How?’

‘Out of the packet – a bit like you do with syemyechki seeds, only hot.’

They climbed the rickety stairs up to the wooden walkway to Boggle Hole, a deep ravine where stream meets sea, clutching the layers of newspaper surrounding the haddock and fries and the steam coming out of the hole in the top of the parcels was warm on the face, the aroma inviting.

The panorama hit her right between the eyes. ‘Hugh - you used to live on this coast and you left all this behind?’

‘I lived further north.’

‘Why did you leave?’

‘There were a few reasons.’

IV

For a change next day, Dilya took Marc to the main shopping street, Baumana, which had been recently converted to a mall and was now looking quite snazzy.

They tried Chai, near Astronomichoskaya and ordered blinii with tvorak and raisins. He saw Anya over in a far corner and was about to go over and make himself known when Dilyara rested her hand on his forearm and he looked at her.

‘Keep your eyes on me - you saw nothing, Marc.’

As he didn’t know what he wasn’t supposed to have seen, he involuntarily glanced across and Anya was alone so he couldn't work out what Dilya was going on about. Then he saw it. The dark-haired man from the airport was bringing their orders to their table and the picture was clear. What was worse, she rested a hand on his forearm and he was in a kiss with her.

Dilyara went red and tucked into her food more vehemently.

‘Ah,’ concluded Marc.

Anya herself had tumbled to it much more quickly, knew who Marc was, of course, in relation to Dilyara, couldn’t take the chance although she felt he wouldn’t contact Hugh even if he could but also realized that this now had to be done boldly.

Through this logic, she decided to contact Hugh on the number he’d last called from - it hadn’t seemed a London number. She extricated herself from Marat, went near the door and called it.

‘Victoria Hotel, may I help you.’

At a loss, Anya blurted out if she could speak to Mr. Jensen.

‘They went out for the day, madam. Shall I give them a message when they come in?’

‘No, no. That won’t be necessary, no need to mention it. Thank you.’ She clicked the mobile shut and stared through the glass panel in the door.

They’d gone out. They. Hugh didn’t go places with boyfriends.

V

At Boggle Hole, Hugh and Ksenia could see where the rocks spilt out into the ocean and from there, giant faults, like saw teeth, streaked across in virtually parallel lines in the direction of Norway; at least that’s what you could see at low tide.

She noticed the monument to the men of Whitby and wanted to know about it.

‘Any ship silly enough to venture into this Bay, seeking shelter from the storm, would find itself a watery grave. The Men of Whitby carried a lifeboat overland through an impossible blizzard to rescue passengers from a stricken ship. It's the most famous local tale.’

They found the old railway line which led to Ravenscar and walked side by side, munching the last of the chips and curry sauce. Ksenia asked, ‘Are you unhappy about me?’

‘Is it on my face? No, I was just reflecting on Shadzhara, that’s all.’

She was quiet as they stepped over the remnants of old railway sleepers embedded in the earth and suddenly she offered, ‘We’ll get separate rooms, Hugh. I don’t want it this way. Let’s just enjoy the time together, all right?’

He promptly switched topics. ‘This afternoon, on top of a mountain ridge, you’ll see something you’ve probably not seen before.’

‘True?’

‘Chyesni slov.’

‘OK,’ she agreed and they headed back to the Victoria.

Back in their room, he asked her to agree to something. ‘Ksusha, we’re having lunch but not here. Just give me thirty minutes, would you and no sneaking down to eat, OK? You need an empty stomach where we’re going.’

‘Where are you going now?’

‘To get the car.’

‘What car?’

‘Thirty minutes, OK?’

VI

‘Da, Zhenya, loud and clear. Who? Ksusha? Who’s she in danger from?’

Ludmilla Petrova set down her coffee cup, glanced in the mirror as she went past and lay on her four poster pine bed.

She listened for some moments, then summarized: ‘So, her plan was originally to use Mr. Jensen as a courier with no danger at our end of the flight. However, due to certain operatives working for western companies as their liaison, Mr. Jensen seemed a curious sort of character who was an irritant to them. Irritants get swatted. Right so far?

Da, I know you wouldn’t. Correct me if I’m wrong but there’s something I still don’t see here. Why would anyone decide to hit Ksusha over this? Ah, I see. So, in other words, we were right to get that cassette into the country and this Seymour does not seem at all the sort of person we wish to have over here, money or no money.

Da, I know that’s not how Moscow sees it and there’s our dilemma. One of my own senior officers is on a list for neutralization by a foreigner and I’m meant to desist? It seems to me that we need to at least get Ksenia out fast and onto our own turf again; that would be a start. I’ve made contact with my opposite number and apprised him of most of it but they obviously have their own surveillance going on in that direction and don’t wish to intervene.

Pardon? Da, we could, if the British allowed us into their airspace but I suspect they’re also marginally interested in our Mr. Jensen and his real connection with the whole thing. Also in your modus operandi – how you protect Ksusha. They seem to want the thing to pan out in its own way. That doesn’t suit us and we shouldn’t show too great an official interest. I suspect it’s also to do with his connection with Section 37 in Paris. Our service thrives on intrigue, even when there is none, as you know.

It’s these open calls that are complicating the thing, some sort of love triangle –

What? Well, however it is, Zhenya - I’m sure you know that side of it more intimately. All right, what do you need and how many? No, we’ll fly them over; I don’t want any who are already emplaced. This thing seems very much to me a storm in a teacup but the British see the opportunity to observe us and one more thing -’

She got up, went over to her cup and took a sip. ‘I don’t buy that this Seymour has any particular beef with our security. He might be an unpleasant man but it seems more likely someone else is pushing him to act and that someone is at our end. I have an idea who but not even over a scrambled line like this. All right, we have to go through with it and trust no one gets hurt. We can’t afford a direct link with Ksusha because we don’t know how clever Mr. Jensen is, how far ahead he can think. That’s as maybe, Zhenya but that’s your opinion and we can’t take the chance.

Right, contact me tomorrow at hourly intervals from 09:00 onwards unless something special happens. Do you have another way through to Ksusha? You what? Do I detect a trace of annoyance in that comment?’ She smiled, looked down at her receiver and listened again. ‘Zhenya, you don’t think there is anything … no, of course not, of course not but I had to ask. Yes, I’m sure she has.

We’ll get someone onto this Lacour as well - that’s about it for now. Poka, Zhenya.’

VII

Dilya looked at Marc across the table at Chai and thought she’d like to find a solution with him, an accommodation, an understanding. She was prepared to accept that he’d be away, that she’d be a semi-widow in Paris but she also knew she could make friends quickly herself and languages had always been her speciality.

The thing was to convince him without making him feel she was a millstone. Part of that was going to be to show him that her religion was not going to interfere in any way and the second was to make him understand what was on tap if he wanted it. There was one way the Shadzharnis felt they had it over the Russians and that was in the area of service to their men. She was sure of that.

Dilyara was no way one of the old breed for whom that was true - she had immense pride - but it didn’t hurt to give the impression she was of the old school. First step was back at her empty flat, which she’d organized by sending her brother to the forest to visit their parents on the promise that after this week, she’d vacate the flat for him.

They drove back, put the car into the secure park, walked to the house, took the lift, she turned the key in the door and let him through, closed it and began to undress him.

In turn, her one piece jumpsuit came adrift more easily.

Later, they got to talk.

‘Dilya?’ ‘Marc?’ both at the same time.

‘You go first,’ he laughed.

She looked up at the ceiling. ‘You’re French.’

‘Not completely. I was born a Brit but lived most of my life in France. Yes, that surprises you, ma petite. But yes, I’ll own up to ‘French’.’

‘Well, you Frenchmen are meant to be … womanizers.’

He turned, ran a finger along her side from breast to knee and spoke quietly. ‘I can save you the time, Dilya. There are a lot of hypocrites. I’ve been burnt. The woman asks about trust and honesty and loyalty but it seems to be all one way – that’s how it seems to me. She wants him completely open and I am open.

That’s why I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep. That’s why I don’t want to say ‘forever and ever’ until it is possible. We have to accept the fundamentals.’

‘You think I’m one of those hypocrites?’

‘I can say to you, ‘I’m sure you’re not,’ but how can I know? How can I know anything about you that you haven’t told me yourself? Who else can tell me about you? And who can tell you about me? If we think it’s serious between us, we need to go steadily. We need to find out slowly and be sure. You need to know every little thing and I do too.’

‘I can’t just live with you, Marc. I can get away with sleeping with you but to live with you is different – the community, the family.’

‘Moi aussi. I am from a Catholic family who can’t know if we use contraception or not but they would know if we were living together. We don’t need to live under the same roof. We can spend enough time together to find out. You disagree?’

Dilyara was in a slight bind. There was pressure from the family to marry and she resisted it, even though her father said there was none. There was her own need now, not for marriage exactly but for some sort of serious ties. Marc seemed to be similar in this. She was headstrong, she liked to work late into the night and get up late, she liked to do many things and didn’t want to stop them.

She euphemized all this as best she could and he nodded. He mentioned the section and how it took a fair slice out of his life, not wanting to relinquish that because, as the only male they really trusted, those girls, he created a sort of balance, or so he was led to believe. It paid well, it was work he really enjoyed and he liked the travel.

‘In order to meet girls,’ she murmured.

‘You see, that’s the distrust which comes from not knowing me. If you knew me, if you asked Nicolette or one of the others, if I love someone I trust, then no other girl comes into that frame, except for good company. I enjoy the company of women but that doesn’t mean bedding them.’

Dilyara wasn’t satisfied but she knew she had to go along with it. Actually, she knew it felt right between them and the desire to make it work overshadowed the desire to make sure, a very great desire.

VIII

Hugh hired an Escort from Peter Hall on the outskirts of the village and off they set, through the sleepy villages of the Esk Valley and onto the moors road, taking them to ‘The Legendary Saltersgate’.

He waited for the inevitable – why legendary – and had to admit he’d forgotten most of it but they’d ask the landlord. The road led onto a long, high ridge between two valleys and then, there was the pub in front of them in the distance, commanding spectacular views across the valley.

‘This is a postcard,’ she whispered and he smiled.

Once inside the place, the publican came from around the bar, huge hand extended, a meeting of long lost brothers. Hugh immediately ordered XB.

‘Nope,’ said the publican.

‘No?’

‘XB’s rubbish today. Try the Camerons.’

‘Camerons? Yuk!’

‘Try the Camerons today.’

A pint and a half of Camerons was brought to their table, not too near the fire, together with a bowl of nuts they hadn’t even ordered. Hugh was grinning from ear to ear and she was studying him. ‘You ordered XB Hugh. How can he tell you no?’

‘The man’s an expert. If he says it's Camerons today, then Camerons it is. He has the cleanest pipes in Britain.’

‘Cleanest what?’

‘Pipes, trubichki, you know - where the beer passes along. Right - stay here and let me get the menus.’ A conversation ensued with the publican, both grinning, then Hugh came back. ‘The Yorkshire Pud’s good today.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Tyesta, batter, in the shape of a bowl and into it is poured meat and onions and other things. You like kharcho at home?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then maybe you’d like this. And one more thing – while we’re waiting for our food, the publican’s going to take us … downstairs,’ he concluded, mysteriously, ‘and he doesn’t do it for everyone.’

‘I’m not even going to ask.’

Richard eventually came over and asked if they were ready but Hugh asked first about the legend which, to be fair, was written up on a sign but he just thought it would sound better from the man himself.

Richard explained, ‘The legend is that there were some smugglers hiding out here at the pub, back in the mists of time, an exciseman got too close, he was bumped off and the body was buried beneath the fireplace. They had to keep a fire eternally burning so that no one would ever look underneath. So it has been ever since and even in the middle of summer that fire's still going - as you can see.’

‘You guys make the most of your history, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he smiled in reply. ‘When it’s interesting, why not?’

What followed was a tour down to the basement, replete with wooden and metal barrels and he proceeded to explain to Ksenia the intricacies of storing, tapping, the cleaning of the pipes, the gas and so on, until he’d led them back up and behind the bar. ‘And that’s where it ends – at the tap,’ the publican concluded.

‘And notice he doesn’t use metal valves, he uses the draw pumps,’ added Hugh.

She was more impressed with the level of passion these two were showing for their subject than with the finer details themselves but somehow she was sure she’d been privy to something pretty special - plus she was the centre of attention and two men were falling over backwards for her - a most satisfactory arrangement all round.

Eventually they took their leave and crunched across the gravel to the car. The air was heavy with the unmistakable aroma of the countryside - pollen, grass, trees and always that breathtakingly sheer drop into the valley either side of the hotel.

IX

Marc took the opportunity to send a memo by secure messager to Genevieve, who sent an encrypted file back on his next moves. He’d have to depart the next day, early.

In addition, she’d received further data on Ksenia and now passed that on too, of sufficient gravity to warrant a phone call, so he rang the number Hugh had called from, got the manager and left a message to be passed on to Hugh, ‘Be careful, mon ami.’

The manager frowned at that and began to wonder what sort of guest he had on his hands. Knowing they were out, the manager wrote the message, thought about adding Anya’s but felt he had no right, gave the paper to the girl and asked her to put it on the side table.

Dilyara came into the living room at that moment, heard the tail end of the conversation and quietly determined to tell Anya that Marc had phoned Hugh to warn him. She sent him out on a mission for food, phoned Anya and was told that Hugh already knew she was seeing Marat and that he himself was with a Russian girl in the north.

As the dusk descended, Marc returned, having walked a kilometre and a half to the wrong shop to get the fish and Dilyara immediately asked him if he’d known Hugh was not alone in the north of Britain, as she put it. He nodded and she murmured, ‘And you didn’t tell me?’

‘Why would I, Dilya? It wasn’t something we’d discussed.’

‘Yes, but you had me feeling sorry for him over Anya.’

‘Oh, does that alter it now?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Well, yes.’

X

The Escort was a cabriolet and as they pulled onto the main road, the car gradually picked up speed down the hill, the breeze had her hair streaming behind and she briefly felt at one with the world.

He was driving faster now and the bottom of the hill was coming up and there was a sharp bend and he wasn’t slowing down.

She glanced across anxiously as the car suddenly dropped speed, then accelerated through the bend, bottoming out and tearing up to the next crest. She looked over and smiled.

Next stop was Whitby itself, home of Cook and Dracula and the Abbey where they’d had a little meeting around 664 AD to decide the dating of Easter. They walked up the 5,894 steps or whatever to the Abbey ruins, out onto the cliff top and through the graveyard, the headstones worn away and indecipherable.

‘Ksusha, how old is Moscow?’

‘Coming up to 850 years.’

‘And Shadzhara?’

‘About 990 years, I think, from my lessons.’

‘Touch that stone there.’ She did. ‘That stone’s 1400 years old. The Abbey is older. I can never come to terms with standing here. It just seems to me - a bit unreal.’

Suddenly he stopped. He’d been facing the steps behind and a head had appeared above the steps, a head he knew well. She spun round, just as the head took in the scene and beat a retreat.

‘You saw him?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘That was Zhenya?’

‘That was Zhenya.’

‘Are we in danger?’

She didn't immediately answer, then her reply was measured. ‘I think I can say no, quite the opposite; I really didn’t know he was here. I knew there was always a chance because he looks after me.’ He scrutinized her and had to admit she seemed genuinely thoughtful. ‘He didn’t seem too worried, Zhenya,’ she said, ‘just checking everything was all right. I’m sure he’ll go back to London now. I'm fairly certain he doesn't like me with you.’

They drove back to the village, Hugh dropped her at the hotel and continued up the road to drop off the car and organize it for the next day. She went upstairs, having been told there was a message, saw the memo on the pillow, frowned and awaited Hugh. She heard him coming up the stairs, he came in and she handed it to him.

‘Just another warning about you, Ksenia. Nothing I don’t already know.’

‘Maybe, Hugh but who is this who warned you?’

‘He’s French.’

‘I need more. You know that.’

‘He’s in intelligence. Not central. I had them check you out.’

‘You have a connection with French intelligence?’

Hugh told her the story from the first train to Shadzhara through to Dilyara’s relationship. ‘So I used the chance to find out about you.’

‘And what did you discover?’

‘That you’re dangerous. You stalk your prey and befriend them.’

‘Then why the hell are you still here with me?’

‘You’re in danger yourself and I’m protecting you.’

‘She was amused. ‘You’re protecting me? Oh I like that very much.’ She allowed the idea to sink in. ‘Yes, I do actually like that idea very much.’ She rested her fingers on his cheek and his eyes involuntarily closed.

‘I’m going to tell you something, Mr. Jensen. You’re in absolutely no physical danger from me tonight, tomorrow or at any time on this trip, from the bottom of my heart. I can’t expect you to believe that but I know myself very well and I’m telling you it’s so. You might be in some moral danger though,’ she grinned.

She grabbed her rugby top and held it to her cheek, took off her clothes, item by item, folding them and placing them on the dresser, put on the rugby top, shimmied the hem down over her hips and looked at him.

Then she shimmied once more, a grin on her face. That was enough – he stepped over to her but she put out a restraining hand, to which he smiled, ‘Now it's the coy Ksenia, eh?’

She didn’t reply but dropped to her knees, fished for the offending item, gazed for a few moments and then began on him. Predictably, it lasted less than a minute and she was amused ... and messy.

He took her hand and she stood up, he took her in his arms and asked for a couple of minutes break - in the interim, the kissing began. When he was ready again, she lifted her foot and placed it on the chair - he did the rest.

About ten minutes later, they moved to the bed and really got down to it.

Her ability to read with her body was superb - she knew exactly when it was time for the build, she could change her angle to get the result she wanted, she was reading him and asking him at the same time and he was doing the same - it pleasantly surprised both of them how much cooperation there was in it.

.o0o.

In each other’s arms later, she’d been waiting for him to ask but he hadn’t. ‘OK, Hugh, yes, it was lovely. Hope there’s more on the menu.’

Still he didn’t say anything so she looked at him quizzically. ‘For every piece of joy, there's the realization that it has to end.’

'Not for some time, I hope.’

‘Twice more but you know that's not what I was referring to.’

'Too early, way too early - don't put this question on the table yet. Don't think it's not going through my mind. Let the question go for now ... will you?'

He agreed and they fell into some more close-in work, which took care of the best part of an hour and the best part was how they were verbally communicating at intervals, which had the effect of heightening the experience.

They rested for ten minutes, he got up, went to the minibar and took two whisky miniatures, he went to get glasses and she said no, they clinked bottles and toasted the trip. Then she said, ‘I have to wash my hair – you caught me by surprise at the beginning. Give me twenty minutes and then join me in the shower.’

The shower jet was too narrow and as he stepped into the bath, to his absolute shock, she stepped back to move half out of the stream to allow him some water.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, noting the look on his face.

‘No woman’s ever done that before – given me half the water. I’m in danger of falling in love.’

‘Don’t. Because it might be contagious and neither of us can afford that.’ Her touch was already belying her words and the slightest of smiles was tugging at the corners of her lips.

XI

Zhenya was not a happy man but what could he do?

On the way back on the Intercity, he felt Hugh was out of order taking his kid sister for a trek the length and breadth of Britain but perhaps Ksusha had had orders which only she’d received from Ludmilla Petrova, which hadn’t come out in that contact the night before.

This could mean one of two things.

Either Petrova was holding out on him or else Ksusha was. He couldn't believe his sister would actually have fallen for Jensen so this was going to take some sorting out. Ksusha must have known that he, Zhenya, would be expecting some sort of contact from her but there’d actually been nothing. And yet she’d left him a trail a mile wide, in security terms, announcing, ‘Here I am, come and get me.’

A vague feeling started to come over Zhenya that perhaps Jensen was something more than he let on.

Nah, it wasn't possible - they had the dope on the man.

And yet perhaps that’s what Ksusha was up to. If she’d felt that Hugh may have been other than what he claimed, well, she’d play it very close and wear Jensen like a glove, that was her method, after all. Much as he didn’t like that method, he had to own it was effective.

Yep, that was a much more likely scenario. All right, he could only wait now and see how it panned out; Ksusha knew how to get him if she wanted.

XII

It was Sunday morning.

