Jack Grimwood - Moskva

‘Do the Soviets usually attend these things?’ Tom asked.

‘The Russkies? We always extend an invitation. Mostly they turn us down. Prior engagement. You know the kind of thing. This year…’

‘What’s different about it?’

‘They accepted. Well, a few of them did.’

‘No, I mean, what’s different about this year?’

‘Who knows with them?’

‘It’s my job to know.’

‘Is it now?’ The young man looked interested. ‘We were wondering what you did. “Visiting analyst” sounds a bit American. You know, cubicle offices and fountains in the foyer. Some of us thought you must be a treasury spy.’

‘You don’t approve of efficiency drives?’

‘Only if they improve efficiency.’

‘Believe me,’ Tom said, ‘I’m not a treasury spy.’

The young man excused himself, pleading necessity. Tom watched him head through a crowd of uniforms, dresses and dinner jackets towards the loos, wondering if he’d return, and if he did, how to politely ask his name for a third time, and maybe even remember it.

‘You all right?’ the man asked, when he got back.

‘This isn’t really my thing.’

‘Nor mine. But it comes with the territory.’ He caught the eye of a black woman in a long white dress, who swerved around a Russian colonel, nodded apologetically to the group she’d been about to join and strode towards them.

‘Impressive, isn’t she?’

Tom wondered whether he’d say that about any other woman there.

‘First at Oxford. Good school too.’ As she reached them, he said, ‘This is Mary Batten. She knows things.’

‘Tom,’ said Tom. ‘Tom Fox.’

‘I know,’ Mary said. ‘I approved your flight. How’s the flat?’

‘Bug-ridden, most probably.’

For a second she looked surprised, then laughed loudly enough to make a young Russian in a flashily cut velvet jacket glance across. He held Tom’s gaze and nodded politely.

‘Who’s that?’ Tom asked.

‘See the thickset man smoking cigars by the window? That’s Ilyich Vedenin. Newly made minister. He’s the highest-ranking Soviet in this room. Vladimir’s his son.’

‘And the man he’s talking to?’

‘A general,’ said a voice behind Tom. ‘Recently recalled from Afghanistan…’ They turned to find Sir Edward Masterton, the ambassador, looking every bit as languid as Tom remembered from their introductory meeting. ‘It might be best,’ Sir Edward said, ‘if the three of you mingled. We have slightly more shows than expected. We did ring round, didn’t we?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Mary Batten nodded.

‘So what happened?’

‘Everyone came.’

‘Typical. I’d love to know why Vedenin accepted.’

‘I’ll find out,’ Tom said.

Sir Edward raised his eyebrows. ‘And how will you do that?’

‘I’ll ask him, sir.’

Minister Vedenin shook the hand offered and glanced at the crowd over Tom’s shoulder. For a moment Tom thought he was looking for someone more interesting, then he realized the real reason.

‘Your son’s over there.’

They looked towards an alcove where the young Russian was deep in conversation with the girl who’d begged the cigarette earlier. As they watched, the girl stopped glowering and almost smiled. The minister sighed.

‘He’s a good-looking boy,’ Tom said.

‘And knows it, unfortunately. You have children?’

Tom hesitated. ‘A boy,’ he said finally. ‘With his mother for Christmas.’

‘Who is not here?’ Opening a silver case, Vedenin offered Tom a cigar. ‘These things happen… Life is invariably more complicated than one wants. Especially family life. Of course, in my position, the whole of the USSR is my family.’

‘That must make for a headache.’

‘You have good Russian. For a foreigner.’

‘I have terrible Russian.’

The minister shrugged. ‘I was being polite.’

The man smelled of cigars and brandy, and a faint whiff of what could be cologne or schnapps. If it was schnapps, it came from a hip flask. He looked like the kind of man who might carry a hip flask for when his hosts kept insisting on offering champagne long after everyone stopped tasting it.

‘You went to Sir Edward’s school?’

The Russian watched in amusement as Tom half choked on his champagne.

‘I doubt they’d have let me through the door…’

‘Ah, you’re…’ Vedenin smiled. ‘Salt of the earth? That’s a Rolling Stones track, isn’t it? From Beggars Banquet . My son has the album.’

‘Should you admit that?’

‘Times they are changing. That’s Dylan.’

‘He has that album too?’

‘I do. Vladimir bought it for me in America…’

The man looked over to where his son now stood talking to an Indian woman. ‘I was born in 1923,’ he said. ‘Two-thirds of Soviet boys born that year didn’t survive the war. My hope is Vladimir never has to go through the same.’

Together, Tom and the Russian examined the crowd.

Two hundred and fifty guests filled a ballroom that probably looked just as it had back in the days when the embassy was a rich sugar merchant’s mansion. All those uniforms, all that braid, all those dinner jackets. Caro would have been entirely at home.

‘Would it be rude,’ Tom said, ‘to ask why you’re here?’

‘I was invited.’

The two men stared at each other and Tom wondered whether Vedenin dyed his hair or if he wore a wig, or if his hair really was that dark and wiry. The man lacked his son’s good looks, and as a young man would have had an earthiness missing from the boy.

‘My wife was an ice skater. Famously beautiful. She died young.’

‘How did you know what I was thinking?’

The minister smiled. ‘You looked at me, you looked at him, you looked momentarily puzzled. It wasn’t hard to follow.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘I’ll remember you knew I was looking for the boy.’ Vedenin hesitated. ‘She’s young, that English girl you keep staring at. Pretty, admittedly. But young. You know whose stepdaughter she is, of course?’

‘I take it you do?’

‘What do you find so interesting?’

The dinner jacket, the shaved sides to her head, the irrationality of my anger at the graze on her wrist…

‘It’s hard to say.’

‘You mean you won’t. “A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.” You know who said that?’

‘Churchill. About Russia.’

The minister smiled. ‘What are you doing in Moscow?’

‘I’ve been exiled.’

‘Really?’ Vedenin looked intrigued.

‘Well. Someone thought it would be useful if I was out of the way.’

The Russian laughed. ‘Your queen offered Ivan the Terrible refuge once. Did you know that? He wanted to marry her. She refused but said if he ever got into trouble at home he could come to live in England. So you see, the ties between our countries are historic and strong. If a little fractious, in the way of all families. Especially those where the members haven’t been talking for a while. And that, to answer your question, is why I’m here. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’ The minister swept the ballroom with a sharp gaze, looking for more than his son this time.

A Soviet colonel in dress uniform nodded and slid across to a general, who glanced at Vedenin and nodded in turn. The man the minister didn’t look at, the one not in uniform, the one who’d been watching Vedenin’s son earlier, didn’t catch anybody’s eye. He still managed to disengage himself from an elderly Indian diplomat though. And he reached the door ahead of his principal. He was the one who’d checked for the exits, windows and light switches earlier. The one Tom Fox recognized as a younger version of himself. The one he’d have worried about, if worrying about these things was still in his job description.