Jack Grimwood - Moskva

‘Be kind how?’

‘Be the person they think you are. Just this once.’

She nodded to herself, then nodded to Tom and tapped on the glass screen as if Sveta were a real chauffeur rather than a Soviet officer with a grandfather in the Politburo. ‘Could I go home now?’

Sveta grinned.

The huge wrought-iron gates on Maurice Thorez Embankment were already open. The Soviet guard outside came to attention and the British guard stepped back to let the black Zil enter, but Sveta drew up outside.

‘Please,’ Alex said. ‘They’ll want to meet you.’

‘No,’ said Sveta. ‘It’s not appropriate and this is better. This gives you time to check through your lies. It also gives them time to see you coming.’ She inclined her head towards Sir Edward and Lady Anna, who stood awkwardly on the steps. ‘What advice did he give you?’

‘Be kind to them.’

Sveta shrugged. ‘I’ve heard more stupid suggestions.’

Opening her own door, she climbed out and opened Alex’s for her. Then she surprised Tom by hugging the girl and whispering something.

Alex stepped back.

‘All right?’ Sveta said.

‘You think so?’ Alex asked.

‘I know so… Now, go.’

Sveta watched her head for the gate, then nodded for Tom to get back in the car and reversed slowly until they were in a position to watch the reunion. Tom didn’t know what to expect. He wasn’t even sure what he hoped for, other than that neither side said something stupid. He needn’t have worried.

Alex looked at her mother and closed the gap between them at a run, wrapping her arms tightly around her. Anna Masterton’s arms came up from instinct and tightened in turn as Alex leaned into her and the sobs took hold.

They stood locked together, Sir Edward looking on so awkwardly that he seemed almost grateful when Tom swung open his door and went over to him.

‘I was asked to give you this, sir.’

Sir Edward took the very small, very ordinary envelope, which the commissar had handed Tom before saying his goodbyes, and extracted a sheet of yellowing paper, skimming it once, then reading it more slowly. His face was haunted and when he looked up Tom realized there were tears in his eyes.

‘You’ve read it?’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘It’s a love letter.’ He looked at Anna Masterton, then at Alex. ‘Written a very long time ago, a very long time ago indeed.’

‘In Berlin?’

‘Yes, in Berlin.’

‘You were in love with a German girl?’

The ambassador shook his head.

‘A Russian girl?’ Perhaps Tom sounded too surprised because Sir Edward glanced across at him and his mouth twisted. For a second, the sadness threatened to spill over and then he was in control again.

‘Not a girl,’ he said.

He said it so quietly he might have been saying it to himself.

Just inside the gate, Alex and Lady Masterton were locked in an embrace so tight it looked as if it could never be broken. Whatever they were saying to each other was private. They both seemed to be in tears.

‘How’s my daughter?’

‘She’ll be fine,’ said Tom, wondering if Sir Edward realized what he’d just said. ‘That is, I think she’ll be fine. I’m sorry, sir, I hope I’m allowed to say… you might want to go easy on her for a while.’

‘Did they…?’

Tom shook his head. ‘She’s been treated carefully.’

The ‘treated carefully’ bit was a lie and he imagined the man knew it. But it was up to Alex how much she wanted to tell them, how much she wanted to keep to herself.

‘I’m told…’ Sir Edward looked at Tom. ‘London say you offered yourself as a swap.’ When Tom didn’t deny it, he nodded to himself. ‘Who enticed her away?’

‘The boy in question is dead.’

‘Vedenin’s son?’

‘No, sir. A friend of his. It might be best not to…’

‘Mention his death to my daughter?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He was good at clipped, Sir Edward. At home with words stripped so bare all the meaning resided in the spaces. Tom was coming to realize there was more to the man than he first thought.

‘Do I want to know who was behind it?’

‘Probably not. Most of those implicated are dead.’

‘Ever meet someone called Kyukov?’

‘I killed him.’

Tom felt rather than saw Sir Edward glance at his daughter.

‘I owe you,’ the ambassador said.

Alex finally stepped back from her mother, and as Tom and Sir Edward watched, Lady Anna reached up to caress Alex’s face. Sir Edward sighed. ‘I’m going to have to let her go to that bloody school, aren’t I?’

He grimaced.

‘Well, aren’t I?’

Sveta smiled as Tom climbed back into the Zil.

He had said his goodbyes to Alex’s parents and received a firm shake from her father, a silently mouthed Thank you from her mother. Now it was done, he’d cross the city for his flight to London. There were things he needed to say to Caro.

The kind of things a man needs to say to a woman face to face. He wanted Caro to be able to see his eyes when he asked her for another go. His Aeroflot flight left from Sheremetyevo in an hour but he imagined they’d hold it for him if he hit traffic. Except that he wouldn’t hit traffic. This was Moscow, and the Zil had its own bit of road.

Right down the middle.

Moskva is fiction and it goes without saying that no one in this book existed, except for the ones who did.

Thanks go to Jonny Geller of Curtis Brown for fixing the deal. To my editor at Penguin, Rowland White, for his sharp editorial eye and remorseless insistence that if we just did… (and endless cups of coffee). To Emad Akhtar, also at Penguin, for making a few but highly pertinent suggestions. My copy-editor, Emma Horton, who tweaked and trimmed and added that s, and stamped ruthlessly on repetition.

I owe a research debt to Antony Beevor’s Stalingrad and Berlin , and Keith Lowe’s Savage Continent , and an even bigger debt to Vasily Grossman’s Life and Fate , which Le Monde called ‘the greatest Russian novel of the twentieth century’. (They probably forgot Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita .)

I’d like to tip my hat to Grigori Chukhrai’s 1959 Ballad of a Soldier , made during the Khrushchev thaw. It won the Special Jury prize at Cannes in 1960, the same year that La Dolce Vita took the Palme d’Or: a perfect counterpoint of East and West. A tip of the hat also to those who shared their memories of living or working in 1980s Moscow. Tom Fox is an amalgam of two or three people.

You know who you are.

Finally, love and thanks to Sam Baker, my partner, who was writing her own novel and wrestling with setting up a company while I was off, holed up in garrets and hammering away at a laptop. Here’s to still hanging round ley lines littered with sites of slaughter and canonization. I’m glad. Kisses for Mayakovsky is included for you.

Let the conversation begin…

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