Hugh took the car again and this time they visited Grosmont, went on the steam train through the Esk Valley, came back, visited the Art Gallery, then finally made it to Perry’s tearooms.

He was quietly chuckling to himself and she laughed, ‘What? What?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s go up to the teahouse and order.’

Some minutes later, a tray of food in his hands, they found a spot on the lower terrace, close to the river and began sipping the tea and munching slices of toasted teacake.

About four minutes later, there was a sharp stabbing pain in her ankle, as if something had bitten her. ‘Ee-e-e-!’

‘Quick, put your feet up and feed her.’

She looked behind her at a mother duck, head inclined to one side, an expectant look in the eyes. Stretched out in a dutiful line behind her were five baby ducklings, all waiting for the first Ksenia leg nuggets.

The look in her eyes was worth all the tea in China. ‘Grab a chunk of bread and throw it to her, Ksusha.’

Angry at him but also delighted with the surprise ducks, she looked across, he nodded encouragingly, she grabbed another chunk, fed it to the mother, then another and another. Soon they ran out of food and it was time to hit the road one last time.

On the road back, he glanced across at her and it was one happy lady, which made for one happy man.

XIII

‘Da,’ Ludmilla Valerievna answered the balding former tax inspector at the other end of the line. ‘Where? I thought you already knew that – he’s gone north with her. Da, we have minders there already. They would, if they had to. Nichevo. Dosvidanye.’

Ludmilla Petrova replaced the receiver and smiled to herself. Lucky man, Gospodin Jensen, to have friends like Viktor Igorovich. Actually, she quite liked both of them.

She was up with Ksenia’s news as best she could via her contact, Zhenya was behaving predictably and Safin was bringing enormous trouble down on both his family and himself.

She picked up the receiver and made another call.

XIV

Two men were seated in the East-West café on Lenina, Moscow, which was anything but a café with the ersatz-period furniture and assiduous service. Kryevyetki, prawn shells, were littered everywhere and the last four emptied glasses of beer had just been cleaned away.

The girl came too close, the well fed Sergei Deputatov made a saucy comment and slapped her behind. Instead of reacting in shock and horror, as western women have been trained to do, setting in train some lucrative litigation, the girl saw this as the start of some repartee which might be turned to advantage, which might get her invited to the leisure palaces of the rich.

She responded equally as saucily and extracting her telephone number was the work of a moment.

His companion, Ronald Seymour, returned to the other matter - why Deputatov was concerning himself with some obscure Englishman who’d just been assisting a member of security.

‘I’m surprised you ask. He gets invited to dinners and luncheons and he’s a conversationalist. If even two of those people got their stories together, our task might be a little more difficult.’

‘You’re gradually coming to the point, Sergei. But you’re not there yet.’

‘He’s a very rude man, this Jensen.’ Deputatov shoved his chair back and his lips were a grim line. ‘Not so long ago, Irina was at the garage opposite Tsum, just for benzine and he was chatting to some girl in the exit path. My wife naturally gave him a little toot and instead of moving, he came up to her, quite aggressively, so she reported. She wound up the window to protect herself from his attack but she still heard what he said, and in very bad Russian.’

Seymour tried to suppress a smile; he knew the feisty Irina, Queen of Shadzhara. ‘Tell me more.’

‘He was a stupid man, making all sorts of accusations about how her husband’s car, which she was currently allowed to drive, bought her nothing, that she was lacking in common decency - and other stupidities. Then he used a word towards her which he shall never be forgiven for. He called her ‘Hamka’.’

Seymour was finding it immensely difficult to hold it in now. Even he knew that Hamka meant a rude and boorish woman with no culture. Deputatov went on, ‘He’s a very stupid man to make an enemy like that on the street.’

‘That’s it?’

‘No, there’s more. Weeks later, she was turning into Ostrovskovo from Pushkina and the cursed man was crossing the road, saw her and stopped her. Can you believe that? Stopped her car in the middle of the road and all the traffic trying to enter that funnel as well. Then he came up to her window and said, again in terrible Russian, ‘Journeys end in lovers meetings, my sweet.’

Seymour almost choked on his drink, then recovered himself. ‘What will you do?’

‘He needed the frighteners put on him, the fool.’

‘Why don’t you take a different approach, my friend? Get the dirt on him. If he goes around bedding female operatives, he’s sure to have bedded others; maybe that would be a fruitful line of enquiry. You might even sheet something home to him through his workplace.’

‘He needs to learn, that’s all.’

‘And he will. He will. But let’s be more clever about it. Now I understand how this ‘cursed man’ has incommoded you but I’m puzzled as to why are you interested in the operative he’s with.’

‘Ah, my friend, that’s another matter. It’s internal. You needn’t concern yourself with her.’

There was a finality in the tone which Seymour recognized, so they moved on to the matter of the new Megastore in Kirova.

XV

The last night was calm and tender after the frenetic activity of the previous one but it still got pretty willing all the same. The major difference was a hell of a lot more deep soul searching and deep kissing.

He got the impression she was making up for lost time or perhaps she could just feel that this was ending tomorrow and it was oppressing her but either way, he was going to do nothing to kill the mood and she was thinking precisely the same thing at that moment. Now she showed another aspect of herself – it became apparent that she was managing his sexuality - administering it, in other words.

One and a half nights and she’d already worked out his capabilities – she knew where he was best and where he was a bit ordinary, how to enhance this, how to play down that. More than this, she was doing it subtly and he was in awe of her.

Just before they both dropped off to sleep, he murmured, ‘Some things stay with a person all his life. These days with you will be like that.’

‘Works both ways. You do know, don’t you, that I didn’t really need to come up North? Zhenya would have hid me away.’

‘I had an idea and so did Lisa. You're right to say we should leave the other questions for another time. I have to deal with my heart for some days now.’

'Da. Takzhe ya.'

.o0o.

They departed fairly early for an uneventful journey to London.

First stop after Kings Cross was Charing Cross, to drop her off, and then he headed for his B&B, promising to call her later. There was mail and he went downstairs to call Lisa.

‘Hugh, thank goodness you’re OK. Your friend Marc called again.’ She now conveyed her version of the same message, he thanked her profusely, thought one moment, then called Ksenia at her hotel.

.o0o.

Thirty five minutes later, he was in her hotel room, whisky miniature in his hand and with a startled woman facing him.

‘Yes Hugh?’ She was a mix of curiosity and nerves.

‘My French friend, you know about him, got back to me about you and the message was that if a girl called Ksenia was to approach me, not to have anything to do with her.’

Ksenia’s lips went dry and she said, too casually, ‘Well, you’ve already told me that.’

‘No, this message included extracts from her personnel file.’

There was a definite involuntary intake of air. ‘Oh?’

‘Apparently the woman is a psychopath who lures lovers to far away places and then her henchmen do the rest.’

Chapter 4 here ... Chapter 6 here

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Russia 6 - Parting of the ways

2009-05-05T13:50:00.025+01:00

Chapter 5 here ... Chapter 7 here

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I

Ksenia opened her mouth once or twice but nothing came out. Finally she said: ‘Hugh, why did you come to tell me this? Whatever I tell you now, you’re going to doubt.’

‘Unless I’m not too sane myself, of course, in which case I’d have a fair idea what was the truth and what was not. So speak to me.’

She looked down at the floor. ‘There are truths and untruths all wound in together. Yes, there’s a file on me, a long one. And yes, that’s how I do it, but only on legitimate targets - I'd never let them get as far as you did, as feelings start to come into it. I work for my country, I’ve never been freelance and I never would. Plus, executions have never been my thing.

You were never on my list because I’m working directly under instructions from home. You were … you still are … in danger from commercial elements who hire people they wish to and the flight north was necessary from that point of view. The thing is though, Hugh, it wasn’t you they want to hit at this time. It's me.

That's why Zhenya was so concerned and he suspected you might have been the one sent in to deal with me. I do admit that I needed to have you close, to work out if you were who you said you were. As I said though, we didn't really need to go north and take a room to discover that.’

‘So you’re not a psychopath, after all?’

‘Oh, I’m a psychopath all right. That’s also on the record.’

II

Marc Lacour had to attend to business most of the day and part of that business was to visit the Pedagogical University, where a Parisienne friend of Genevieve’s, Louise Bonnet, had been seconded to the French department for a month.

Of course he was welcomed with open arms, this and that were discussed for some time, after which he took her out to the Hotel Shadzhara, across Pushkina in the centre, for a drink.

With his moral compass, he was neither better nor worse than the next man but he had a dilemma on his hands when he realized two things - Louisa was a bit of a blabbermouth and it was common knowledge that she opened up more, excuse the expression, if she was being bedded at the time. Therefore, men tended to get more secrets out of her than women.

The downside was that, though she was well dressed and not unpersonable to look at from a certain angle, her manner put the average male off, if not at first, then as time went on. She knew this and it made her try that much harder, which was precisely the wrong thing to do in her case.

So he had this before him now. She wasn’t working for any section he knew and yet the university back home was sending her over here, on a French salary, several times a year.

Now, her field of expertise was university calibre but it was hardly world-shattering. In other words, there didn’t seem any necessity to send a mere lecturer so often unless something else was happening.

And why here, in this city in particular?

Well, this was one where Genevieve was going to draw a blank, unfortunately.

III

There was silence for the space of two and a half minutes in Ksenia’s room whilst Hugh thought out how to reply to that bullet. She waited patiently, it had been a good shot and her nerves were abating.

‘You come out and … tell me … you’re a psychopath?’ was all he could manage. ‘I have to admire your spirit … that’s the sort of thing I’d say.’

‘I didn’t say I was. At least I did but what I meant was that it was on the record.’

‘You know, I think I actually understand you. What you’re trying to say is that someone put it on your record but it’s actually a distortion, da?’

‘Da, that’s what I’m saying. But there is also truth in the reports. I do have a psychological file from my childhood – a family matter – but you only have to read it to see it has nothing to do with my work. If it did, I’d not be working. We’re a bureaucracy and they don’t employ people without medical ‘spravka’ – a clean bill of health.’

‘Can you tell me anything about the childhood problem?’

‘I have trouble forming relationships. On the rare occasions I do, I can’t maintain them.’

‘Where does that leave you and me?’

‘What’s you and me, Hugh? Don’t confuse me. While we just enjoy one another, everything’s fine, even if we keep doing that forever. But when you try to draw in the reins, that’s when I’ll start becoming nervous. But I'm sure,' she admitted, 'if I can extend the same rights to you. And as we need to have the same rights ...’

‘It’s fine, Ksusha, it’s all right,' and his voice was soothing. 'Tell me – have you ever killed someone?’

‘Of course but in the line of work. I can swear to you, klyanyus, on the name of my mother, that I’ve never done anything remotely violent to any lover, no matter what he’s done to me.’ There were tears at the corners of her eyes. She asked, ‘Once he gets past my defences and it's only happened twice, I can never hurt him. Even if they decide it's better not to be with me any more.’

'If you let me, I'll stay and hold you all night. I'll need to phone the B&B.'

'That would be nice.' She handed him her phone.

.o0o.

He went into Little Portland the next morning, booked for two, returned and packed his things at the B&B, the car came round, they stopped and collected her in the Strand, and then it was off to Heathrow.

.o0o.

In the check-in queue, she bumped him again but this time he held onto his cabin bag. 'You're learning,' she grinned.

.o0o.

In Moscow, after they’d been through the processing, certain observant people didn’t know what to make of it when she pushed him hard against a wall, locking her lips with his in shark feeding frenzy for two minutes. When he spun her round and forced her against the wall, observers were gobsmacked that Ksenia Sharova was putting up with this.

The exhibitionists disengaged and went out to the waiting car, introductions were effected and off they went to Domodyedova.

.o0o.

In the middle of the main concourse, she once again attacked him, for the benefit of the Watchers, this time lifting a thigh high to his waist, which had people goggle-eyed as he held it there for a moment, he pulled her in hard and they spent a totally oblivious three to four minutes in a kiss, disengaged again and went through.

Over to one side, observing all this, were the unsmiling eyes of her brother Zhenya.

.o0o.

At the other end of the flight Hugh took a taxi to his own flat and tried to call Anya from there, then called Liya and arranged to meet her the coming Thursday, 16:00, at Giuseppe.

IV

As they lay on the divan in the living room later, with MTV in the background, Marc told Dilyara about Louisa.

Dilyara had something to add. ‘I think she's the one usually hanging around Pushkina with that tall Frenchman.’

‘What tall Frenchman?’ Marc asked with a start.

‘I don’t know - tall, coiffed hair, good looking.’

A thought started to form in his head but it was so ludicrous, he put it to one side. ‘Dilya, if you see those two again and you think there’s anything I … er … should know ... a better description would help for a start.’

‘I’ll do better than that – I’ll get a photo of the two of them - from a distance of course.’

‘You be careful.’

She grinned and flicked her dark hair back over her shoulder. ‘Are you planning to take me back to Paris or do you see me as your lover whenever you visit here?’

He caught his breath. ‘Didn’t we discuss that? What do you want?’

‘To go with you, wherever you are, to be within ten kilometres of you, knowing I could be there when you wanted me.’

‘You’re pretty independent, Dilya. Do you really want that?’

‘As far as I can see, for now - yes.’

V

A few minutes before midnight the Wednesday after they'd returned, Ksenia called him. 'I'd - like to see you.'

He knew that had cost her to say that - he'd be there in thirty minutes. 'No,' she said. 'I'll come to you.'

.o0o.

Thirty minutes later, she was with him, sipping on a coffee. ‘So, Mr. Jensen, what of Anya?’

‘Incommunicado, I haven’t seen her and that’s that. I tried calling her, contacting her mum, contacting Liya. All went vague on me. She might drop in tonight, she might not. Maybe she thinks we’re still in Britain. I think she must know I’m here.’

‘Of course she knows. No girl would simply not keep tabs on where her man was. Ex or not, she’d know. She’d be doing some phoning, keeping an eye on you from a distance. Are you strong enough to walk away, if you have to?’

‘I'm confused.’

‘I knew you would be. Back home, it had to be like that. When you see her, it will be even more confusing.’

‘She doesn’t operate like a normal woman. She’s incapable of looking after herself. She thinks she can but she was spoilt as a child. She could just appear, as if nothing had ever happened.’

‘And you let her play this game with you?'

'When a man of my type let's a woman run rings round him, he's usually besotted, soft on her. There's a lot of history with Anya and me. We carved out a life together, played by our own rules, did it our way, against a lot of hostile opinion. We were us. When it ended, we did it our way.'

'I don't like being used.'

He thought about that. 'I don't think, after the initial trick you played on me, that either of us was using the other. I think that when we went north, the using stopped and something else happened. Tell me I'm wrong in this.'

'You can't be chasing me while you still have that sort of relationship with Anya. I'm more serious than that. Let's say it's as you told me - that she could just return like that,' she clicked her fingers. 'Is that fair to me, especially if I'm starting to think seriously about you?'

'No it's not. The thing is, she's currently into this other man but I can't see it lasting, not from the way she was speaking. So let's say she appears one night. My head says not to let her in but that would kill me. The whole reason for me coming to Russia - how can I send that away, kill it forever?'

'What I see happening, Hugh, is that she'll return and as you've just said, she'll get inside your brain again - that's if she ever left it. You're not strong with women and sometimes we need firmness. I can't let myself go to you in my heart until I can be sure that you can leave the past and move to the future.

That's why I'm going to take the projects Ludvalerievna offers, why I'm going to keep a distance but close enough, should you be clear enough in your head to move forward. It might not even be me you'll move forward with but you have to sort it out with her - whether you stay with her or not.

Also, I have a feeling you might have a few problems soon - of a different kind.’

He smiled. ‘Aha, Ksenia - the stormy petrel - I might have known. You ‘have a feeling’, yes?’

‘Didn’t put that very well, did I? Not from Zhenya, nor from me.’

‘I’m all ears. Tell me the tale.’

‘I don’t know all the details but you’ve offended a large Moscow businessman who deals with foreign companies setting up over here. I really don’t know what you’re supposed to have done. He also knows of your connection to Zhenya and me and wonders what you’re up to. That’s it. I’m sorry because I wanted us to have a clear run ... to think about each other.’

‘I wanted that too.’

‘Hugh, I’m going home now – it’s far too complicated to stay overnight and you know why.’

She phoned for a taxi and thirty minutes later, took her leave.

Anya never called.

V

Marc flew back to Paris with Dilyara.

At the airport, Nicolette had a car and so the section knew all about it within the hour.

Claudette had been the one who’d come to the party. With her agreement to put Dilyara up for a nominal rent for six months, with Louisa’s connections at the university, with Dilyara’s academic pedigree, including in Britain, it was not going to be an impossibility.

That would give the two of them plenty of time to see if it could be made to work. It was all Genevieve could do for Marc, by way of appreciation.

There was one other matter and it was the photograph Dilyara had promised. She’d taken it from a shop door and had duly passed it on to Marc who’d done a double take.

That evening the section threw a welcoming dinner for Dilyara, the photo was passed to Genevieve who viewed it and placed it inside her copy of Troilus and Cressida in the bookshelf and didn’t refer to it again.

VI

Liya and Hugh had a good relationship in their own right, both comfortable with the other, both happy to use the other, with the other’s consent so to speak, to achieve their own ends.

It never went anywhere and was always just a pleasant interlude, with a fair amount of laughter. Hugh was at his most outrageous with her, for some reason.

‘Does Anya know you’re with me?’ was his first question, after the first slice of pizza had gone down the hatch.

‘I don’t know. I didn’t call her.’

‘Not good enough, Liya. You introduced the two of them.’

She was shocked he knew this much. Anya never could keep her trap shut but when had she had a chance to tell him? ‘Look, Marat fell head over heels for her, just as you did. That’s all. She’s flattered by it all. It was only ever you two for so long and you never even had time for me,’ she cried mock tears. ‘Tell me about London.’

‘In a minute, Liya – promise. I have to get this issue finished first.' Good, he had the guy's name. 'This Marat works at Dvoretz Sporta, doesn't he?’

‘How on earth do you know that?’

He didn’t but it stood to reason in the context of what both had said so far. ‘How do you read the danger level … for me?’

Liya paused and chose her words carefully. ‘In the hockey season, she wants to attend matches.’

‘I see.’

‘I think you might have a problem on your hands, at least for now. She still talks about you the whole time though - so you’ve not lost her altogether. Maybe she needs both of you.’

‘Over my dead body.’

‘Tell me about London.’

He did, including the part about the north and she was open-mouthed.

VII

The first week had passed in Paris and Dilyara had found some haunts she liked, in particular Café Toulouse on rue du Jardin, in the 11ème arrondissement.

She’d done the mainstream shopping on Hausman and the Champs-Élysées and was starting to radiate outwards from there. Paris didn’t faze her in the least, there was always a gallant who’d accompany her, her looks exotic, even for the French, it wasn’t half bad.

Marc was round about enough, Claudette was busy but popped in to see that all was well, there was the television when she was tired; it was fine. She had some nice things now to wear and her three hours at the university were a doddle.

And yet she wasn’t happy.

There it was. She’d known the lie of the land before she’d even arrived, it was no more nor less than she’d been briefed on and yet she was already restless.

VIII

Hugh agreed to drop Liya at her place on Ibragimova but now she changed her mind and wanted to go back to Dvoretz Sporta, they hailed a car and went down Chernoshyevskovo.

On the corner of Profsoyuznaya, in broad daylight, there were his Anya and some man who seemed very much to fit the description of this Marat, both hitching a lift.

Liya told the driver to drive on but a few seconds later, he asked the man to stop and as he offered more roubles on top, that's what now happened. She put out a restraining hand but he said, 'Don't worry.'

He walked quickly up Chernoshyevskovo. Anya saw him first, said something to the man and came towards him, desperate to avoid a scene.

‘Hugh.’

‘Is that him?’ She didn’t answer. He persisted. ‘And you’re at work today, my love?’

‘I am working – I always come into town on a Thursday and he agreed to have lunch – that’s all.’

‘Come with me now, Anya.’

‘I can’t. It would be rude.’

