Jack Grimwood - Moskva

At various times Caro’s father had been minister for education, minister of defence and home secretary. These days, his own father being dead, he sat in the Lords and on a handful of committees.

Invariably committees that mattered.

He’d decided early on that Margaret Thatcher might not be ‘one of us’ but she was going places and only a fool would stand in her way. It was a good call and the last few years had been kind to him. He’d begun to talk about his legacy.

After the recent riots in Brixton, Orgreave and the Beanfield, Tom wondered if his legacy would be what he thought it was.

Beziki asked Tom to say he was delighted to make Lady Anna’s acquaintance.

Anna Masterton said how sorry she was to hear of Edvard’s death and she hoped his other son would be returned safely.

‘You told her about that?’

‘I thought the two of you should talk.’

The manager stood squirming on the periphery of this. He knew who and what Gabashville was, without knowing what made him suddenly furious.

‘What matters,’ said Tom, ‘is that we save the children.’

‘Bit late for you though, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Tom agreed, feeling pain wash over him like lava. ‘It’s too late for me. It’s not too late for you, though. It’s not too late for her.’

Beziki gripped him by the shoulders.

‘You’re a good man.’

‘There are many who would disagree.’

Letting go, the Georgian laughed. ‘You and me both.’

Turning to the manager, he reeled off a list of dishes and the order in which they should be brought and the length of time to be left between each. Then he nodded politely to Anna, pulled out a chair and seated himself. She winced and he shrugged as it creaked under his weight.

‘You’ve eaten here before?’ Anna asked.

‘Often,’ Beziki said. ‘Never with someone so beautiful.’

Leaning across, he took Anna’s hand and kissed it, then sat back and nodded as dish after dish was delivered from a kitchen that must have half guessed his order in advance.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we all know God doesn’t exist. And Georgia is part of one big happy union. All the same, it was hard work making the world and God was exhausted by the time he finished Russia. That’s why it’s so flat and boring. Being hungry, he told the angels to bring him food. The food was so good he forgot about improving Russia and sent for more. In his hurry to eat it, scraps fell from his plate on to Georgia. That’s why Georgians still respect God. Also why our food is the finest.’

‘I’ll be sure to include that in my report on religion.’

‘It’s a good story,’ Anna said.

‘A true one.’

Having finished his wine, Beziki suffered Tom to pour him another glass and downed that just as fast, then he put his wine firmly aside and a flask of chacha appeared without him asking. Anna had just put her knife and fork neatly together when a massive silver dish of shashlik chicken was carried in.

‘Dear God,’ she muttered.

Beziki scooped half of it into his own bowl.

Then he produced a snapshot from his pocket and put it in front of Anna. ‘These are my boys.’ He seemed pleased that she examined the photograph carefully, before passing it to Tom.

‘Tell her,’ Beziki said, ‘that what I’m about to say is for her alone. Not you. Not her husband. If I could say it without needing you to translate, I would. Tell her I know what it is to have a child vanish. Tell her I have good connections. The kind of connections that should be able to discover who would dare do such a thing. They have discovered nothing about my child or hers.’

The fat man waited for Tom to put it into English.

‘I have no idea what her husband has been asked for. It is not my business to know. Apparently, since you don’t know, it is not yours either. He will, however, have been asked for something…’

Beziki stopped.

‘Please translate that exactly.’

Tom did.

‘What they wanted was for me to betray my friends, old comrades from the darkest days of the war. These are not people I can give up. They are not people it is safe to give up. They also asked for money. I collected double the amount requested. I intended to offer it in place of my friends. The kidnappers never made contact. They didn’t need me to tell them my decision. They already knew.’

‘So now,’ Anna said, ‘you don’t know who to trust?’

‘So now I talk to you.’

Anna ate and drank very little after that and Beziki conceded defeat and signalled to the manager that pudding should be skipped. He sat while Anna sipped coffee the consistency of silt, and stood the moment she pushed back her chair. ‘My car is at your disposal. Or a taxi is waiting if you prefer. The driver knows where to go.’

Glancing between the two men, Anna’s eyes narrowed.

‘Major Fox is staying here?’

‘It would seem so,’ Tom said.

‘Perhaps a little highly strung,’ Beziki said, after the taxi pulled away, ‘but charming. Now, this husband of hers… He tells you Alex wrote a note but can’t produce it. He admits things were difficult between them. He asks you to find her. Then he tells you to stop. Teenage stepdaughters can be tricky for some men. I imagine that’s occurred to you?’

‘Where are your customers?’

‘I threw them out.’

‘You’re closing early?’

‘It’s late. Even cripples need sleep.’

Dennisov shook out a rag with a snap like gunshot and fragments of bread flicked over the counter he’d just cleaned. Sneering at the mess, he tossed the rag on to the zinc and reached for a vodka flask. It was empty.

‘Are you all right?’

The Russian glared at Tom. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m not. And Yelena is terrified. You should know I’ve been offered a lot of money to kill you. Real money.’

‘Sterling?’

‘Dollars.’

‘Are you planning to take it?’

Grunting, Dennisov gestured around his bar, which looked shabbier than ever under the brightness of its cheap strip lighting. ‘Why would I need American money? Now, if they’d offered me a bootleg of The Clash in Victoria Park…’ He reached for a Stoli bottle, not bothering to decant the vodka first.

‘Who offered you this money?’

‘People came.’

‘Ex-service? Maybe still serving?’ When Dennisov didn’t contradict him, Tom said, ‘Perhaps you should accept.’

‘They accused me of disloyalty.’ Dennisov tapped his leg with the Stoli bottle and it rang like a cracked bell. ‘I told them to get out and come the fuck back when they could do this.’

‘Who’d accuse a one-legged veteran of disloyalty?’

‘Russia’s changing.’

‘Says who?’

‘Those who want it to stay the same. If you don’t throw scraps at the dogs, they bite you. To survive requires compromises. Gabashville’s dangerous, remember that. These people, they don’t like Gabashville. They like what you’re doing even less. If I were you I’d start worrying about why they don’t want this girl found. Whether Gabashville is really helping.’

‘You think he’s behind her kidnap?’

‘Who says it’s kidnap?’

‘You did,’ Tom said. ‘Just now. Tell me about these men.’

Dennisov shook his head. ‘I knew Gabashville when I was a child. He is an old friend of my father’s. He would stay at our house in the Crimea. He is not a nice person.’

Did that make General Dennisov Beziki’s protector? From what Tom could gather of the relationship between the two Dennisovs, anyone the general liked his son was bound to hate. ‘These men,’ Tom said, ‘did you recognize them?’