Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

“Come and sit down next to Jane,” said Sonia, “and let me get you some supper.”

Immediately Liz found herself engaged in animated conversation with the new arrival. He looked exotically Russian: high Slavic cheekbones, black eyes and long eyelashes that would have seemed feminine if he had not been such a powerful-looking man. He spoke good English, with a strong guttural accent, and had the gift, rarely found among English men in Liz’s experience, of making everything she said seem worth listening to. He talked without inhibition, but his bluntness was refreshing, and when he told Liz how pretty her dress was, the remark sounded genuine rather than smarmy or flirtatious.

“You are really very English,” he said at one point admiringly, and Liz found herself blushing like a child complimented out of the blue.

“Not like us?” teased Ludmilla. She gestured at the rest of the table.

“Definitely not like you,” Dimitri said. “You are Russian. Maybe, one century from now, your great-grandchildren will think they are English. But we know better. Russia never leaves the soul.” He beat his chest like Tarzan.

It turned out that Dimitri, far from being an actor, or a member of the Moscow State Circus, was a curator at the Hermitage, a world authority on Fabergé and Russian expressionism. “Mix and match,” he said puzzlingly of his two specialities, one of many English expressions he seized on without regard as to their precise meaning. He was in Cambridge as a visiting Fellow at King’s, and explained to Liz that he had gone to the British Museum that day to talk about a forthcoming Russian exhibition.

How had she come to be at Sonia’s? he asked. Liz explained that she was interested in Pashko. His face lit up. “The master,” he said simply, but to Liz’s relief, before he could pursue the subject, Sonia started talking about the influence of Fauvism on the cubists, or was it the other way round?

Eventually Misha Vadovsky yawned, his wife stirred, and the party broke up. When Sonia came out with Liz’s coat, Dimitri appeared as well, wearing a leather jacket. “May I walk with you?”

At his insistence they avoided the middle of town and walked along the west side of the Backs. It had turned cool again after a warm cloudless day, and Liz wrapped herself up in her raincoat and wondered when they would turn towards the town to reach her hotel. Suddenly Dimitri took her elbow and, striding forward, led her across a small bridge spanning the Cam. In the dark she could hear the mild gurgle of the river, and saw looming ahead of them an elaborate iron gate, leading to an avenue of trees.

The gate was locked when Dimitri tried it. Now what? thought Liz, feeling cold and a little annoyed by this elaborate detour. “The privileges of a visiting Fellow,” Dimitri announced, and produced a key.

A minute later they stood on the back lawn of the college, staring up at the looming shape of the chapel. Lights flickered on the massive stained-glass window and Liz, who had only seen the building in photographs, thought how beautiful it looked silhouetted against the night sky. When Dimitri moved closer, she thought, Please don’t spoil it.

He didn’t. “Lovely, yes?” is all he said, then led her through the college on to King’s Parade. It was almost deserted and they walked in ghostly silence, broken only by the sharp staccato of their heels on the pavement. At her hotel, Dimitri stopped outside. “You are very nice to meet,” he said.

“Likewise,” said Liz.

“You go back to London soon?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“No doubt you are very busy until then.”

“Well, I have work to do with Sonia.”

“I would like to meet you in London, for dinner perhaps.”

Touched by his seeming shyness, Liz agreed.

He smiled. His hair fell over his forehead, and he pushed it back abruptly. “Au revoir then.”

On their last day together, Sonia talked exclusively about Russian art, and in the afternoon she concentrated on Pashko. “All his life he was moving towards the abstract—first abroad, when he lived in Ireland and Paris, then in Russia when he went home after the revolution. Always in his pictures I find there is something deeply Russian, even when he had left. You must have observed last night,” she said wryly, “how Russia lives on in the people who have left her.”

Later, as Liz was leaving, she tried to thank Sonia for her help, but the older woman shook her head. “The pleasure was mine,” said Sonia. “You have a good eye and a clarity with words. I am not worried about that.” She hesitated. “I am not aware of exactly what you’re going to be doing, which is as it should be. But there is one thing I think it is important to say. People sometimes become a little starry-eyed about Russians. They are a romantic people, with great souls and passionate intensity. Many of them are utterly charming. Like young Dimitri.” She smiled mischievously, then grew serious again. “But deep down they are all hard . Please don’t forget that.”

As the Bentley nosed down New Bond Street in the early evening’s light rain, Liz, sitting in the front seat, watched Jerry Simmons out of the corner of her eye. The cream leather driving seat was pushed far back to accommodate his long legs and his large, muscular frame amply filled it. His face was expressionless as he wove the big car through the traffic with calm confidence but his eyes were alert and she noticed that the rear-view mirror was angled so he could see the passengers in the back seat. Michael Fane had told her that Simmons was fully on board and Liz hoped he was right. If he was cooperating he could be very useful, and in a fight you would certainly want him on your side.

Nestled comfortably next to Brunovsky, his girlfriend, Monica Hetherington, was checking her make-up in her seat’s vanity mirror. She was quite lovely to look at, with fair, flawless skin. She could have passed as Russian or Polish with her blonde good looks, and although her surname was English enough, there was a trace to her accent which suggested years spent abroad—South Africa or Australia, Liz guessed, rather than an Eastern European country. Introduced to Liz, she had been friendly and polite but she gave no hint of being interested in anyone much beyond herself.

Next to Monica, Brunovsky fidgeted, peering impatiently over the driver’s shoulder to check their progress. He had greeted Liz like an old friend when she’d arrived at the Belgravia house, seeming to forget that her role as a Pashko enthusiast was a fabrication—and his own idea. “Tomorrow the gap in the dining-room wall will be filled,” he had crowed, like a little boy on Christmas Eve. Now as they drew closer to the saleroom, his excitement was growing.

Across from him on a jump seat, his PA Tamara spoke briskly in Russian. Brunovsky glanced at his watch and shrugged. Unlike her boss, Tamara had been tight-lipped seeing Liz again, almost frosty. She flicked back a strand of corn-coloured hair now—dyed, Liz decided, her mocha brown eyebrows gave that away. She had on the barest hint of make-up, and her gaunt face looked pale, though not unattractive. She was wearing the same maroon jacket and skirt she’d had on all day, and her only jewellery was a thick gold ring on her middle finger.

“Stop here, Jerry,” Brunovsky said, leaning forward to speak to the driver. The car slid effortlessly to the curb, and the chauffeur got out quickly and opened the back door.

Inside, the saleroom was already crowded and buzzing with conversation. Most of the seats were occupied and people were standing in the aisles on either side of the long room. A television camera crew had set up near the rostrum, a complication that Liz had not expected—she had no wish to have her cover blown on TV—and she was relieved to see that the camera was focused on the rostrum set up on an elevated dais, rather than on the bidders.