He counted to ten in his head, turned and stumbled back down to the car. Once inside, he said to Liya: ‘He’s nothing special.’

She didn’t comment and tried to suppress a smile. They drove down to the sports palace, he went round, opened the door and she got out. ‘Will you see me tomorrow?’

‘After this?’

‘Especially after this.’

‘Hugh I’m not going to be your spy and I'm not gooing to take the place of Anya.’

‘Have I asked you to? Do you think I don't know about your love life?’

Again she was shocked he knew this much. ‘I'm free at 16:00. Can you be?’

‘Giuseppe again?’

‘I like pizza.’

‘All right, 16:00 tomorrow. I’ll bring a car here.’

‘I’ll come out to you.’

He was using Liya but he liked her a hell of a lot too. The thing with Anya was nauseating but first he had some questions to ask himself.

IX

September, 1997

The inevitable first of September came around, and the major news was Diana’s Paris crash a few days back. All sorts of theories swirled round staffrooms, cafes and on Russian TV. It was the occult, she'd been the moon goddess, it was Charles who'd ordered it, it was Phillip, there were so many anomalies, there was deep shock.

It's fair to say it cast a pall over the opening of the new academic year.

On September 14th, Hugh was due to begin at the Pedagogical University – speaking practice was his brief, just a few pairs a week, 80 minutes each. The groups were numbered roughly according to ability, 401 generally regarded as the best and 406 the least able to converse in English.

On the 15th, he’d already learnt not to arrive during a break because there’d be up to 700 girls and about 15 boys coming down the stairs while he was trying to swim upwards. So he arrived near the end of the last ‘pair’ and waited in the foyer area on the fourth floor. He had 402 today.

A girl came up and introduced herself as Alina, said he was teaching her the next pair and asked him about Britain and sundry things. He took her in - tall and dark, pretty, lovely voice.

X

Dilyara knew what the problem was – this was Marc’s métier here in Paris and hers was back there. This was her main chance but she couldn’t, she couldn’t.

As she exited C&A, on boulevard Haussmann, she was thinking if only she could get him back there and be surrounded by everything and everyone she loved.

She sighed and determined to speak with him that evening but already knew the response. It just wasn’t satisfactory to be his ‘girl in Shadzhara’ whenever he decided to visit and this thing she was doing now was too temporary, too touristy for words. There was no infrastructure.

Stepping across the road, a dark navy Peugeot 406 swung round from rue Charras and instead of slowing for the zebra crossing, actually sped up, hit Dilyara side on before she had the slightest chance to even register surprise and sped off down Haussman.

XI

Another heated three way conference at the kitchen table in Zyelornilyes was in full fury - Safin had changed his stance on his younger sister. What an amazing stroke of luck that Alina was in one of the Englishman’s groups.

Olyesa was having none of it. ‘O chom bazar - what the hell are you talking about! Blin!’

‘I think Alina should see a bit of him. Perfect.’

‘Look, you fool - you don’t know when to stop. You don’t know when not to use people, that they might resent it. You’re completely amoral - you use anyone for your own ends, Sirozh.’

He looked to the sky and made circular movements with his hand which caused the blood to rush to her brain. ‘You do this, Sirozh and I’ll tell Papa the lot - the photos, Oleg, the lot. You’ll have to take me out too to stop me. I believe you’d do it too if your masters told you to.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he muttered, got up and left.

Alina gazed on, thoughtfully.

XII

In the early evening, seated at the low table in the middle of his living room, Viktor was on edge. He set down his coffee cup, sat slightly forward on the chair, hands clasped between his knees but couldn’t begin.

‘Tell me,’ Hugh invited.

‘It’s Roxana. We’ve split.’

‘Oh man, so sorry. Seems to be the season for it, from where I stand. Tell me what you can.’

Roxana’s prospects at the bank improved; I suppose she was increasingly called to Moscow, then when she’d come back, she'd have to host dinners and meetings almost constantly. I was proud of her, you know that but there are limits - surely you'd agree with that, Man - and then something happened which brought back all the old suspicions - a defensive answer to an innocent question, I swear, which she interpreted as a probing question.

Whenever she had a meeting in Ulitsa Shadzhara, it seemed to happen. So I broke my rule and went there. To that restaurant. There was no meeting. We had it out on the phone and I didn’t play it cool. I asked her straight out why she’d lied.’

‘Yes.’

‘She blustered and tried to turn it on me that I was so suspicious. I know I was and she had reasons to leave me over that alone. She decided to tough it out - seemed to want it to continue but for what?’

‘I have to say, the thought had crossed my mind. I’m sorry. I had a talk with her one day.’

‘Oh?’

‘There you go, you see. I don’t mind but you have to see she’s got you on edge and has had for some time. It hasn’t been right since that first time you went to the restaurant.’

‘It wasn’t the first time.’

‘Whatever. The thing is, I’ve been in this position too. The suspicion starts in and I know it’s easy to say, it’s none too easy with this Marat but if you don’t clear the air completely with her at the time, you have to pack it in there and then.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘Nor could I. By the way, are you willing to risk me making the coffee?’

Viktor smiled a weak smile. ‘Let’s find out.’

Hugh got up, paused and said, ‘Just sit there a few moments and let me poison you.’

When Hugh brought back the coffee, Viktor wanted to change topics.

‘I’ve been making a few inquiries but only one of the replies matters. There’s a conflict between two foreign firms - Zhenya Sharov is aligned with one of the companies and his sister appears to be too. On the other hand, there's word that he has moved to a rival firm, so automatically, that aligns you and together with a number of things you seem to have done of your own volition, the other side has you on the general list for elimination.’

‘Your suggestion?’

‘Vary your routines for some time, come home at different times. I can’t give you any better advice just now but I’ll keep enquiring and I’ll tell you if I come up with anything more.'

.o0o.

He went through to the padyezd, pushed the button and heard the whoosh of the lift. It clanked open and he was on the way up. The lift stopped at his floor with that echoing clash of steel, the double doors opened and there was Anya in front of him.

‘You have a key – why didn’t you go in?’ he asked.

‘I wasn’t sure,’ she dropped her head.

‘Come in.’

She went through and noticed the tapechki on the floor still at the door. ‘Are these slippers for when I returned?’

‘Need you ask?'

‘Let’s get the tea together quickly because I need to tell you something.’ She busied herself, made it all more quickly than he could have and they went through to the living room. She looked at him and he disliked himself for simply taking her into his arms. She must have known, hoped he would do it.

When they came out of it, she said, ‘I wasn't sure you’d do that again. Listen, anything with you and me needs to be put on hold. Dilyara was hit by a car in Paris.’

‘Marc never called me.’

‘I can’t blame him. I’m devastated too. Her mother called me. She’s not dead but she’s a mess. And Hugh, the police are saying it was no accident.’

XIII

Marc did call from Genevieve’s the following evening while Viktor was supping on Hugh’s soup concoction and pronouncing it exquisite.

Hugh listened for some time then responded, ‘Right, Marc, when do you fly in? Uh huh. Her parents will collect you, you say? Fine. Call me again when you get here.’

He turned to Viktor. ‘They’re coming back to Shadzhara.’

Marc put the receiver back and turned to Genevieve. ‘I keep asking the same thing. Why her? Me - yes. You - yes. Why her?’

‘Has to be a family connection, Marc. Hugh isn’t close enough and there was no suggestion there was anything going on there. Whom does it hurt? Her family and you. I think it was for you.’

‘I do too. It means we’re getting close. Don’t forget you hold that photo, Mademoiselle, which Ver -’ He looked at Genevieve, who went across to her window in her characteristic way and gazed down on the street below.

‘Oui, Marc. It could well be that. I think we shouldn’t confuse the Hugh business with Dilyara. They’re two different matters but this last one concerns us. Now that had already crossed my mind.’

Marc looked at her. She was a classic beauty, Genevieve, quite Gallic in her face and manner and though fashion was not her second name as with, say, Francine, she knew how to appear simply elegant, the perfect head for such a section, with the calm ruthlessness to go with it, plus a touch of vulnerability to round it off.

Even though she did not exude any particular menace, no one would wish to cross Genevieve, not even her backers.

XIV

Anya phoned mid-afternoon and he mentioned that Viktor was with him; he passed the phone across and Viktor spoke respectfully and politely, before handing back the receiver.

Viktor felt he had to be on his way and wasn't to be persuaded.

.o0o.

Twenty five minutes later, there was a knock on the door and in walked Anya, she kicked off her shoes, donned the tapechki and went through to the living room where he’d reset the place. He’d even gone downstairs with Viktor and picked up a couple of the salads he knew she liked, although obviously not from the shop she liked. And it mattered to her. Ho hum.

‘Well, lubimaya maya,’ smiled Hugh, once they were settled down to converse, ‘tell me about him.’

‘You first.’

‘Ladies first.’

She sighed. ‘It couldn’t have worked - he was too submissive. You know me.’

‘How could you agree to sleep with someone else when we were fiancees?’

‘You can talk. We kept postponing it and then when you just went to Australia, despite everything I’d said, I did invite him over. My head was in a spin, that was all. I didn’t think it out.’ She sighed again and asked him, ‘What’s with you and her?’

'There are feelings. She's made it clear that she and I can't go together unless it's over with you and me. That's fair, isn't it? We mustn't use each other, Anya. I think you can get someone very easily, it's less easy for me but I'm lucky to have the possibility of Ksenia. I need you to not use me but decide if you want me or not. I need to do the same.’

'Let's talk at Giuseppe, over a pizza and champagne.'

He looked at her and called a cab.

.o0o.

The Unusual Couple were in there again. She had on a different outfit this time but the formula was the same - elegant boots, simple jumper, gold chain but the hair was shorter, done in a certain style and the earrings were long and straight this time.

Her face was a little more blemished and she showed signs of being careworn. Life was beginning to impinge on those two, that much was clear.

Anya told him the latest on Dilyara, that Marc was staying there, that she had broken ribs and tibia but was otherwise all right, that she was in deep depression as well. She had the news on Liya and her new beau, also a hockey player and they both smiled.

With the news done, it was now a question of whether they went back to their own homes or whether she'd come to his.

XV

Dilyara’s parents had returned to the forest, the brother was off on one of his jaunts to another town with his young lady and finally Marc had some time alone with her.

‘I want to talk,’ she started and raised her hand. ‘No, don’t stop me and say it’s too early and so on. Let’s talk, Marc.’ He nodded. ‘I love you.’

He nodded again, then realized he was meant to respond. But did he love her? It took a full minute before he answered, ‘Moi aussi. je t’aime.’

There were tears in her eyes over that silent minute – he hadn’t done it well. She lay and he sat in silence for a while, made all the worse by the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. There seemed few words which hadn’t already passed between them.

She broke the silence. ‘You’ll fly back to Paris, won’t you?’

‘Oui.’

‘And marry some French girl.’

‘Non. Je t’aime.’

‘I make life hard for you, don’t I?’

‘My work is taking up all my time. It’s really difficult having a life. But as for love, my heart is with you.’

‘I don’t want an on/off, occasional visit type of relationship.’

‘I also don’t.’

‘When will you fly back?’

‘In two days.’

XVI

November, 1997

The late autumn chill was upon the city but still no snow. It was bleak and dismal, with only bitter, grey, clear skies overhead and the trees just seemed to wither up and die. The October 27th stock crash seemed to be consuming the outside world but hadn’t fully impacted in Shadzhara.

Days later, the sky whitened, a good sign, a few flurries drifted down and became slush, the skies cleared again to a lifeless grey, then one morning, Shadzhara awoke to find white fluff on top of cars and on the grass, with just a few green patches here and there.

The next few days saw heavy, dumping drifts, the air was white, the birds became disoriented and hit glass window panes, everyone rugged up and winter was again upon Russia.

Ksenia was off on a job overseas, she'd phoned, he could only ask her to take care but she'd been hoping he'd invite her over. She wasn't going to ask, especially not now.

XVIII

December, 1997

There's an interesting phenomenon in that when you aren't with someone or when you're married, you tend not to meet the opposite sex. Then, when you become involved with one, others start to appear, as if from nowhere.

There's also a theory that you only get to see a woman if you wish her too and this one seemed to wish that now.

Her name was Aliya.

They met one evening in the foyer of Gostinit’sa Regi’na and she drank mineral water. More along the lines of Dilyara, she had this manner about her he adored and she certainly played up to it.

The obvious question was why she'd appeared and why he'd immediately suggested this meeting. The venue was logical - the hotel was close to her house, which itself was a bit further on from Viktor’s - she'd mentioned where she'd lived.

The complication now was that Viktor now saw them together.

He’d been out shopping at the high-end store Bahatlye, where all the discerning went to buy salads and smoked salmon and saw her give Hugh a peck on the cheek, taking his forearms and looking into his eyes, before departing. Viktor counted to ten then called out.

.o0o.

‘How old is she?’ was Viktor’s first question over coffee.

‘24.’

‘So what are you doing with her?’

‘Company.’

‘What are your intentions?’

‘I don’t have any.’

‘Anya? Ksenia?’

‘Dormant.’

‘This Aliya – what conversation would someone that age have to offer?’

‘Plenty. We get on very well.’

Viktor smiled. ‘Hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘I'd appreciate your take on Anya and Ksenia - that's the main issue.’

‘Well, I think you were a bit quick going north with Miss Heathrow when Anya was still technically your fiancee but it did seem to be on its last legs, from what I could observe. It certainly needed a kick start.’

‘Aliya wants to go over some documents for America tomorrow … at my place.’

‘Be careful – there might well be people who’d like to use that against you.’

‘Should I cancel?’

‘Why? It's just business ... isn't it?’

He thought about it. ‘Yes, that's all it can be. How are you holding up?’

‘There are good nights and bad nights.’

‘Come round for soup tomorrow.’

‘You know, I might just do that,’ he smiled. ‘When’s she coming?’

‘In the morning. You come about 13:00 - can you make that?'

.o0o.

Back at his house, the slow lift door creaked open then, near his own door, in the darkness, the light bulb on his floor having been removed by someone who’d obviously needed it for his own flat, he became aware that something was amiss.

The situation had clearly moved on - the door stood at an angle, as a result of having been torn half off its hinges. Everything in the living room had been turned over.

All the technica was still there, surprisingly, but the documents were gone - very interesting but at the same time - sickening. He drove a four inch nail through the door to seal it for the night then crashed onto the divan.

XVII

Marc departed Shadzhara, promising profusely to at least come back in two months, in the New Year.

Nicolette collected him from Orly, he threw his things in the back and reported to her along the way. Looking across and glad someone else was driving, he could take her in, the way she vehemently rubbed the window with her glove to clear the fog. Planes, he thought to himself, have this foreshortening effect in that you can be in a Russian milieu one moment and a few hours later, you’re with an entirely different ethnicity.

He smiled at Nikki.

‘Quoi?’ she smiled back, then looked at the road again, the smile still playing on her lips. Beautiful lips too, he thought to himself. This was the sort of woman he should be involved with and yet he hadn’t done a lot with his own countrywomen – maybe it was temperament.

He gazed through the side window at the boring grass verge flashing by and began to reflect that one land was much the same as another in some ways. Trees are trees, grass verges are grass verges and women are women. Then he realized it was rubbish.

On an impulse, he reached for Nikki’s right hand, took the fingers to his lips and kissed the back of them, causing Nicolette to look across at him curiously.

He gave her back her hand and only spoke again once they’d reached rue de Rivoli, with it’s hundreds of bicycles in a row and wrought iron chain fences behind them, the tall buildings the other side of the cobblestoned path.

Nicolette swung the car into the carpark of one of their favourite watering holes, without even asking him and without him even querying it.

She skipped along in front of him but then waited for him to open the first door, the rituals now completed, finding themselves sitting at a low table, asking him to tell her the whole story.

She wasn’t leaving this place until he did and already outside, dusk was falling.

XVIII

The next morning, about 10:35, there was a knock on Hugh’s brand, spanking new door he’d bought at 08:00 on the dot and had carried back home on his shoulder and if you’ve ever tried that, it’s not easy.

He checked out who it was through the spyhole - Aliya - and she had packets.§ She came through, put the packets down and took off her boots. ‘I’ve been talking with my grandmother. She was appalled at the things you said you didn’t have.’

Out came a green and white bed cover which she said her grandmother didn’t need any more.

‘I only said I was thinking of getting one,’ he protested.

‘Look at the end of your bed.’

It was clear, under the layers covered by the bedspread, that he had no underlay. ‘Right, let’s put it on. Now, you must decide. Predominantly green up or green down?’ He didn’t know what she was talking about. ‘You have to put the underlay down one way only – ever.’

‘Er- green up, white down.’

‘Good, now these.’ Out came a box and inside were two fine-edged bone coffee mugs.

‘You bought these?’

She ignored that and brought out little bits and pieces for his comfort while he just gazed at her, not knowing in the least how to respond. ‘I’m overwhelmed,’ he said quietly.

‘Right,’ she said, taking things to the kitchen, ‘I don’t have a lot of time now but I’m free at 16:30. Are you?’ She caught his hesitation and asked, ‘Did I say anything wrong?’

‘You didn’t but there are issues. I don’t want to frighten you off but I think you’d better hear them. Do you want me to tell you?’

‘If there are issues, you very much need to tell me.’

‘This friendship with you is good because it doesn’t threaten you and it doesn’t threaten me. Am I right so far?’

‘Da.’

‘I haven’t tried to take it to the next step and neither have you. A lot of people won’t accept friendship between a man and a woman and I have to admit that I’m a cynic too. It seems to me that after two people part, then they can be friends with no demands but before that, there’s a lot of speculation.’

‘There is. There has been. Lots of people talk about you and me, that you’re a middle-aged man trying to take me away from my young boyfriend.’

‘Boyfriend?’ he asked.

_______________________________

§ One of the joys for me, with this book, has been to take real people in the situations which actually occurred, using their real names and as far as I can remember, reporting the actual dialogue as it happened. To see that preserved in multiple conversations throughout the book always causes a little chuckle.

For example, there really was an Aliya, she was that age, we did get close, she did come with all those things from home and the first part of that conversation did occur.

There's also been the taking of real situations and placing them in different contexts, sometimes with different characters speaking lines which genuinely had been spoken by someone else. That was plot driven and not quite as amusing.

Chapter 5 here ... Chapter 7 here

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Russia 7 - Death in the Forest

2009-05-05T13:49:00.019+01:00

Chapter 6 here ... Chapter 8 here

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I

Aliya looked at him.

‘What planet are you living on?’ she grinned. ‘He’s insanely jealous and I’m angry with him because you and I are just friends. So far. Do you like me less now that you know about him?’

‘Not less, no. But you weren’t up front with me.’

‘I was enjoying this and I thought your attitude to me might change if you knew.’

‘It has changed but not necessarily for the bad. It makes things easier, actually. All right, so the thought had crossed my mind and possibly it had also crossed yours about where we were going, what was next, in other words.’

‘Da.’

‘Do you love him?’

‘Da. I also believe you and I can be friends … that’s if you want.’

‘I want but there are two other things. I came to Russia for one girl, called Anya and we were fiancees. I made errors, she did too and now we’re not fiancees. Recently she returned and I haven’t thought it out about her yet. I need to do that.’

‘Ponyul a’. I understand. And if you do go with her again, you must drop me.’

‘I can’t see why I should, if we’re really only friends.’

‘But no one is going to accept that, are they? People love scandals. I see where this is going.’

‘No, Aliya, you don’t. If we’re friends and we value that friendship, then let’s continue. If you can’t do that, then I won’t ask you to.’

‘Let’s continue for now. Will we still go to the cinema?’

‘Yes please.’

They arranged a time for the evening.

II

Genevieve arrived about midday at Marc’s apartment in the 12ème arrondissement, not the leafy part but nice nonetheless and Nicolette was in the kitchen making white bread club sandwiches. Despite the breads on offer to the French, many still like the English bread, as they call it, or cardboard as they call it in Britain.

Genevieve let herself in, left her coat and boots by the door and made her way through to the divan, feet in fluffy slippers, which did nothing for her image as the Uberleader. They did their Gallic kiss and got down to business.

Nicolette ended up bringing through coffee, sandwiches, little snacks and chocolates. She curled up in the big armchair, which dwarfed her somewhat but she liked this chair and the patterned cover was warm. Marc could have done with a bit more bric-a-brac, she thought, men’s apartments were always so sparse.

‘Marc,’ reported Genevieve, ‘we virtually have the whole money linkage. There are arrangements which my paymasters have made with a clinic in Shadzhara and it’s patronized by people of, shall we say, a delicate disposition, from Europe and wishing to be out of the way in a wild, remote setting. They’re prepared to pay for this. Some of these are new businessmen to Russia and the courtesies are extended to them.

The sponsored guests are paid from Nizhny Novgorod, as you surmised and the money goes from there. However, some of it finds its way from Shadzhara to Prague, which you found our two dear friends had visited on more than one occasion. Now it gets murky, at least in my mind. I don’t see, apart from our two friends, where it goes next, here in Paris, I mean.

I can’t see that our section is paid for from this clinic alone but it might supplement the cost. Why though would a Russian clinic be interested in subsidizing a French security section, even indirectly?’

‘Perhaps it’s just a general slush fund, surmised Marc, ‘and some of that goes to pay for us.’

‘Perhaps.’

III

Hugh put the finishing touch, the sour cream, to the borsch and placed Viktor’s before him, which caused his face to light up.

After they’d eaten, the bowls were taken away, the coffee brought and he became more serious but on the same old theme. ‘You have problems.’

‘Don't I know it.’

‘No, as a matter of fact, you don’t. I mean outside your harem - genuine problems.’

‘Ksenia, Zhenya?’

‘That’s the tip of it. There’s a giant building project on the cards, involving western money, Moscow money and Shadzharan regulations. You’ve no part in that in any way but I think they want to make sure nothing fouls it up.

‘Tidy up the loose ends, you mean?’

‘Precisely.’

‘That’s not so good.’

‘Precisely.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Sit tight, be careful. Not much else you can do.’

‘You’re such a comfort.’ He now mentioned the door and how everything had been turned over. 'Nothing taken. They didn't get what they wanted, obviously.'

Viktor was at first stunned and then curious. 'Have you checked to see that nothing new has appeared that wasn't here before?'

'Ah.'

They searched.

IV

Valentina Vitalyevna Alexandrova took the call at her waterfront office on the Naberizhni bank, Nizhni-Novgorod, at 11:13, Thursday morning. It was Viktor Bukovsky.

‘Da, Viktor? Who? Speak up, I can’t hear you. One moment, pencil broke.’

She leant across in a sort of balancing act which showed her body to perfection, if there’d been anyone present to appreciate it, that is. Not bad for a mother of a toddler and a baby girl.

‘Right, listening. Seymour, you say? Presumably English. Who? Ludmilla Petrova? Ah, that puts it in a different light. Yes of course you must. What's Ludmilla Valerievna say about it? I see. Why does she think our hands aren't tied as well? I see. All right, I'll have a word to Sharov and you keep an eye on the Englishman.’

She rang off in that abrupt Russian manner and walked across to the window, gazing over the Volga as it flowed past as it always had and always would. Now why would Valerievna want to bring her section in? No crime had been committed as yet. No money had yet changed hands.

Was she, Valentina, meant to be preventing something maybe? Valerievna was a deep one - it must be that she was too close to the action herself - hemmed in. Oh well, pointless speculating about that now.

There was another call. ‘Da?’ She listened to the other end for some minutes, not once interjecting and concluded, once the other end ran out of steam, ‘I see, Zhenya. Yes, I can tell you that all three departed here this morning. I don't know - about 08:00. We –’

She glanced at the receiver, put it back in its place and pondered. There was clearly something going down and a lot of people seemed to have themselves tied up in knots at this moment.

She picked up the receiver again and made three calls, one of them to her mother.

V

December, 1997

The New Year lights went up in the streets and on every major housing block; all major thoroughfares, all shops, were not just festooned with lights, but networked as well. The lights went along the edges, along the top and across and across. They were everywhere. The whole city was lit up like a thousand ocean liners and the effect was stunning.

Anya would have called it a wicked waste of the city’s resources. Viktor said that the company with the contract had connections with the government.

At school, the Christmas concert went down well. The little first graders looked as sweet and innocent and discordant as they were intended to be, the very serious teenage dancing girls, expecting to be taken very seriously, in their very serious dance routine, were entertaining and the little chap with the clarinet was the highlight.

Outside, big flakes of snow floated down and soda lamps shone yellow on crystal paths. Hugh had a feeling that if he and Anya couldn’t get back together and make it through this New Year together, that if a coolness still pervaded between them into the New Year, that if they couldn’t give to each other with abandon, then it was not likely to continue much into 1998.

It was very much the way she was thinking as well and the evening she appeared again at his door, both decided to forget the past and bend a bit to the other’s needs.

Well, it was worth a try, wasn’t it? There was a desire to make it work but could he surprise her as he once had? Somehow they’d missed that point where the first fire gives way to a deeper love which gradually replaces it. Every couple has to do that to be able to continue but he and she had separated at the very point where that crossover had begun to happen.

He'd been her bulwark against Marat and then he'd just gone. Not just gone but reports of him with Miss Heathrow had come back to her and she'd been mortified.

All right, let's put all that aside and see if it was still possible.

.o0o.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was mid-afternoon on the 2nd when Hugh finally got back to his eighth floor flat. Damn it, the lift wasn’t working again.

One hundred and two steps it was, he’d counted them, and with a full belly and a dizzy head, he crashed straight into the very sober form of Zhenya Sharov, waiting in immaculate suit and silk tie at the new metal flat door.

‘Zdrast’ye,’ slurred Hugh, lurching forward at the suit and tie.

‘I think we’ll dispense with the Russian, would you agree?’ sidestepped Zhenya.

‘Cuppa tea?’

‘Yes please.’

On the fourth attempt, Hugh managed the lock, occasioning a sigh from Zhenya, who passed through into the living area. Hugh indicated a chair, excused himself and visited the little room, the bathroom and the kitchen in that order.

Finally, they were seated over a nice cup of tea and cakes, prepared by Zhenya himself in the end, Hugh not being quite up to the task. Zhenya declined the cakes.

‘You’ve put on more weight than when I last saw you.’

‘So?’

‘You’re not a hard man, are you, Mr. Jensen?’

‘Come t’ ther point, Mr. Sharov.’

‘You fail to ask even the most basic questions. Are you at all interested in my background, for example?’

‘You do something at government level for a firm,’ Hugh sobered up a little. ‘You’re bigger than you say you are because you can pull strings. You’re in very good shape and clearly you work to stay that way. You’ve been a naughty boy at times and someone doesn’t completely trust you. The rest I’m not interested in, because you could be lying. You also act strangely.’

Zhenya sat, thoughtfully stroking his chin. Encouraged and sobering up somewhat, Hugh continued. ‘May I tell you a little story?’

The other nodded his assent.

‘There was a film I once saw,’ Hugh began, ‘I can’t remember the name. There were some Eastern Europeans, wanting to escape to the West. They were approached by a group who organized such escapes and taken to a large meeting place where there were many other families, all clutching their belongings.

They were told the price, an exorbitant amount by Eastern European standards, and those that could afford it paid and became a little cell of refugees.

The next part of the film showed a guide leading them into a cavern, through the mountain, to freedom on the other side. Step by step, in single file, they made their way along until they came to a narrow ledge over a precipice. It was very dark at this point. The guide told them all to be careful because of the precipice and suggested they hang onto the railing on their left.

Our hero caught a glimmer of this ‘railing’ when somebody struck a match. It was no railing - it was an electric wire. He shouted not to touch it, there was a fracas, shots were fired, the guide was pushed against the high voltage wire and immediately went up in smoke.

After it was all over and the baddies were all killed, someone lit another match and revealed a cavern nearby, full of skeletons. There never had been a route through the mountain.

I trust no one.’

‘Understood, Mr. Jensen. And now, may I, in turn, let you into a little secret?’ Hugh nodded assent. ‘Certain elements have got it into their heads that you’re an obstacle and this time they’ve lumped me in with you. I can’t say I’m awfully flattered by that but we’ll let that pass. We have two choices, as far as I can see. Firstly, the three of us go, this evening, to a place of safety -’

‘Three?’

‘Ksusha as well.’

‘Ksusha. I see. Or else?’

‘There is no else.’

‘I see.’

‘Hugh,’ Zhenya dropped onto a Christian name basis, ‘you only have my word for it and it’s fine if you tell Igorovich and your girl. I want this thing above board. It’s the old story again - get them into the open and they’re easier to deal with.’

‘What do they want?’

‘The Russian who assists the head of the rival firm has really taken a set against you. I’m sure the break-in was to uncover dirt on you. Did you find anything missing?’

‘A few documents.’

‘Can they incriminate you?’

‘Not in the least. They were financial statements and love letters.’

‘The thing is, I’m not sure how serious these people are. I’m sure they’d kill me - they have to. Ksusha too, maybe. That’s our game. With you, I think they’ll just try to terrify you. They can, you know, if they want to; you do understand that, don’t you?’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘Contact your people, so that it’s crystal clear that you’ve gone with us, then I’ll collect Ksusha and we’ll go out of town, the three of us. Do you know of Klyenovaya Gora?’

‘But that’s an impossible place to hide. The forest’s perfect for sniping. It could be put down to hunters making an error of judgement.’

‘It could and that’s why we think it will be attractive to them. Finish the job before the end of winter and give themselves a sporting chance. We think they’ll go for it.’

VII

Marc was pouring Geneviève another coffee when he first heard the sound which shouldn’t have been present.

Geneviève heard it too, reached into her bag for a pen and notepad and scribbled a few words and a question mark.

Marc responded with three names, Geneviève nodded and took a device from her bag, a glorified pager, clicked on the numbers, put the pager away and wrote that they needed to continue talking about something, anything, for ten more minutes.

‘Mademoiselle,’ asked Marc, apropos of nothing, ‘do you think you’ll take those two new girls or do you think they’ll need further training?’

‘Oh, I think they’ll need another couple of months, especially Magda.’

Marc frowned and then tumbled to it. ‘Oui, that one needs to handle a firearm better for a start.’ They were uttering inanities now.

‘Coffee, Mademoiselle?’

Both had their sidearms at the ready.

It couldn’t have been more than three minutes before they heard a phttt, another phttt and two thuds outside. Still they didn’t move until the pager went again. That still didn’t mean they were out of the woods, only that two of the assailants had been taken out and there were usually three on a team.

‘Jean’s coming up with Paul,’ Geneviève said, Marc merely nodded and went to the door. The screen showed both their visitors’ faces, Marc pressed the button and let them in, then Geneviève and he went to the kitchen and let the boys get on with their jobs.

Geneviève stood with her back to the benchtop and Marc by the door, over to one side. They heard the rush into the bedroom and the two shots but no thud this time.

Jean and Paul came out about eight minutes later and indicated there’d been three, all up. Jean handed Geneviève a torn off page from a notebook and a mobile belonging to the deceased. He indicated she should look at the called numbers.

Geneviève’s eyes nearly popped out, she nodded and muttered to herself, Marc’s eyes upon her, then she snapped out of it and asked them to send the cleaners.

Marc had his overnight bag ready on the sidetable in the front room and all four of them departed, locking the apartment.

VIII

The idea of what Klenovaya Gora really entailed had sunk in.

‘The only snag is that I’m not a professional, like you,’ said Hugh. ‘Also, as you pointed out, I’m not in condition.’

‘You’re in reasonable nick for this – you walk most places. Call your people.’

Zhenya noted he didn’t call Anya but a girl called Aliya. Next came Viktor who wanted to speak with Zhenya, which they did, in rapid Russian, for quite some minutes.

When Zhenya gave Hugh the phone again, Viktor spoke English at the other end. ‘Of course I don’t like it. I think they’re putting you into danger unnecessarily and there could be more to this than he says. On the other hand, if he’s right, and if both are getting out of town, it might not be best if you’re alone.’

‘What if I stay with Anya?’

‘Or even with me. No, it wouldn’t help because, as Sharov says, it would be attractive to take the three of you at once, I think. They’d either postpone it or hit you while you move from one flat to another.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘I think you’re reasonably well covered in this matter – Zhenya intimated the level of cover you’d have. If you followed instructions and had a final e.t.a. back in Shadzhara, which we’ll agree on now, after which we’d mobilize to try to find you, it should be all right.

The benefits would be that if the siblings succeed, it would get the others off your back once and for all. And if it didn’t do that, then maybe we should be looking a little closer to home for the culprits. Shall I call Anya?’

‘Please.’

Some twenty minutes later, Anya called him. ‘I think Viktor’s advice is sound. There seems more benefit in doing that. I’m ready to come too, if you need me.’

‘Need you? I need you more than anything. But you can’t come – I’m not having you as collateral damage. Viktor will tell you what that means. I need someone to come home to.’

She noted that.

The whole business was concluded, Hugh was collected by Zhenya’s driver, plus himself in the back, they collected Ksenia who sat in the front beside the driver and on the way, Zhenya explained the intricacies of the Makarov to Hugh.

.o0o.

The Volga’s headlamps pierced the pitch blackness of the forest road as they finally found themselves cruising the last hundred metres down floodlit Alla Avenue, as Hugh called it.

In the foyer of the hotel, some minutes later, the woman was still at the desk. Surrendering their passports, they took their luggage to the third floor and occupied a four bed room. Bags were deposited, things put away, all the necessaries were done, then they went downstairs, ambitiously, to find something to eat at this hour.

The dining area was closed, of course, but Zhenya managed to negotiate something with the kitchen staff and soon after, plates of potato and meat and cups of tea appeared, which then went upstairs. Zhenya was fairly sure they’d not be in great danger until the morrow but just in case, they took it in turns to stand watch through the night.

His gun remained on the table, at hand.

IX

Geneviève, Marc, Nicolette and the tall, dark Francine, Miss Fashion herself, sat around a wrought iron table in Café Delour, sipping on cafes noirs.

‘Expensive warning to give,’ ventured Francine.

‘I don’t think it was a warning,’ corrected Geneviève. ‘They were there to burgle the place.’

‘While you two were there.’

‘Incompetents or something else.’

Marc spoke. ‘It could have been to test out our capabilities for the real hit. If they’d found any material and had got away with it, it would have been a bonus.’

‘Expensive test for them,’ Francine repeated.

‘Yes but they weren’t to know we were organized to that extent and they don’t care about three minor agents.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ added Geneviève. ‘Next time they’ll be far more careful.’

X

Next morning, at Klenovaya Gora, the three of them were confronted with a delight - there’d been a late overnight snowfall and snow now hung glistening on every tree and on every lamppost on the entrance road; the forest pathways just beckoned to be walked on.

The temperature was hovering around ten below, the sun had struggled out but was now giving way to another cloud chock full of snow.

In Russian terms, that meant the day was going to be superb.

A car arrived and Zhenya welcomed his mate Valerie with a warm handshake. It seemed to Hugh this one was also a handy customer, sporting the stock cheeky smile of the Russian who’s sure of himself.

They both slipped into the kitchen and reappeared, a moment later, with four small packs and a worried expression. It seemed the woman had seen three visitors come into the hotel quite late - serious people, in her opinion.

The company took Marchroute 3, a lovely walk, which took them down the slip road from the hotel, across the main road T junction at the end and into the forest on the other side. In line, four figures tramped into the forest, along the narrow path, in warm fur jackets, hats and gloves, each carrying a little pack of food.

Instead of continuing on towards the lake, the party swung sharp left and headed up a relatively steep hill where the teachers had late-collected mushrooms in October, Zhenya’s friend continuing on towards the lake.

Crouching down behind foliage at the top of the hill, they settled into waiting mode, Zhenya indicated for all to be alert and silent and it didn’t take a whole lot of imagination to guess what they were waiting for.

A family passed by on skis, on the way to the lake, obliterating most of the tracks already made.

Good. That might complicate the enemy’s plans.

The snow continued to fall as well – great flakes now touching the face and lips and having to be spat away.

.o0o.

Twenty three minutes passed, cold, legs cramped and with snowflakes insinuating their way down the necks of jackets and in through sleeves but none dared move or even breathe.

It was a slow time, where enormous patience was the order of the day, things had to be allowed to occur in their own way and yet they were all chafing at the bit.

.o0o.

Zhenya froze, everyone else froze as well and it started.

Silently, oh so silently, in this silent forest, the dull scrape of skis came to their ears, then eventually, a man in a tight fitting olive winter suit appeared below, then another and another, in line, three altogether.

The first continued along the path towards the lake, the second also continued but Zhenya indicated that he’d doubled back to the other side of their little hill and the third turned and went back. They’d clearly expected that Zhenya and Co. had gone deeper into the forest, closer to the lake.

In that almost electric silence, charged with foreboding, even the heartbeat became a distraction and the comparison between the professional and the amateur here was thrown into sharp relief.

Number Two seemed to make no move to come over the top. With shooshing hand signals, Zhenya urged infinite patience and they simply settled down to wait.

It was an eerie. eerie feeling and the hollow silence continued in the forest, except for the occasional lump of snow falling from a branch to the ground.

.o0o.

Still they waited.

And then they waited some more.

Hugh heard Zhenya moving, perhaps stretching a leg, Ksenia was absolutely silent.

.o0o.

A little under forty minutes passed.

Suddenly, Zhenya made a decision, spun round facing the path below, peering at something beyond it; his two hands simultaneously aimed, the silenced weapon gleamed long and sleek; they heard a disturbance in one of the trees and then they vaguely caught a glimpse of a form slipping from the branches and thudding to the snow below.

In the blink of an eye, one man’s soul had been separated from his body.

Zhenya put his weapon away and momentarily stepped back behind the foliage, glancing about all the while, his face a study in concentration. Valerie now appeared from the direction of the lake – took in the slumped body, glanced over in their direction and stood transfixed, head moving through 180 degrees.

He suddenly took aim, seemingly at Hugh, and in a flash, Hugh saw the end of life; there was a crack, a thud behind him over his shoulder, then a wild flurry, like an animal taking flight. Zhenya relaxed, slid and shuffled down the remaining few metres to the path and joined his friend.

The two became more tense when they looked in the direction of the lake. Beckoning Ksenia down the hill, they put the plan - Zhenya and his mate would stay in the forest for awhile, Ksenia and Hugh would go back to the hotel and not come out.

The problem with the slip road was that it was lined by forest on either side and that was a wonderland for a sniper. They had to hope that the other man was still in the forest. It seemed to be so, as they made the last few metres to the hotel door, and then went inside. Arranging food again, they went upstairs but not to the room – they stayed in the U shaped sitting area between two rooms.

Ksenia was in a quiet mood and Hugh rested a hand on her arm. ‘He’s a professional, Ksusha. He’ll be back soon. He was excellent today.’ Hugh then surprised her by taking her in his arms and taking her upper lip between his, the thing quickly turning into a full blown kiss until she pulled out of it, with a nervous cough.

‘If we start this, I want the whole thing. Let’s wait, Hugh.’ Her face was flushed and his was no better but she was pleased and touched his face.

.o0o.

The minutes became hours but then, about 17:00, the family from the morning returned, from a different direction. It was quite dark outside. About 19:00, the lone figure of Zhenya materialized from the forest near the hotel, went inside and straight upstairs to them. To their enquiring glances and tucking into a meat sandwich, he mumbled to the effect that his friend hadn’t made it.

They’d tracked Number One and put him out of business all right, quite easily, as it had turned out, but they hadn’t reckoned on being stalked by Number Three, who’d doubled back. Valerie had caught an unexpected bullet in the back, Zhenya had then lost Number Three and the man was now at large.

Zhenya now sized Hugh up. ‘Done any weapons training?’

‘Second Lieutenant, Infantry. Basic weaponry.’

‘Khorosho.’ It wasn’t strictly the weaponry that was the issue, it was the other training which was going to count – the ability to confront fear. They spoke about this and when Zhenya saw that Hugh knew the principles, he relaxed a little. The thing was that in order to stay alive in this business, you had to be a little crazy – you had to ignore consequences completely. The enemy of safety was ‘What if?’

At least, ‘What if?’ was fine when planning tactical responses but had no place outside of that. Everybody feels fear but the professional fears fear. That is – he fears its well documented consequences enough to first violently suppress it, then to ignore it.

It was agreed that they’d sleep in turns through the night - two on and one off, and of the two on, one would watch the balcony and one the door. Help was out there, of course, insinuated into the fabric of the hotel and its surrounds but the critical point would be those first moments of contact. All the support in the world was not going to help in that time frame.

Hugh slept first and this was really for the other two to observe if he could. He could and the snoring began. Zhenya shoved him in the back and he just drowsed after that. Some meat, wine and bread was still at hand; Ksenia and Zhenya sat on the floor, to one side of the room, back to back.

‘Will he come?’ Ksenia whispered over his shoulder.

‘They’ll come,’ was the reply.

.o0o.

Two hours passed. At one o’clock, Zhenya took his break and went out like a light – a great compliment to the company. Hugh and Ksenia sat back to back and it was the first real bodily contact for a long while. If he enjoyed the feel of her behind him, he hoped it was reciprocated. It seemed to be because she began to move her back in a circular motion against him.

‘Ksusha,’ he whispered, ’if you don’t stop that, I’m going to have to make love to you right now.’

He could feel her laughing inside, as she whispered back, ‘I’m exercising, Hugh.’

XI

The four of them left Café Delour about 01:00, Nicolette and Francine in one car, Geneviève and Marc in another.

Naturally they were not alone, a complicated schedule of following cars and friendly eyes in buildings along the predetermined route having been called on duty. It wasn’t Geneviève who’d emerged from the bathroom with Marc – she was still back at the café, coordinating from the back room. The woman beside him was the waitress they had work there who most approximated Mademoiselle and she knew the risks and appreciated the pay which accompanied that.

They deliberately included the ‘speedway’ past Orly as the most likely spot for an attempt at a sideswipe and a section further on where they would swing onto Avenue Marechal Leclerc should be perfect for a shot at a number of points along the way.

They reached the turnoff without mishap and now would come the test of nerves for Marc and his passenger. Although they had people at likely places, it was still a high risk operation and the only positives were that it was dark and that they were motoring at a fair rate.

In the end it was a disappointment.

Geneviève, on hearing this, concluded that they weren’t going to risk a hit on her which only confirmed what they all suspected – that Marc was the target but as he had no fresh information to pass on, it could only be as a warning.

The way to test it was for him to leave ‘Geneviève’ at the safehouse and make his way back to Paris but that was deemed too great a risk at this point, for too little a result.

He remained overnight in Massey.

XII

Hugh woke Zhenya about 03:00 and one glance showed that not a great deal had happened. The meat, wine and bread were finished, but it didn’t matter, as they’d consumed enough for one night. Zhenya whispered that if it was going to happen, it would happen on this watch - he felt and re-felt the stock of his weapon and waited.

Zhenya could rest his weapon on top of the dresser and cover the balcony; Hugh took in the door. The feel of the other’s tightened back would be the alert.

They now settled into a relaxed, yet vigilant mode, Zhenya reassured by what he felt in the other’s back, just as Hugh felt reassured by his partner.

Ksenia had finally dropped off.

.o0o.

A little before five, Zhenya felt Hugh’s back stiffen. The door handle had turned, almost imperceptibly. Hugh caught his breath and a great tightness constricted his chest. Zhenya glanced behind him, then again at the balcony, like a cobra, coiled, ready to spring.

Hugh went over and over it in his brain - breathe out normally and start the pressure, fractionally raise the muzzle of the weapon and aim perfectly as you breathe in again, fire and in the same instant, both men must shift body position to avoid the counter shot. No thinking or rationalizing was required, just following the drill.

Many thoughts wanted to crowd into his brain, all at the same time and the most insistent was whether his reflexes would be fast enough, at his age. Doubts gnawed and this is what had to be suppressed.

All ‘ifs’ were to be expunged.

But what if it was only some child, going to the toilet? No, all toilets were in the rooms.

What if it was one of the workers locking up late, after a relaxing few drinks downstairs?

What if -?

No one had any business there at that hour. Anyone turning the door handle now, at this hour, as was now happening in front of him, was 100% for the chop. His eyes remained rivetted on the door. Had it opened a few centimetres more?

Yes, yes, it had.

The faintest light from the hall had now crept into the room then, with inexorable deliberation, the door moved further and further ajar, painfully, slowly, silently. It moved very, very slowly.

Zhenya redoubled his own scrutiny of the balcony. Hugh had to decide where to place the shot and Zhenya could feel all this from Hugh’s back. Reasoning from Hugh’s army days dictated that the torso was the best bet, in the centre and he could try the head with the second.

He could now see into the corridor.

A pale pool of light played on the carpet from the nightlight but there was still no sound, absolutely no sound.

Then came a slight rustle from the hall and suddenly the shadow of a form filled the doorway, something in its hand - Hugh breathed in, raised the muzzle a tad, pulled the trigger, phut - silhouette fell - flash of light behind Hugh - splintering glass and a groan from the balcony - form crashing backwards in the hall - both men rolled to new position - something still in Hallway’s hand - Hugh fired again, top of chest - form reeled over, in heap – another more careful shot to Hallway’s head, Zhenya now watching Hugh who swung round - balcony glass door with hole in it - crumpled form of man on balcony - all finished - all over!

Done!

Just like that.

Ksenia was now up, gun in hand, covering them. Zhenya? Well, he was smiling and Hugh was also smiling.

‘It’s him,’ hissed Zhenya.

‘Number Three?’

‘Da.’

They didn’t go into the hallway immediately and so it was hard to make much out about the body. It was wearing black leather jacket, dark jeans and high heeled boots, strange footwear for an assassin.

A ‘pencil’ lay on the floor. Hugh shuddered - what if he’d been that little bit slower? What if he’d frozen? Now came the sound of two sets of padded feet along the corridor, stopping just short of the door.

‘Zhenya?’ came the whisper. ‘Zdes Marcel, Sirozh.’

Unceremoniously, the two bears moved the body, which he now recognized as definitely a slender woman and he knew her - the same who’d given them the supper to take upstairs that evening, just a girl really. They heaved her body next door.

Marcel and Sergei returned for the man on the balcony; there was some cleaning of some marks and some bits of head from the floor in the hallway and that was that. No one had woken up in the other rooms, for the simple reason that the few guests in the hotel were at that time all on the second floor.

Marcel returned with food and tea and they realized just how hungry they really were.

XIII

‘I have to leave Shadzhara,’ Anya announced.

‘Right, I understand. We could go to Cyprus again or somewhere else.’

She smiled. ‘No, it’s a family matter. It’s an aunt on my mother’s side in another town. I have to look after her for some time and I’m transferring there temporarily, my work I mean.’

‘You’re going to tell me?’

‘No, no I’m not. I don’t want you going there because your place is here and we both need time to think. I’m half and half. Half of me is terrified to lose you and half wants you to find another girl. But if you do, I’d kill you. That’s the problem. New Year was good enough to have me in two minds but I really do have to go now. She was very kind when I was a baby and … well, families do these things in Russia, Hugh.’

‘No contact, eh?’

‘Oh I’ll contact you all right. You don’t think I’d not do that. Don’t you know you’ll be on my mind every day?’

Hugh was silent.

She asked, ‘What was it like, you know, actually doing that at Klenovaya Gora?’

‘Frightening. You had to shut it out, the fear. Like when I go on one of those rides at a theme park with you.’

‘And yet you ski and sail that thing on the wire.’

‘A person’s in control there. It comes down to preparation there, to training.’

‘I meant what was it like to kill someone?’

‘A person about to kill you loses that aura, that thing which preserves him or her. It’s not nice but it has to be. That’s probably not what you wanted to hear but that’s how it was.’

‘I see.’

XIV

Zhenya had just fixed himself a sandwich at Ksusha’s new flat, which had improved substantially - beds and appliances had been brought in and it was looking more homely. The two of them sat diagonally opposite one another, her watching whilst he ate.

‘Hey, d’you mind?’ he muttered. She went out to make coffee and when she returned, put it to him directly: ‘Zhenya, we're working for opposite teams now.’

‘We're still in the same section.’

‘Ludmilla Valerievna warned you and now I’m warning you, Zhenya,. You get any deeper into this and it’s going to come back on you. They’ll hit you, brother.’

His lip curled. ‘And you’ll do the job, Sis?’

She spoke ever so quietly. ‘Do you think I can’t?’

He looked at her and something inside twitched. Maybe it was his obsessive love for his sis but he believed her capable of anything and this almost turned him on. He put out a hand and touched her cheek tenderly.

‘Zhen, you’ve changed – can’t you see that? The whole idea was to have some cash on the side, not to go round as a freelance hitman for them. These guys don’t know when to stop. They sense you don’t either and it suits their book.’

‘How’s that affect you, Ksushinka?’

‘You’re the only brother I have.’ She got up to go to the kitchen again. He rested a broad hand on her wrist.

‘Sis, what do you want me to do?’

‘Just to see things more clearly.’

‘That all?’

‘And to protect Hugh Jensen. We got him into this and now we need to keep him out of it. We owe him that much. Will you promise me never to do anything in that direction?’

‘You do care, don’t you?’

‘Zhen, why don’t you spend more time with women? I never see anyone regular with you. You were on with Yulia and then it just stopped. She said you certainly weren’t impotent so what was the problem?’

He turned to her, unwound as far as he could or as Ksenia saw it, allowed the spring to uncoil a little, rested a wiry hand on her wrist and looked at her. ‘I can’t, Ksush. I just can’t. I have things on my mind.’

‘All your little schemes, your wheeling and dealing – they’re going to send you to an early grave and I don’t want that ... my brother,’ she added.

His smile was softer than she could recall but he declined to comment. He just squeezed her wrist a little and she pushed her advantage. ‘Try Yulia again.’

He jumped up. ‘No, no, no, no. Enough, all right!’ and with that he stormed out of the front door, grabbing his jacket and cap.

XV

January, 1998

The empty vodka bottle was set at an angle of 45 degrees, embedded in solid ice, right in the middle of the path, a symbolic reminder of Old Russia.

Hugh stared at it for a while and wondered how it had got there in the first place, at that angle in particular and why no one had seen fit to remove it. Everyone simply sidestepped it and moved on. He tried once, twice, to remove it, shrugged, thought why bother and moved on.

A girl in a purple beret and a full length, black fur coat shuffled by in her hard platform boots, a lethal combination of bubble gum and mascara. He wanted Anya back. Now!

The two biggest pieces of news were the blockbuster film Titanic and Viktor’s final break from Roxanna. This latter necessitated many trips to Giuseppe, many coffees consumed at Viktor’s and visits to Hugh’s place.

It doesn’t matter how much we know something is on the cards - when it comes, it’s a very empty feeling.

He threw himself into work - school and uni, uni and school.

.o0o.

One day, at school, in his cupboard, there was a letter. Written in green ink - from the lettering slanted evenly to the right, it seemed to be the work of a senior, maybe a Class 11. Nothing extravagant, just a double side from a girl who’d been making up her mind about him over the past year.

It was pure ‘To Sir with Love’, but what struck him was the quiet, restrained script. It advised him that if he recognized who it was, to please not divulge it – she understood that it could never be between them.

A touching letter, he refolded it reverently and placed it in his inside pocket. He’d had thoughts about some of them, a man would be lying to say he hadn’t but it was always thinking about the girl out of context, out of her milieu, ascribing abilities and maturity to her she didn’t possess.

Then, when he saw that girl with her friends, shrieking and being silly, the thoughts immediately dissipated and he got on with whatever he’d been doing.

To Sir With Love – sweet concept. No future.

Chapter 6 here ... Chapter 8 here

HOME

Russia 8 - Village Deli

2009-05-05T13:48:00.018+01:00

Chapter 7 here ... Chapter 9 here

HOME

I

In late January came the Paula Jones allegations - naughty boy, Bill Clinton and this occupied most Russian dinner table conversations for a month.

Unfortunately, the New Year had resolved nothing with Anya and Hugh, she didn't return in the same way she had once done, after some days away, he hadn't reacted against that by going to Ksenia and now began a situation where both threw themselves into their work, as did Ksenia, Anya would sometimes appear late evening or even during the night, having been out somewhere and she'd just lie in his arms until morning.

It was unhealthy. It was wrong. It was helping no one.

II

The holidays came around quickly - Women’s Day, Easter, the term break, winter clothes away, summer clothes laid out. The lake was thawing and was now impassable; last year’s garbage had floated to the surface and one mistake, one wrong foot and there you were in it, up to the knees.

III

May, 1998

One day, he just phoned Ksenia and said, ‘I have to see you.’ They arranged to meet at Giuseppe and he was as excited as an adolescent.

He got there well within time but she’d had the same idea and stood as he came through - simply stunning.

Eventually she asked, ‘Well, are we going to stand here all evening?’

He snapped out of it. ‘No, of course not, what are you having?’

‘Let’s order together.’

They did and then went back to the table in the other room. He couldn’t hold out and took her hand, which delighted her inside. ‘Ksusha, you are … amazing.’

She inclined her head and leant towards him. ‘Damn it!’ He just kissed her there and then in the café and she gave as good as she got.

‘Well,’ he tried to find some conversation, after they’d both reluctantly pulled away, ‘isn’t this … er… amazing?’

‘Vocabulary deserted you today?’ she smiled.

He made a ‘phew’ gesture, they collected the eats and drinks and covered what had been happening in their respective worlds.

The absence of Anya and sudden reappearances intrigued her, of course. ‘This isn't love. This is two people, for their own reasons, not wanting to finally let go of the dream they began with. She has irons in the fire and I'm sure you're aware of that ... but so do you. I'm not an iron in your fire - I refuse. That's why I'm going home alone after this. That's why I'll wait a while longer for you to decide what you want.

If you decide you want me, then that's when your campaign to get me has to begin. This is not a done deal.’

They finished the cappuccino, kissed for maybe twenty minutes near the outer door, inconveniencing diners walking in and then it was all over for the nonce.

IV

There’d been no more interest in the Section since that evening in January but that didn’t mean they relaxed.

Frankly, the break-in had upped the ante, especially with the deaths. Geneviève’s section had always involved low-level intrigue and exposure. True, it had quite often led to retribution – that type always tried it on but the Section mainly dealt with amateurs.

This was different.

Either those three who’d been at Marc’s apartment were amateurs sent by a disgruntled ‘’customer’ … or else they were not. And those who’d sent them were biding their time.

But for what?

The consensus was that, for some reason, Geneviève was certainly living a charmed life and, by definition, anyone else in proximity. However, it did seem that attention was being meted out to anyone on the trail of the money.

It might not have even been the money at issue. It was possible that the girl Dilyara did have something [or access to it] but that photo had already got into the hands of Geneviève, so what was it about Dilyara?

It was also the consensus that the best way to test it was for Marc to visit Shadzhara.

He could leave at the end of May.

V

Zhenya was in Moscow for the company meeting with Yulia, 27, in tow.

Ksusha had been right about her actually, he conceded - she knew her place, she was happy enough shopping while he was working and then they’d meet, eat, club a bit and get their rocks off later. There were two types of women in Russia and she was the other type.

The only cloud was that Zhenya, being in condition, eschewed the alcohol while Yulia loved the cognac. It wasn’t a major problem and they never conversed much anyway - he appreciated a woman who knew how to shut up and just make herself available.

So now they took the Metro to Sokol and while she window shopped and cafed, he put in fifty minutes with the weights then they ate at a Georgian place nearby.

VI

Ludmilla Petrova received the report on the Beast with grave disquiet and the report on the man she held personally responsible for the trouble – Deputatov. She could do little with Deputatov but she could very much do something about Mr. Ronald Seymour.

It was a terrible thing to think, for a woman in her position, but she half hoped that Deputatov and the Beast would slug it out and gun each other down. Things would be much simpler that way. Perhaps it was her eyes and the progressive glaucoma which put her into such a mood but there it was.

The Beast was her primary concern. What he was blackmailing her over was a minor matter but in Russia, if it suited their book, certain echelons could blow a minor matter out of all proportion and she’d be finished. And she’d only been helping her daughter find work as well – what mother wouldn’t do such things?

The Beast was a master blackmailer, Sergei Safin had been stupid enough to lock horns with him, he’d come off second best and now he was in the Beast’s pocket.

She wondered if Mikhail Safin knew the half of it. She wondered if it would avail her to inform him. She also wondered if Zhenya would still protect Hugh, if he were under conflicting orders from both his company and his section.

She wondered many things.

VII

In the late afternoon spring sun, Marc felt the warmth on his back as he skipped up the few steps to his outer door, slipped the coded key in, took the lift, went in and threw his things on the hall table.

He filled the coffee maker in the kitchen and flicked on the switch, before checking the answer machine in the living room.

There was one from his mother, asking him to fix the cold water tap. He’d do that tomorrow. Another from Nikki – nothing special there. One from his old schoolmate Paul, one from Dilyara.

Ah. He went back to the start.

It was the type of angst which absence brings on and that was tough to take but he listened and the tone changed, almost bemused. ‘And you know what, Marc, that man I took the photo of was in our mini-mart round the corner but he thought I didn’t see him.’

Marc immediately phoned Geneviève and asked to go to the encryption. They hung up and went to safe talk. Geneviève came to the same conclusion and Marc suggested they phone Hugh.

Nothing doing, he wasn’t on the phone. Well, could they take a chance on involving Russian security? It wasn’t precisely their affair and yet who knew? Perhaps they were right behind it. Either way, it seemed a win-win for Geneviève to at least enquire and see if she could get the girl some protection although it would involve a return favour later.

She rang her superior and asked whom the opposite number was to contact but her superior tried to dissuade her. She thought it through and contacted Marc again. Did he have any contacts over there? No?

Was Hugh reachable? No, the man had no mobile, curse him. Hold it – Marc had an idea.

Some minutes later, he contacted Geneviève again and yes, they’d struck, if not gold, then at least a strand of silver. Dilyara knew Anya’s number and he’d just phoned and asked for it as he needed to contact Hugh urgently.

Poor Dilya, she’d never make a cloak and dagger femme fatale – not one word of suspicion.

Anya wasn’t answering and then it answered but it was a woman asking in Russian. Damn. He contacted Geneviève, told her the problem and that he’d think on it.

VIII

July 1998

The new registration was obtained for Hugh to stay in the country, the flight to Australia was booked, the Lewinsky scandal was rocking along quite nicely on the airwaves and there’d been a massive flood in China - the Yangtse was not a happy river, it seemed.

Hugh had tried everyone he knew for word of Anya. Either they were being tightlipped or else they genuinely knew nothing and it was quietly depressing she’d made no contact.

He went to town to look around one last time before his trip.

Baumana had changed. Once a typical dowdy street, with narrow pavements and lots of asphalt; now the city fathers had created a mall, replete with fountains, sculptures and such like. The inevitable boutiques were sprouting everywhere – Toris, with its shoes and boots, D’El, with its high end costumes and so on and McDonalds, of course, right in the middle of the mall.

But the same old music cassette stalls were there, the same old soft toy stalls and the same café blasting discordant ethnic music into the street.

.o0o.

One day, the 07.12 train for Moscow and the west set off and this time no one saw Hugh off from the station.

.o0o.

At the other end, in Moscow, he made the connection to Domodedovskaya Station, and finally, at the top of the stairs, there was Moscow Anna, looking as sweet as when they’d parted in London with her school group. Her little brother was with her and they all bussed to the elegantly appointed flat, sat on the divan, not knowing what to say and eventually settled for cards.

Later in the day, in the early dusk, Moscow Anna and Hugh went out and made contact with the other girls who’d been at his school in London and they all went for a stroll, before the two returned for a supper of red beef borsch, chicken and rice plov, crab and mushroom salads and the inevitable vodka, toasting everyone’s health, druzhba (friendship) and other fine causes.

Hugh was given Anna’s own bedroom, she shared with her mother, and papa occupied the living room. Anya’s was a smallish room, with light coloured wood work, the soft bed was a dream after the train and sleep descended on the household.

Next day was a Sunday and Hugh bought flowers from an underpass stall for her mum.

.o0o.

The day wore on and back at the flat, preparations were well in hand for the final big supper and other members of the family had also congregated, the older men in ties. Hugh had pride of place at one end of the table, the father at the other and the festivities commenced.

There was a ring on the doorbell. Anna went, then poked her head around the door and beckoned. It was Natasha, one of the London girls and so there were more shy, nervous, ‘eyes down’ greetings, again in broken English, more toasts and so it went.

.o0o.

In the morning, he was awoken by Anna shaking his shoulder.

‘Huh?’

‘What you need?’ She indicated, ‘Towel here on bed.’

‘Nothing, nothing, thanks, thanks for everything.’

Fifteen minutes later, he was in good enough condition to present himself for breakfast but to his surprise, only Vadik was left behind in the flat. Mama and Papa had both gone to work, Anna had gone to the Institute, Vadik had been given copious instructions concerning breakfast, Papa would collect Hugh later for the airport.

He hadn’t thanked them adequately and he didn’t want to leave the flat this way. What could he do? He had no way to go and get a present, he couldn’t communicate it anyway to the boy, who seemed the least able to understand his halting Russian.

There was nothing he could do.

IX

Mikhail Safin didn’t so much run a family but an organization. The company was the source of all things - the comfortable life, the wife, the children, the security, the clout to be able to adopt the patriarch role.

He could never understand lesser men who were willing to work for peanuts or to kowtow to a boss. On the other hand, some men did not have the stomach to do the things which were necessary to stay on top. Mikhail’s business was varied and could be loosely lumped under the heading ‘making money’. They sold whatever could be sold and brokered deals for banks. You wanted a deal made – they’d be your go-between.

He had no illusions about his numbers two and four - Georges, with the European name and Oleg, the Beast. The thing is, he needed them in the way, if he’d known about British history, Henry needed his Cromwell or Elizabeth her Walsingham. Such men were necessary.

There was something with Oleg though which didn’t ring true. Still, not wise to dwell on such things as long as they didn’t personally affect him, as long as Oleg did his job and had no pretensions to power. He was keeping an eye on the man.

The number three, Dima, his brother-in-law - well he was the political half of the business. Whatever needed smoothing over, whatever channels needed opening - that was Dima’s thing. He knew where the threats would come from and how to circumvent them - he knew what was going down.

The children, Sergei, Olyesa and Alina - they were all right. Sergei was in security and the girls would have to have places found for them sooner or later.

Things were OK.

This Englishman, Paul Jacobsen - he was the current concern. Realizing it was better to have a Russian connection in setting up a conglomerate over here, it was interesting how he’d latched on to Mikhail and been sent Dima to see how the firm could be of assistance.

Mikhail was astute enough to know that this was never going to sit well with Deputatov in Moscow and his English partner and it had caused a certain amount of friction so far. The actions of Mikhail’s niece and nephew in security had also been a spanner in the Deputatov works.

There was trouble brewing.

X

Hugh made London and phoned Lisa.

He got to the deli first, indulged in conversation with Sandra, then in walked the red haired picture herself. Lisa ordered a salad, Hugh had his turkey sandwich, then cappuccinos for both. The essential question now was how best to spend their short time together.

Let’s be tourists for the day.

Capital idea. Maybe Bakerloo, Sherlock Holmes’ pretend house, Madame Toussaud’s queue, train to Leicester Square, take in a film, walk to the embankment and the little coffee house along a bit from Embankment tube station.

Sitting out on the chairs at the front of the little coffee house, it was a little chilly in the shade for Lisa in her floral patterned dress, minus cardigan. Still, she managed to drop a surprise: ‘Zhenya wants to talk to you.’

‘He’s in London?’

‘Britain anyway.’

‘That man gets around.’

‘Or else follows you. Maybe he doesn’t have a life of his own.’

‘No, Lisa, to be fair, I think his proximity means protection.’

Accepting Lisa’s mobile, Hugh phoned him and arranged to do the Deli again on the morrow – same time.

XI

Viktor hadn’t been in the tax police for nothing and soon had Anya’s number, Hugh’s B&B number and Marc’s.

Operating on a need to know system, he didn’t divulge these when he phoned Ludmilla Petrova to ask her whether she knew anything of a Frenchman whose description he now gave.

Ludmilla was non-committal at first but as she gleaned what Viktor was up to, she opened up a little more and admitted they were watching a Frenchman but not for any special reason. She was most interested in the possibility of the danger he presented and yes, she’d get onto it.

Now it was her turn. Who was interconnected in all this? Section 37? Really? More than interesting. Mr. Jensen too? Well, she could have guessed that. Any of her own people? No? Khorosho.

They rang off and Viktor felt that that was about all he could do for the nonce.

XII

Next morning, Hugh had already disposed of his turkey sandwich and cappuccino before the door darkened with the unmistakable form of Zhenya and there they were again, seated awkwardly on those white, wrought iron, garden chairs, conversing as if they’d never parted.

They spoke of this and that and then Hugh had to ask: ‘Is Ksenia in – er – London?’

Zhenya grinned. ‘Sorry to disappoint you – she’s in St Petersburg. Anyway, you’ve shown remarkably little interest in her these last few months.’

‘Yes, yes that’s so and I’m very sorry. Things just got away from me. We did have that conversation at Klyenovaya Gora though and then the meeting at Giuseppe. I had Anya on my mind and my mate, Viktor, parted with his woman. It was a busy time. I miss Ksusha. Zhenya, you do know I have feelings for her, which is different to sleeping with her.’

Zhenya was struggling inside himself, then managed, ‘Then maybe it’s time to show them … Hugh.’

‘Has she ever said anything about me, by any chance?’

‘Not to me. She’d not phone you either, she’s too proud. You’d have to make the first move.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Now Zhenya dropped his customary bombshell – Hugh was in danger again. This was now a yawn. ‘Don’t you have anything else to say? Honestly, you’re a long playing record, stuck in the same groove.’

‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘No – that’s true. Forget it. Anyway, I’m off to Australia –’

‘No,’ Zhenya quickly retorted, ‘that’s what I’m here to tell you - you have to stay in London. I can’t protect you adequately outside London.’

‘The crocodile can’t protect his supper away from the river?’

‘Do you think you’re my only concern?’

‘Who else is your concern?’

‘Your Anya.’

Not a muscle moved in Hugh’s face. ‘Good one, Zhenya, nice card you just played. Pity you can’t support that statement.’

The man reached into his inside pocket, drew out what looked like a photograph and handed it across to Hugh. It was a photograph of Yelabaga, birthplace of the painter Shishkin, a bit over 200 km from Shadzhara.

In the centre of the pic, near the memorial, looking out over the valley, was his Anya, in leather jacket and jeans and she was speaking with a Russian, about twenty five, in regulation black outfit, with longish, unruly fair hair, quite athletically built, quite solid in fact. It was impossible to tell her mood from the photo but she didn’t seem too animated and didn’t really seem to know him.

Maybe it was a casual acquaintance.

‘So?’ Hugh enquired.

‘You’re learning,’ smiled Zhenya. ‘Try this one,’ he added, as he reached in for another photograph and handed it across.

‘Who’s this guy anyway?’ Hugh was puzzled. It was the same man from the first photograph, on his own this time, but in a different situation - some sort of officer with pips on his shoulder epaulettes.

By way of reply, Zhenya reached into his briefcase and produced a report in a plastic folder. It was a political dossier, in Russian. ‘Just give me the summary, Zhenya.’

‘Name: Sergei Safin, ranking officer and working for a rival company to mine.’

‘To yours?’

Zhenya smiled. ‘Yes – rival to my company. I’ll save you that question.’

‘What must I do?’

‘Stay in London.’

‘I can’t, I told you, I’m on my way to Melbourne, to see my mother.’

‘Listen my friend, you might not even make it that far. Or if you do, it’s probably just a matter of time. I can protect you here - I can do nothing out there.’

Zhenya’s face was crying out for a brick to be thrown at it. ‘I’m going to Australia, Zhenya. Is my girl safe enough?’

Zhenya breathed, ‘I can’t guarantee it but she’s probably safe enough, at least from this game. But I knew you’d go because you’re a stubborn bastard, like all people of limited foresight.

Listen, Hugh, it will happen like this, most likely. Someone you know will approach you and you’ll go with her, at her suggestion. Then at some point, she’ll find an excuse to slip away for a moment. That will be it. Don’t make friends with young ladies. That’s your Achilles Heel. That’s how we did it-’

‘Ksusha?’

‘But for now, ‘he continued, ‘stay close to your Lisa and try not to take a bullet.’

‘You’re a comfort, Zhenya.’

He once more smiled that brickable smile of his. ‘Here’s my mobile and a bundle of U.S. notes, for emergencies. Take my mobile, don’t argue. There are instructions here for logging onto the net in Melbourne. Give it back to me when you come back.’ He proferred the bundle and Hugh involuntarily took it.

‘You just made a major mistake,’ Zhenya was using up his quota of smiles for the day. ‘You were just seen taking money from me.’

Hugh was livid but far from reacting, Zhenya continued in the same tone, ‘Look at your face! It reduces your effectiveness. You couldn’t neutralize me at this moment, even if your life depended on it.’

Hugh sat down on the edge of the white metal chair. ‘Continue,’ he said, evenly.

‘That’s more like it!’ Zhenya concluded with a flourish and a smile. ‘Good luck, don’t lose my mobile and I’ll see you in Shadzhara, if you’re still alive.’

Hugh didn’t rise to it this time. He paid the stupendous bill at the counter which they’d been progressively building up, nodded goodbye, then decided to be a little more gracious and extended his hand. Zhenya’s grip was strong and firm, a wiry sort of strength, rather than the strength of a bull.

‘One last piece of advice, Hugh. For now, I’m your friend but next time, who’s to say I haven’t been given new orders? I’d hate to do it, of course, but I’d do it, you can be sure. Take care.’

And he was gone, the extraordinary man with far too much Le Carre on his reading list. Or was he the consummate professional?

Hugh flew to Melbourne without mishap.

XIII

The news was first phoned through by Viktor to Marc who wasn’t greatly surprised that the former had the number.

The Frenchman had been seen about again but had observed someone he’d seemed to recognize and had slid into oblivion. It was one of Ludmilla’s people who had been observing him and that raised questions about just who this Frenchman really was.

Well, Marc was ready to fly to Shadzhara anyway on Thursday so that might tip the balance one way or the other. Geneviève called, they went to encryption and she listened in silence. She immediately brought the flight forward – could Marc be ready by the next morning?

D’accord.

.o0o.

11:25 saw Nicolette pull into the Orly carpark with Marc and go in with him. This wasn’t necessary, of course but both seemed to enjoy this time together and neither was going to question the little routine.

They parted tenderly and soon he was airborne.

In Frankfurt he phoned Dilya and got no answer. No matter. He’d contact her in Shadzhara.

He grabbed a coffee and an hour later was airborne again, a five hour flight in front of him. She’d arranged to meet him at the airport - he now pictured her face and the way she’d try to contain her delight, just as he would.

Marc took a cognac and relaxed with the in flight magazine for ten minutes, before snoozing lightly, the woman two places to the right, by the window, already fast asleep.

Shadzhara was a pain with its baggage retrieval so he always travelled with only his largish cabin bag when he went there. Thus he was through and out of the gate before any of the others but of Dilya, there was no sign.

Anya and he saw each other at about the same time and she was tongue-tied, almost like a child. She put both hands on his forearms and told him straight out. ‘Dilyara was shot near her carpark this morning. She was coming here. Viktor phoned me and my uncle drove me to the city.’

It wasn’t remorse – it was plain old shock which prevented either from commenting further for a few moments. He wanted to ask, ‘Is she alive?’ ‘Where is she?’ and ‘May I see her?’ all at the same time.

She saw that and said they were going to her now. Marc was annoyed that Anya didn’t tell him one way or the other and he willed her to. He didn’t want to have to ask - either she had small antennae or else she was finding it impossible to say herself.

‘Do you know her … condition?’ he finally got out.

‘No.’

Well, that answered that.

XIV

Hugh’s mother was not too much the worse for wear but frail, yes distinctly old and frail now. The prevailing opinion in the family about his gallivanting around the world, leaving his mum to someone else to look after, had made him somewhat of a pariah with the stepbrothers and sisters.

In earlier years he’d quizzed his mum about it and tried to detect any sign that she felt the same way. She’d taken the point of view that you have to do what you have to do. It had always been her own way and yet – she’d have to have missed him a hell of a lot, any mother would have.

The first two weeks were uneventful and he did the usual round of friends, gradually falling back into the Aussie domestic lifestyle. He ate his steamed Dim Sims with Soy Sauce, his Chiko Rolls, the Vegemite sandwiches and Cherry Ripes and was now heavily into the driving of mother up to Arthur’s Seat, with its chairlift and other places of interest.

She loved a drive in the country, his mum, and if it meant up a steep hill with a restaurant at the top, where they could consume Devonshire Teas, looking out over the purple bay vista below, so much the better.

With his mum, any trip was OK, as long as there was an ice cream somewhere along the route and ice cream places had proliferated in recent years, from Baskin Robbins to the little place in Sorrento which had always served a variety of flavours in a cone for as long as he cared to remember.

XV

Ronald Seymour was a close-cropped, chisel jawed specimen who would always look as if he resided on the shady side of the law, which was unfortunate because most ‘businessmen’ tried to project the opposite image.

He sipped his merlot at Garfunkels and mobiled Deputatov in Moscow.

‘Hi. A little bird told me that a certain merger is being planned next summer. The two parties are apparently taking a cruise and they'll thrash it out there.’

Soft cursing could be heard at the other end.

How sure? Very. Yes, we'll have to, won't we? Who? Don’t worry about him - we have someone in London and one at the other end too.’

Deputatov clicked his mobile off.

XVI

The time in Melbourne had drawn to a close and that sad time of farewells for another year began.

Hugh took himself out to the airport, as it just seemed better. His stepfather, Jack, had a touch of the flu and his mother wouldn’t want to go without him.

Check in and takeoff were fairly standard and the short hop to Sydney was done quickly. Now, so far, Hugh had had three seats by the window to himself but it was too much to hope that his luck would hold out that way.

The memory of the infamous Greyhound bus, travelling from L.A. to Vancouver, occupied his mind right now.

Basically, they’d just left L.A. that summer and all the seats had been taken, except for the one beside Hugh and another further up. At the next town, three people got on – a grossly overweight, heavy-breathing Mexican with sweaty armpits, a petite blonde and a nondescript businessman.

He’d got the blonde of course and she’d started to converse. Where was he from? She was from - and so on. They made the next town and then, suddenly she was gone and just as suddenly – wham!

The fat Mexican swung himself into the seat, squashing Hugh against the window. The Great Blob humphed, hurrumphed, sitting bolt upright, occupying 70% of the seat and half the aisle and he stank.

Truly, he stank.

Now, in Sydney, he feared the same thing was repeating itself but it turned out to be just one Thai businesswoman. Well, that wasn’t too bad.

.o0o.

They eventually made Bangkok and the plane changed. Now this was where the worry gripped, as he seemed to have all three seats to himself again, the next section was the eleven hour haul to London and one’s fellow passengers were critical.

First, a businessman came down the aisle and moved past.

A Chinese couple and an academic passed by.

Then Hugh saw the grossly obese American mid-aisle; the man shot him a glance, looked at the seat number above, Hugh instinctively double-checked his boarding pass and silently died, staring ahead, waiting for that giant butt to thump down beside him but oh frabjous day - it didn’t thump down beside him - it passed further on down the aisle.

Still anxiety reigned.

Suddenly, at the very last moment, a young lady in white vest and blue jeans appeared in the aisle, cascades of dark hair everywhere, breathlessly shoving things into the luggage compartment above him and the next thing he knew, he was offering the window seat, her small bottom had landed beside him before he’d even had a chance of having a heart attack.

Santa Claus - thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

She checked her boarding pass and he hoped against all hope. Please let it be so for the next seventeen hours - plus the one hour stopover in Abu Dhabi – please let it be so. I’ll do anything, I promise. I'll be good for a whole year. I'll help old ladies across the road …

The doors closed, the plane taxied and took off.

Eureka! There was justice in this world, after all!

The essential problem now was how to seduce her. Then he stopped and had a good look at himself. WTF was he trying to do? He shelved that idea and decided just to spend the time ... er ... circumspectly.

The non-smoking sign went out and she went into action herself. Out came all the little bits and pieces for her comfort, everything was arranged as she wanted and he followed suit. Flipping through his photos to pass the time, he got bored, flung them down on the dividing seat, pushed his seat back and tried to snooze.

He opened one eye, sneaked a look at her and she was doing the same in reverse. He closed his eyes again but he’d seen the smile on her lips.

XVII

Marc remained in Shadzhara and had no plans to return to Paris. Geneviève gave him a month, all up.

The bullet had penetrated close to the heart and apparently it was a swift, unexpected movement which had saved her. She was in a critical condition for some days and recognized no one.

He got to meet the family and that was an interesting cross-cultural phenomenon in itself. The major thing though was that he’d decided this thing could not continue. He suspected she’d fear that, once she came out of it, he’d try to do the gallant thing. To her, the bullet would be an unnecessary complication, a threat to everything she’d tried to build with him.

Naturally, she was torn. Naturally, he was too.

He always visited at 14:00, once the family had had their time and so he found himself today. Taking her slender hand with the long fingers in his own more bony mitt, he willed her to get better. If there was such a thing as the spirit, if there was such a thing as a patient gaining strength and solace from mere touch, then he willed it so.

Yet he had to admit to himself that it was a near lifeless hand he was holding. He looked at their two hands and wondered about everything.

He had to go.

XVIII

Time passed on the flight. Lunch arrived.

Then, out of the blue: ‘Nice photographs. May I ask where they were taken?’

Interesting voice and he drank her in - Eurasian, sweet mercy. Not a fabulous beauty perhaps, a little battle hardened, Hugh thought, but definitely shapely.

‘Indonesian,’ she volunteered.

Wow, he’d never met one of those before and her English was great. So it should have been – she lived in England, had done for seven years.

So where was the family?

Back in Denpasar.

Hugh recalled once having been on a sleeper from Madrid to Italy and he’d met a girl, Louisa - Spanish, so he’d found out. Small and severe but with a sweet face. She spoke Spanish, Italian and a little French; Hugh spoke English and a little French.

They’d decided to get out at Narbonne to sample the French cuisine and the waiter had been highly amused - two foreigners from different countries, both clearly inept in his native language and both trying to communicate in it. He’d helped them and the tip had probably helped him in return.

They’d walked and then, with the train ready to depart, they’d decided to meet again in Florence. She was going on to a pottery course there, and Hugh was making his way north. But he’d come back down, utilized her phone number and found himself ensconced in a villa on the edge of Florence.

She’d shown him round but things then had not gone quite as planned and she clearly wanted out of the situation. With her own new friends, her own agenda, Hugh had felt distinctly surplus to requirements. So he’d slipped away from Florence as quickly as decorum would permit, heading for Rome.

At the railway station, two Aussie girls had approached him, flabby thighs, balloon shorts and thongs. They’d wanted to drink and crash on the grass, the last thing he was going to do.

The girl in the plane now was not unlike the Spanish senorita – compact, friendly in a reserved way, very good company and both up for suggestions.

They were decanted at Abu Dhabi in that terminal and Frederika, for that was her name, wandered round with him, shopping together, supping together, patiently waiting for the other. He bought a miniature Aladdin’s lamp and she considered buying one but then didn’t and regretted it later. At one point they’d drifted apart and he hadn’t wanted to go looking for her but then she’d seen him and had come over by herself.

He appreciated that.

Back on the plane, they now snoozed; he placed an airline pillow between her head and his shoulder, she stirred, smiled at what he’d done and let her head fall back to the pillow, allowing her thin, sinewy body to snuggle in against him.

.o0o.

Close to London, if it could be called next morning, it all changed. Clearly her friend was on her mind and she distanced herself before getting out, even keeping two people between them in the aisle for disembarking.

He lost her completely, shrugged, and turned his attention to balancing his luggage on the escalator step on the way up. Then he saw her at the top and she seemed to be waiting for him. It was going to be a wonderful day after all.

‘Frederika!’

At the top, she suddenly extended both hands and his next sensation was falling backwards, tumbling, bags, parcels, everything, over and over and over, all the way to the bottom, wind knocked out but still alive.

A few seconds later, he could feel someone crouching over him, crying, ‘No, no, are you OK? Say you’re OK.’ A hand went over his mouth and something was pushed inside, maybe a capsule.

Her voice dropped, she hissed, ‘Say goodnight, Sweety,’ then she was gone.

He spat out whatever it was and passed out.

XIX

Safin took the call. He said not one word but clicked off and called a number in Moscow.

‘It’s over. She wants cash. Usual way.’

XX

The hospital was not the most modern.

Large ward, shower curtain railings around rickety beds, small windows allowing a trickle of light into the room, flowers on the metal sideboards beside the beds.

The nurse came round and explained that this was going to be a seven day job. Only one had passed so far, so there were still six interminable ones to go.

To hell with that. He had things to eat, cafes to drink, places to do.

He lay there fuming. Why couldn’t she have done it just before Shadzhara? A week off teaching would have been just the ticket. Why during the holidays? And anyway, would the little traitor still get the money for a botched job or would she have to accept a bullet as part payment?

Zhenya arrived with Lisa – did those two have something going?

He suggested Hugh postpone the trip back; Zhenya knew the travel agent in Little Portland very well, thanks to Hugh’s last flight back to Russia; he’d arrange all the documentation, the insurance and so on and Hugh wouldn’t be out of pocket.

He acquiesced.

XXI

It was on the fourth day, according to the nurse, that Dilyara’s eyelids had flickered open briefly in the morning but there had been nothing since.

Marc farewelled the family – it had got down to a routine by now – and took his place on a warm seat one of them had been occupying. He looked at Dilya, at the girlish outline of her face in repose and wondered why people often looked younger when asleep.

Her hands were beneath the covers so he decided to just sit in his chair and look. She was breathing evenly and the expression looked serious, not serene. It was as though she had business to attend to.

Leaning over her, he lowered his lips and touched her upper lip the way he always did. There was a definite quiver and then a rigidity which had not been there before. One eyelid opened and it was the first genuine contact for months. But did she recognize him?

She appeared not to but then the small mouth, those thin lips, parted ever so slightly in what could be taken for a smile. The whole visage went back into repose and he knew the thing was done for one day.

He stayed for another hour, then took his leave, thanking the nurse on the way out.

XXII

Day Seven arrived, Hugh was discharged; he was met by Zhenya and Lisa and they all went to Blackheath, to 51 Lea Terrace, which Lisa had booked. They ate Chinese across the road - the Peking Duck was crisply superb and the plum sauce was a treat. They wound up festivities about nine and saw Hugh back to the B&B safely, promising to make contact next day.

Lisa was dropped back to Kentish Town and at the last second, invited Zhenya inside, a spur of the moment decision, despite the long drawn out thinking preceding it.

For his part, he’d picked her correctly as a girl who’d venture and then at the last minute, her moral gyro would reassert itself and she’d shy away from compromising herself. Lisa adored adventure but not danger. For Zhenya, this little evening wouldn’t hurt, would it and it might give him some insight into Jensen.

Lisa herself was thinking she’d like to know a little more about Ksenia. She made nice coffee and put out some cakes, changed into an oversized jumper and Peter Rabbit socks and Zhenya couldn't help noticing the cultural divide. He wouldn’t say too much about himself but on Ksenia he was more voluble.

‘Ksusha? Sensitive really. She felt very badly about the way our mother was treated. I think she blew it out of all proportion - it was no worse than in many families - but she saw it as her mission in life to protect and our mother was the logical recipient of that. I see similar things in Hugh Jensen.’

‘You’re doing a spot of protection yourself, Zhenya. I know about Klyenovaya Gora - Hugh was most impressed with how you handled yourself there.’

‘Was he really?’ Zhenya allowed himself a little smile. ‘Was he a good headmaster?’

‘He was a right bastard at the interview. Saw I was nervous and asked me some curly questions such as what I thought were my greatest weaknesses. I hated him then and when I was offered the job I was seriously thinking of turning him down. Then he did something nice for me and that cheeky smile got me in. He’d sometimes get worked up over some things beyond their importance, thinking they were vitally important though.’

‘Predictable?’

‘No, that’s the thing - you could never predict him. I don’t mean he was moody. I mean he might have just told me off for failing to do a report, say and the next moment he’d take me for lunch and hang on my every word. He can be very cutting at times, which doesn’t go down well in a school environment.’

‘Ksusha can be a demon that way too, always could. She even frightens me sometimes and I don’t frighten easily. She needs someone who won’t be fazed by her excesses.’

XXIII

It had crossed Geneviève’s mind and Marc’s at about the same time, that there didn’t appear to be any move to keep Dilyara and him apart.

It had also crossed Marc’s mind that it might be known she was comatose but that this was not going to continue for much longer. Therefore danger might begin yet again. He wondered how anyone outside the family would have known about that.

14:00 saw him once again at her beside and the eyes were open. Her parents were more relieved than he could remember and he was too. She didn’t exactly extend her hand outside the bedclothes but she definitely recognized the touch and tried to squeeze his.

She knew when he was going to try the kiss again; Marc was nothing if not predictable. When the lips descended, it was a sentient human being who received them and it was also confirmation to her that it had been him all along in her vague memories.

She actually smiled.

At that point, Marc understood that the only way to keep her safe was to remove himself from her; he also knew he could never do that.

They gazed at each other for a long time this day.

Chapter 7 here ... Chapter 9 here

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Russia 9 - The Thames

2009-05-05T13:47:00.017+01:00

Chapter 8 here ... Chapter 10 here

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I

Next morning was too magnificent for words and in London you learn to take advantage of opportunities like that.

Hugh’s resolution to lay low and fully recuperate simply flew out the window, Greenwich demanded a stroll and anyway, there were always people on that route and there was safety in numbers.

The stroll up Tranquil Vale and onto the heath took it out of him a bit but he crossed the grass, past some sort of kite flying convention, to the A2, crossed that and went past the donkey rides, in through the main gates and down the main tract, over the ridge, past the observatory and there was Greenwich in the distance.

With half the job done, he took a breather and sat under a tree, considering it good to be alive.

Now the last stretch before the lower gate and he was across the road and into the village proper.

Walking into the TexMex café now, thirty seconds before he did, was Frederika, on the arm of a nasty looking bruiser. The adrenalin rising, Hugh followed his would-be killer, as her beefy minder ordered some nachos and guacamole.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself on the footpath leading to the riverside, ten metres behind Frederika and the Side of Beef, who was deep in conversation with her. That little murderess with the masses of dark hair was a honey, there were no two ways about that.

He didn’t hold with the cold-blooded execution of another human, even if she had tried to snuff out his life. He didn’t hold with even the slightest degree of maiming or scarring or any other deeply satisfying revenge, for that matter either. But he did want to shock the hell out of her and he did want to make love to her.

The thought ran through his mind that she was aware of him and was keeping him within range for a second shot at finishing the job. If so, they’d have to decoy him to a quiet area but two could play at that game. Funny how anger could drive out fear, wasn’t it?

He was going to force the issue.

As she and the guy turned into the undercover market, he had to concede that this was an excellent blind for splitting, doubling back and catching him unawares. This could be the end and he didn’t want to die yet - he had things to do first.

But now they didn’t seem to be splitting up and were well within view and looking through things on a vendor’s stall with little apparent awareness of what was going on around them. Was her intelligence that he was still in the hospital? Or maybe in Lea Terrace?

He saw a replica derringer on a vendor’s stall and slapped a tenner down before the man could raise a gasp, then swung into the crowd and bored his way through to her – they’d already left the market area proper. She took a bit of catching and as he drew closer, he started to get a cooler head.

Yes, he would force the issue but not here, not with that guy around. Then, bless her little cotton socks, she and the guy parted and she headed in the direction of the Cutty Sark, Gypsy Moth and the boats. Hugh scrutinized through 360 degrees and decided to go ahead with it.

Moving up to her right, he simultaneously put his left arm firmly around her, shoved the end of the derringer into her hard, unyielding waist with the other, pointing up towards her heart and hissed into her ear: ‘Keep your eyes up, look like your enjoying the walk with me and keep going in the direction of the boats. We’re going for a little cruise, Frederika, honey.’

She didn’t struggle, she didn’t demur, she just smiled and kept walking, with Hugh attached to her like a limpet. ‘Hugh, you do it so well. Can you handle that gun?’

‘No, not at all. It might go off any second, mightn’t it?’

Her broad feet in the open sandals padded along not unlike a panther’s might and he knew he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

II

Ludmilla Valerievna was more than surprised when the one she considered her opposite number, though hardly in a section such as she administered, agreed to fly to meet her. Ludmilla had taken it as read that the queen never leaves the hive but clearly the French did things differently, at least in Section 37.

She began to wonder if Geneviève was high enough to deal with and whether it might not be better to concentrate on the woman’s superior. Then again, as part of the discussion was going to involve just that superior, she felt it should go ahead as planned. What she could not have known was that Section 37 was an internal section, dealing with specifically French matters and would hardly be of interest in Russia, not even for ransom.

It was agreed that they’d meet at Borovoya Matiushina, the riverside resort, at the dacha of one of her friends. It was defendable from both water and the road and flanked by other houses but best of all, it was built like a bunker during the cold war.

When Geneviève and entourage were dropped at the military drome, a hovercraft collected her and took her downstream to the appointed residence. Marc was already inside.

The luncheon was traditional and ritualized – both Russian and local cuisine - she enjoyed the Moldavian red and gorbusha fish the best.

Now relaxed on one of the two divans, separated by the glass-topped table, interpreters in position, they discussed both their respective problems and tried to find if there was any common ground. They pooled knowledge on Seymour, Deputatov, Marc, Hugh, the girl who’d been hit twice, the mysterious Frenchman in Shadzhara and the woman at the university.

Geneviève came clean on their original aim of following the cash trail and gave as close to an honest account of how far they’d got. Ludmilla spoke of rival companies, of the clinic outside Shadzhara and of attempts to set operatives against one another. There didn’t appear to be any specifically jihadi thing in this nor any anti-Russian thing. It all seemed a commercial matter in the end.

Still, they’d keep an eye on things and agreed to cooperate as far as national interest permitted. On the matter of Dilyara, Ludmilla was of the opinion that precious little would happen now that it was known that security was an interested party.

It had been a good discussion.

They parted with a plan to set up a hotline between the two sections for their mutual benefit.

Marc debriefed Geneviève and it was agreed he’d stay on for some time – everyone back home gave their love. They kissed and parted.

Dilyara was back home, the parents had returned to the forest, the brother had taken the hint once Marc had come back and the two could at last talk, covering many issues, with him fussing around her in a way she said she could get used to.

Then she became serious. ‘We’re no further forward, are we, Marc?

He thought of half a dozen replies but settled, in the end, for ‘No.’

She gazed at him from her propped up position on the divan. ‘Every time I ask you, you never tell me about the women in your life. I’d like to know, Marc.’

He smiled, ‘It’s a very boring topic.’

She waited patiently.

III

Ksenia returned from St. Petersburg with a brother overseas, Hugh also overseas and Ludmilla having entertained French intelligence.

It wasn’t any of her business, any of it, until a colleague told her the Denpasar girl had flown to London with her ‘protégé’, as the others described Hugh. She knew he’d done some reckless things but this just took the biscuit. She contacted Zhenya immediately and was relieved he was on the job already.

She was fretting, walking up and down the corridor, not only on account of his imminent danger but just the whole thing - she hated this. She hated what he was doing and she hated her own feelings about him doing it. It was time to play one of her cards in reserve - she knew Anya's mobile number and as hers was unknown to Anya, the chances were she'd answer.

That's exactly what happened and to say Anya was shocked was an understatement. When she heard that he had gone to London with a killer, fear for Hugh and anger vied for vindication. 'Not a nice feeling, is it, Ksenia?'

'No, it's not.' Ksenia was direct and asked for Lisa's number. Anya would phone. No, it was her job this time, as Anya well knew. Hugh didn't know she knew Anya's number. Anya saw the force of that and then thought it might be good anyway if Ksenia learnt the hard way what it was like to be with Hugh - the uncertainty, the way he went with women. Let her have the worry and humiliation for once. Utter fool Hugh was.

She gave the number, Ksenia thanked her and called Lisa. To say Lisa was shocked and appalled by Hugh was an understatement but what she couldn't understand was that if her brother was seeing her, why Ksenia couldn't have got the number from him, rather than through Anya. How was Anya, by the way?

Ksenia simply hadn't known he'd made contact with Lisa, hadn't thought it one of the possibilities and Anya was fine.

IV

Hugh and Frederika walked on in silence for some time and all the while, out of the corner of his eye, he scrutinized her face for tell tale signs, also keeping an eye half-cocked on where they were going.

Then he caught the vaguest of flickers in her eye and glanced over to the other side of the road, where the buses stop. Yep, it was her guy, pacing them both but also keeping his distance behind them.

One up to me, Hugh thought and then immediately rejected his smugness - that smugness would get him killed.

They remained silent as they continued. Close to the boat came the difficult part. She was given her instructions – how to buy the tickets, what to do and what not to do, what would happen if she defaulted. She behaved impeccably and this worried him even more.

.o0o.

They waited by the quayside, eventually the boat pulled in and the city passengers alighted along the rickety walkway. Now, after their boarding had been completed, Hugh was starting to feel that she was either putting her faith in the other guy or else she was relying on her own professional ability to get out of this.

Hugh withdrew the derringer and they sat by the window, opposite one another.

It came home to him - where was an end to all this? To end it, he’d have to kill her - there was no choice in the matter. Was she playing the odds that he couldn’t do that in cold blood, let alone having no weapon of note? But she could do it in cold blood without the slightest remorse and now she began to look distinctly feline.

Maybe she was going along just to size him up for the kill. Maybe it pleased her, amused her and now he inwardly wavered. Maybe she actually enjoyed this stuff. Maybe it was how she got her thrills. Maybe she no longer had any brief on him.

Maybe a lot of things.

How could a woman get this way? Professionals generally have back up and if they don’t, then they must be pretty darned good. He hated to admit he was dead scared. ‘You feel so good, Frederika, honey. I’d rather be making love to you.’

At that, she glanced across and smiled a not unkind smile. ‘Do you really mean that?’

‘Yes.’

‘After the airport?’

‘Especially after the airport.’

He was feeling more and more foolish with every passing minute but his only chance now was to stick it out. A momentary glance around revealed that, five seats back on the other side of the boat, Side of Beef was nonchalantly looking out of the window – he’d be a mongrel to tangle with.

Nice couple – they deserved one other.

He looked back at her and she was staring straight at him, impassive, a smile playing around the corner of her lips, which was the most unnerving part. Hugh half hoped she’d just jump out of the boat window into the Thames and save them all the trouble of taking this thing to its logical conclusion.

She didn’t jump though - she just obeyed.

Taking his bag with him, Hugh went for a little walk towards the back of the boat, then across and up the other aisle and her eyes followed him in genuine astonishment as he stopped behind her friend’s shoulder, bobbed down and whispered something into his ear.

The guy’s body went stiff, then relaxed. He nodded his understanding.

Hugh continued on to the bar, situated at the front of the passenger area, bought sandwiches and coffee and returned to Frederika, whom he’d kept an eye on the whole time. The guy kept his word and didn’t exchange even a glance with her. Again strange. Why were people obeying him all of a sudden?

Frederika broke her silence. ‘All right Sweety,’ Hugh winced at that, ‘what did you say to him?’ Now it was Hugh’s turn to smile. ‘I’ll know before long,’ she muttered.

‘You’re right there, Sweety,’ returned Hugh. ‘You actually will know before long.’ If that remark had intrigued her, she didn’t show it.

V

‘Girlfriends? Ha.’ Marc was bemused. ‘I was born in Warminster, as you know, went back to Châtelet-en-Brie when I was four, I went to school in Melun but we left again for Grand Bretagne when I was eight and then travelled on and off for years. I didn’t have the chance for a girlfriend which you’d call regular until I was eighteen.’

‘And then you broke loose?

‘There are so many strange ideas about Frenchmen – that we are all fabulous lovers, elegantly dressed, hot tempered, passionate. It’s somewhere there in the national character but we’re just as diverse as you. I’m happiest in my work and that’s not what a girl usually wants to hear. I didn’t have my first lover until I was 29.’

Dilyara concealed her shock. ‘Well, you’ve made up for lost time.’

‘I’ll save you the question, Dilya. Not counting the drunken first time - apart from an aperitif, I don’t drink – I’ve had three lovers, three girlfriends. The last was Mary-Ange and I loved her with a passion. Maybe we look for similar qualities in our lovers but she was not unlike you to look at.’

‘And to hold?’

‘Different. She died and for eight years I’ve looked at no woman seriously, though I’m surrounded by them at work.’

‘Nicolette?’

‘Non, she’s my sister, my friend.’

‘Do you want to speak about Marie-Ange?’

‘Non. But I will.’ He got up from the chair and went to make coffee in the kitchen, bringing back two cups and the pot.

He spoke as he poured. ‘If you were a man, I’d pour out my heart about her but you understand …’ She nodded. ‘She was ordinary, vulnerable, wilful, impossible, wonderful. She loved company, which I don’t. She loved travel, which I can take or leave. She thought I was cruel to neglect her but when I went to work for Mademoiselle, this took much of my time.

Marie-Ange loved me, I am sure of that and I loved her but she wanted me beside her all the time. I don’t know if we’d still be together now if the … well … alors. I can’t say it.’

He sipped on his coffee and gathered himself. ‘Some time after I went to work for the section, some months, there’d been a bad night with Marie-Ange and she’d cried most of it. She was too consuming, too consuming. We parted badly the next morning and I was sharp with her. I turned on my heel and went to work. I was sorry and phoned her late in the morning but she didn’t answer; I knew she’d said she’d be at home that morning.

By lunchtime I could stand it no longer and Mademoiselle told me to go home to mend the situation. I did not have long to wait, once I turned the key in the door. She was on her knees, with her lower legs a little bit out; she was leaning against the divan and her head was resting against the armrest.

There was a hole and blood over her forehead. It was not suicide.’

Dilyara was at a loss. She couldn’t reach him from where she was lying and she couldn’t move all that well, so she lay back and stared at the ceiling. Eventually, she asked him to come to her.

VI

At the little stop on the left bank, just before Tower Bridge, Frederika’s henchman suddenly got up and left the boat, glancing across at the two of them as he went.

‘What did you say to him, Jensen? I want to know,’ she demanded between clenched teeth, as the boat took off again on the leg to Tower Bridge.

‘My business. Now give me your handbag.’

‘Do gentlemen do that?’ She gazed at him and passed the bag across. He rummaged around inside; just the usual women’s stuff. ‘Definitely not a gentleman.’

Then he spotted it, not in her handbag at all but under her loose T shirt, poked into her jeans. ‘Take it out of your jeans, put it into the handbag and don’t insult my intelligence.’

She complied and he noticed the slightest softness to her tummy. Perhaps she wasn’t all that hard after all. Perhaps she liked her pastries a little too much.

‘Now give me the bag.’

She complied again. Too easy, too easy, he thought. She’d given up her gun just like that. Next thing he’d flung the handbag out of the open window, just as the boat was coming into dock at Tower Bridge. ‘Oh wonderful, Hugh, thank you so much. All my cards, all my money and my mother’s photo were in there.’

‘There was no photo and no purse.’

She’d now tired of the game, sighing, ‘Hugh, you put a ridiculous replica into my waist, pretending it was loaded. I went along for the ride but now I have to tell you, darling, what you must already realize - you’re not long for this world. I really liked you – I really did.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you have nowhere to run, honey, nowhere to hide, not here, not in Russia and not in Australia. You can’t kill. I don’t mean that you’re not brave enough - I mean you have scruples.’

She leaned towards him and spoke in a low, earnest voice, ‘But I don’t have scruples. Think about my family situation in the village outside Denpasar. Think about our combined income. What do you think girls do to bring home the money to the family?’

He raised his eyebrows and she continued. ‘Not me, though. I took a different course and that’s called necessity. I’m good, I get the job done. If I stuff up, I make reparation later. I don’t like loose ends.’

‘Am I a loose end now?’

‘Need you ask?’

The boat had tied up. They were walking up the gangplank together, then, along the walkway, she threw an arm around him and from who knew where, he could feel the point of something suspiciously like a gun under his ribs. ‘Now this is how it’s actually done, Sweety. We’re going for a little walk up near those office buildings.’

She used her body to push, to guide him along away from people. He desperately resisted the pressure and his greater body mass actually began to tell. He pushed hard against her, which made her give up one of the turns she wanted them to take left but he knew there'd be more later.

Any moment he expected a searing pain in the side, the awful wrenching of his gut he imagined he’d have before he blacked out, having never died before.

Now they were up near Mincing Lane and the time of day was such that they'd be in their offices, the tourists had thinned out, a foreign couple who'd been strolling along behnd them had turned off and suddenly, passing a concrete buttress, she swung him in and the Beretta went to his head.

Hugh truly saw the end. Why, he didn’t know but a sudden wave of resentment at the unfairness of this swept over him. ‘Stop! I haven’t eaten since this morning - let’s at least get something to eat first before you kill me.’

She stared hard at him, her cruel, thin lips a contrast to his aggrieved face. She lowered the pistol, muttered, ‘What the hell. Let’s go to McDonalds.'

He looked at her and the only possible option was to go along with it. 'I'm buying,' he said.

VII

Marc was seated on the floor, back to Dilyara’s divan and her hand rested on his shoulder.

‘You’re going to leave me here, aren’t you, Marc?’

‘I can’t see how I can be here and be there at the same time. This work of mine – well, you see, I’m not really qualified for anything else. You are so important to me but we can’t live on love alone.’

‘And you think I don’t understand that?’

He swung round. ‘Not many do.’

‘I do. I don’t like it but I see how you feel. I think Geneviève took you in like a family and it’s more real than your own family.’

‘I’m the only child of the marriage and both my parents were only children. It’s a small family. My father died of a stroke and my mother still lives in Fontainebleu. She’s in good health and doesn’t need me to be there every day but I don’t like to be far for long. For some months maybe. Not permanently.’

‘You don’t seem a mummy’s boy.’

‘I think that’s a silly expression. Why shouldn’t a son love his mother?’

‘He should, he should,’ she said hastily. ‘But maybe not to the exclusion of anyone else.’

‘Look, Dilya, she’s not the type to want me close by. She prefers me to be out making a life. I know you needed to ask all this but what it comes to, in the end, is whether we stay together. For that, we need a plan. We need to be clear in our heads where we are going and we’re not clear because I’m not.

There’s fog and I can’t see clearly. I’m with you now, maybe even for months and years but it will be a strain on both of us. I seriously don’t want anyone else except you – my work consumes my other time.’

‘I see.’

VIII

It was surreal, sitting, eating McChicken Meals and ice cream desserts with a woman who’d now twice tried to snuff his life out but he was also on some kind of adrenalin high. ‘Is it over now?’

‘No, I’m afraid not, not for you. It’s over for me though and for Georges, whom you met. We both stuffed up.’

Hugh detested her coarse speech and wondered why he cared. It came home to him that he did care for her. ‘It won’t be on this trip, you can be sure,’ she broke him out of his revery.

‘I understand how he did but how did you? I mean - why?’

‘Why not? Emotionally involved with the target. Can’t be done. Rule number one. It happens.’

Hugh looked at her. ‘Really?’

‘Really. But I have a little piece of advice for you, Hughie, darling,’ she added in a quiet, sincere voice, ‘you were never in any position to escape. You sussed out Georges and dealt with him on the boat, good but you didn't see Malik and Riya behind you.'

'That couple?'

'Yep. They were already at the wharf - Georges obviously phoned them - and there was a third on a bike, a motorbike who'd most likely gone to the end of the lane we were in. You stood no chance whatever.'

'People would have seen.'

'Malik and Riya were waiting for you to retrace your steps, if you'd escaped me. That would have been a shot from a sideroad, a lane. If it had been the rider, he'd have dumped the bike, changed out of the bike gear and walked away. You seriously had no chance. They weren't there to kill you but they were there to protect me. I pay them to, wherever I go.'

He had no words and his expression was blank. She leaned forward to him, speaking softly. 'I'd already decided this at the top of the escalator at the airport. When I put the capsule in your mouth, I knew you could still spit it out. I didn't hold it in there until I knew it had dissolved. You see, something inside made me want to give you that small chance.'

'Were you paid?'

'I put in the demand but they told me you were still alive. In our language, that meant one more chance for me to make amends. Now, today, you've caused me enormous problems - my reputation took a dive today. My reliability will now be questioned. Those in the game will know what happened but those paying aren't interested. They might even take me out now, in case I've been turned.'

'Were you planning ... taking me out?'

'What choice did I have? I know where you're staying, Malik is good with the gun but as it's not me and as it was my job to finish things off, it would go down as an untidy kill, even if you were dead. I'd have been given one more assignment and if I'd come good again, then it might have been all right.

The best move for you, the only move really, was to move in close as you did and tell me you wanted to make love to me. That threw me off.’

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘Um, how about a film in Leicester Square, then we’ll work it out from there?’

She smiled and when she did that, it was impossible to think of her as a coldblooded killer.

.o0o.

Later, he took her back to Blackheath to occupy the room opposite him on the upper floor - Susan was glad of the extra income for five days.

They went to the Chinese and he recommended the Peking duck, which she was not averse to, even if the Chinese were not the flavour of the month back home. The cuisine was broad enough for her tastes and seated at a double table by the wall, as distinct from the multi-place tables dominating the room, they were in a perfect position to observe Zhenya and Lisa coming in on the upper level.

Frederika grinned a Cheshire grin and waited for the inevitable recognition from Zhenya who, in terms of their current contractual obligations, was diametrically opposed to her and might prove a handful very, very quickly.

Actually, it was Lisa who recognized Hugh first, she was about to say, ‘Giving the blondes a rest, Hugh?’ when Zhenya suddenly caught sight of her, swore under his breath, grabbed Lisa's arm and hurried her from the restaurant forthwith.

Frederika chuckled. ‘That shook him up. Did you see his eyes?’

‘What did that signify?’

‘He’ll be in a sniper position somewhere opposite when we emerge. You’ll have to block me, Hugh, unless you want the dead body of a girl to drag back to the B&B. He likes headshots, Sharov. If he gets the idea you’re protecting me, it will sow doubts in his mind that he’s missed some new development, some new directive, as he can’t possibly have guessed about today.

He’ll then follow us back and try to get you aside.

Put me inside the B&B and then wait for his girl and him. Do you know her? He’ll explain the mortal danger you’re in with me and you can tell him I tried to kill you today but decided not to at the last moment.

Then he’ll relax because he knows the game - that once we’ve refused, that’s an end to the matter this time. It will reassure him more than anything else you can say. He’ll probably tell you what you have on your hands. Understood?’

IX

Ksenia returned to Shadzhara and briefed Ludmilla Valerievna about the Stephen Morgan push into St Petersburg. So far it appeared to have nothing whatever to do with Deputatov but did have a lot to do with Yevgeny Usmanov and that was not something anyone wanted to get tangled up in.

‘You look tired,’ were Ludmilla’s concluding words. ‘More than usual. What’s on your mind?’

Ksenia was seated the other side of the discoloured wooden table on one of the rickety chairs the service still had to endure and now she drew herself up and fixed her superior with a not unkind look. ‘Zhenya, of course.’

‘I don’t suppose it’s his safety you’re concerned with?’

‘It is and it isn’t. Like you, I’m concerned how far he’s in with this company and whether he sees beyond tomorrow. I’m more concerned about you, Ludmilla Valerievna because if you can’t hold him in the section, he won’t be held at all and he’ll go over to them, as his first loyalty.’

‘Putting him at odds with you, Ksusha?’ she asked. Or not?’

Ksenia paused one moment and answered, ‘You need have no fear on that score, as long as I’m not the one sent after him. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?’

Petrova did not smile a reassuring smile but she did lean forward in her chair. ‘Ksusha, you’re the best insinuator we have. Zhenya is the most capable hound we have – he has this knack of finding out the truth very quickly and he’s a wizard in a tight place.

Look at me, Ksenia Vladimirovna. My superiors depend on me running a tight section. That’s all there is to it. I have no deadly plans, neither of you is in a T23 file but I have to tell you that Zhenya is in a P18. You must see that.’

Ksenia’s throat went dry.

‘Go home, KsenVladmirvna. Get some rest.’

‘LudValievna, I have to ask. Hugh Jensen is over there with Djamato, the Indonesian.'

'We know. Zhenya's onto it.'

She visibly relaxed.

X

It panned out exactly as Frederika had predicted and when Zhenya saw Hugh ostentatiously, symbolically protecting her face with one of the restaurant menus, he followed them back, saw Hugh blanket Frederika with his body and let her slip into the B&B and he was mightily puzzled.

Zhenya walked up, opened both palms in a ‘WTF’ gesture, shaking his head, then began to explain to Hugh about how dangerous the woman was. Lisa was far more unforgiving. ‘We came to protect you, Hugh but if you’re going to hob-nob with your executioner, then I throw up my hands and give up.’

He took those hands, ‘I have to stay friendly with her, Lisa, so she doesn’t complete the contract. She has to stay close to me to justify to herself why she didn’t. This is protection in itself.’

She looked doubtfully at Zhenya but he was nodding. ‘Da, that's true. Let’s go up and see her – I’ll go first.’

Lisa was the most reticent but as the victim himself didn’t seem too fazed by the idea, she shrugged and followed them both. Susan came out, greeted them and advised about visiting hours – it was a family house, after all - and they all agreed. Plus, they all seemed respectable enough.

At the head of the stairs, Zhenya told them both to lie on the stairs, beneath the lowest angle of a shot and he asked Hugh, with a gesture, which room she was in - the one to the left. Suddenly, Zhenya burst into the room on the right, pistol pointed, with both hands, straight at the head of the rigid, upright form of Frederika, also pointing her Beretta, with both hands, back at him.

After a few moments, both grinned, lowered their weapons and Zhenya called in the others. ‘Well, Frederika, who’d ever have thought it?’

‘Zhenya,’ she acknowledged, still not completely at ease. ‘Does this mean that all bets are off?’

‘I suppose it does for now,’ he replied.

‘Good,’ and she put away her weapon, an article of trust in him and he did the same. ‘I’ll be here five days, until Hugh goes back. You know he’ll be safe, don’t you?’

Zhenya nodded, even shaking her hand, indicated their departure to Lisa who didn’t know if she was coming or going and they left with a final, ‘We’ll look in again tomorrow.’

.o0o.

At the B&B, finally left to themselves, Hugh and Frederika had coffee and biscuits and poured a little of the Baileys she now took from her pack.

She spoke of Bali, where her family lived, handy for trips overseas, of the village mentality, of how she’d had to get out of there and of how a passing Brit had rescued her. Strangely, it was no tale of vice and prostitution and naughty foreigners. She’d been a good girl and quite modest. Hugh could believe that.

Frederika was sexy in herself, undeniably so, she didn’t dress immodestly, she dressed for comfort and with a modicum of style. Her colours were quite light, including her jeans, and it threw her swarthy features into sharp relief. She favoured whites and blues, her dark locks tumbled over the light coloured fabric and her slender hands were hard, with a suggestion of length in the nails and a pinkish hue of polish.

Frederika was OK - that is, if she didn't happen to be a cold-blooded killer.

‘I’d like something better for you than this life,’ he started.

‘Are you going to offer that kind of money to me?’ He lapsed back into his chair in silence. ‘Don't try to dissuade me that way. There's only one way you could succeed.’

She came up to where he was sitting on her bed and stood between his knees, looking straight ahead of her, over his shoulder.

When he failed to respond, she raised her eyes to the ceiling, sighed and undid her big belt buckle. As he got to work, he noticed the tattoo on her upper left thigh and near her left shoulder.

She was a hard lover and her short, hard thrusts, in the opposite direction to his, bruised both their bodies.

During a pause, she asked, ‘Why didn’t you try it on - on the plane I mean?’

‘Well – I – er – I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d –’

‘If we’d done that, I could never have killed you.’

‘Would you have let me?’

‘Oh yes, I’d have let you. I’ve always wanted to join the Mile High Club. Exciting in the exit row.’

He smiled and made a mental note for future reference.

XI

Zhenya woke up on the divan and reflected on the previous night.

Interesting indeed, he smiled to himself, as he jumped up and went to the bathroom, passing Lisa, heading for the kitchen.

Having stashed his things in his bag, he joined her in the kitchenette and straddled a stool, reminiscent of Blackheath days. She was feeling a bit confused but laid out a good breakfast.

‘So, Zhenya,’ she finally looked him in the eye and made light of it, ‘Are you going to make an honest woman of me?’

He didn’t understand the expression but understood the import and guffawed. ‘I told you I can’t settle.’

‘Maybe it’s time you did.’

‘You don’t understand. My job takes me here, there, everywhere, at a moment’s notice. No woman’s going to stand for that.’

‘How do you know? Some might quite like the lifestyle.’

He glanced at her. ‘You don’t know me. I can be dangerous.’

‘I know – I can see it and that’s exactly why you need a woman to keep you straight. You don’t frighten me.’

He gazed at her with new eyes and gave it more than a moment’s thought. She cut across his thoughts. ‘Hugh and that woman – what do you think?’

‘I don’t like it.’ His voice became grimmer. ‘He should stick to one woman.’

‘Meaning Ksenia?’

He thought for a moment and then repeated. ‘He should stick to one woman.’

XII

Hugh and Frederika had been to the city for the day and decided to take the last boat back. Boats didn’t go from Westminster after a certain hour, so they’d have to walk to the Tower.

The first chill of night air blew across the water; he took off his black silk jacket and put it over her shoulders. ‘Are you a night person?’ he asked.

‘I’m a ‘candlelit dinner’ type of person,’ she lied.

‘Let’s do that in Greenwich. Best to get out of here now, agreed?’

‘Greenwich it is.’

They went Mexican but the music made conversation well nigh impossible and she tugged on his sleeve, both thinking the same thing. They couldn’t go back through Greenwich Park, because it was closed for the night, but it was a nice enough walk beside the long, red brick wall.

.o0o.

Once back near the village, they hit the Princess of Wales for nachos and a curry, then, on the way up through the village, he pulled her into the French brasserie on the left assuring her the dessert was well worth it - and it was too. The crepes, coffee and cognac hit the spot, they did a little shopping, then it was back to the B&B.

That night he began with her forehead but halfway through, she stopped him and said, ‘Just hold me.’

She’d prepared her words. ‘I don’t want you getting upset with what I’m going to say. All right?’

He glanced down at her head on his chest and grunted, ‘Right.’

‘This is not you.’

‘Eh?’

‘This is not you, taking lovers as you jetset round the world. This ain’t you. The way you made love to me was with love, do you understand what I mean? You weren’t in it for the sex, were you? You have to have feelings for a girl before you can do it. Am I right?’

He smiled.

‘You need one woman. Don’t get me wrong. The sex was sweet and I want more in a minute but you need something different.’ He went to answer and she continued, ‘I mean a regular woman, not someone like me. I’m too far gone, I take my sex where I can. I don’t want this for you, Hugh. Is there no one in Russia or over here? What happened to the girl in the photos? Was it Anya?’

‘She went away.’

‘No one else?’

‘Well, there is, actually. Zhenya’s sister and I have an understanding.’

‘What! Ksenia Sharova?’

‘Yes.’

She stared at him with disbelief but then realized he'd not be making something like this up. 'Have you ... ah ... made love?'

‘Yes.’

She whistled. 'Then Zhenya is not going to like you and me one little bit. Hugh, you might be in danger from him.'

'No. She loves me and I love her.'

'Loves you? Ksenia? She's a killer, Hugh.'

'So are you and you have feelings.'

She whistled again. 'You're seriously not in the real world. She really loves you?'

'We made love on the concourse at the airport - not sex, just love.'

Frederika was goggle eyed. 'Then how can you make l ... ah, I see and I don't think I like what I see. You betrayed her because you thought I wouldn't kill you if you made love to me. That's ... low.'

'I don't think I needed to make love to you to be safe with you. I accepted what you said at McDonalds - that I was already safe -'

'Well why then?'

'For you, I might have just been another kill. For me, it was a deeply personal thing and I'm not being funny. It was an emotional thing with you, all mixed up with me wanting you. I can't explain it and if I did, it wouldn't sound very good.'

'You're confused, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'So am I. For now. For this time together. Look Hugh, I can't help my contract on you - well I can but you know what I mean - I can't help what happened today and I can't help these feelings now. We've already had sex so you've already done wrong. Let's go to the end of the week and then leave it at that, all right? As I said, you're not cut out for this. Go home to Ksenia and treat her properly. Will you promise me you will?'

'Yes.'

XIII

‘Crab salad please, Zhenya.’

Zhenya looked about the Travellers Arms and imagined his sister’s meeting with Hugh in this pub. He ordered a steak for himself, got the drinks and came back to the table. ‘Is this the same table?’

She didn’t immediately answer but sat, elbows on the table, chin cupped in hands and awaited the next move, which had the effect of unsettling him until she asked, ‘Would you kill me?’

He recovered himself and breathed to her, ‘Lisa, you really must lay off that topic.’

‘But it’s interesting to a girl.’

‘Enough all right? We have our job, you have yours. You’re not on any list, if that’s what you mean. Now, tell me what I need to know about this Riccardo.’

She sized him up, thought a few moments more and then plunged into her narrative.

XIV

Zhenya flew back the day before Hugh and was soon sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee. He knew his sister was fishing, he was incensed with Jensen and was going to drop him in it.

It only took her first lightly probing question. 'How did it finish up with Hugh and Frederika?'

'He was fucking her all week.' He saw her shoulders slump, ignored it and asked, ‘Any more coffee, Ksush?’

‘You have two hands. I’ll be back in a minute.’

He nodded to himself, his worst fears confirmed.

XV

The day of Hugh’s flight came round and it was a day neither seemed particularly inclined to see come around. They went to the airport together and she stood with him at the barrier for some considerable time, hand in hand.

The last kiss was sad and then he was gone. She stayed staring after him for some time and many thoughts passed through her mind.

.o0o.

In Moscow, he took the train from Shadzharniy Vaksal and then, the following morning, Shadzhara came into view yet again.

No one came for him, he returned to his house, went in to the lift, got out on his landing, found his keys, opened the door, licked off his shoes and deposited his things in the hallway. Quickly going round the flat, just in case there was any sign of ... anyone ... anyone female ... he saw there was not, just a coating of dust over the furniture and the refrigerator with the door open, just as he'd left it.

All his elaborate little hairs over cupboard doors, things stacked in certain ways he remembered, all of it - indicated that he was a man alone and one who probably had been, in terms of relationships, for some time now.

He sat down on the end of his bed, turned up the quilt and looked at the green underlay. Aliya was long part of the past now. He reasoned that Ksusha had probably been told by Zhenya and that's why she had not come to the airport, perhaps she was still overseas.

Anya was his first call and here came a shock - her mobile was no longer in operation. He knew she sometimes hadn't paid and had been cut off but this was not that - the message said the line had been disconnected. He'd have to wait for her to call. He could phone her mother but that would be counterproductive.

What the hell. He did call, they conversed about his return and he wished for her mother to pass on his greetings. She would.

Now, whether to phone Ksusha.

He had to.

It rang for a long time and then auto-ended the call.

He tried again.

And again.

The fourth time he rang, after a minute, the receiver was picked up and he was about to speak when it was put down again - he heard the click and then the dial tone.

He pulled back the quilt, climbed onto the underlay, pulled the quilt back over him and went to sleep.

Chapter 8 here ... Chapter 10 here

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