‘But,’ said Richard forcefully, his eyes on Ivan and not on Max, ‘he also has an account to settle with Anastasia Asov, who is effectively alone and unprotected. And out there in the middle of nowhere.’
Du Lac
‘Anastasia says she’s fine,’ said Robin, gesturing towards the Skype screen on her laptop. ‘All quiet on the eastern front. And no — before you ask, I did not mention your mysterious Ivan Yagula.’
It was later that evening and they were getting ready for bed. The day had been spent in preparations for getting the Zubrs, the equipment, Kebila and his men up the river. But the job needed to be planned carefully and done right. It was all a frustratingly slow process. Over a light but exquisite dinner, they had talked the situation over.
Their conversation over dinner in the hotel’s new Bistro Bamidele had started with Ivan, who was not present at the moment because Max and Felix had dragged him out to a less sedate, more actively Russian dinner at a dockside bar and grill called OTI, which was more famous for its massive selection of vodkas than for its actual food. And, for Robin, a bottle of lemony Chablis. Richard explained in detail Captain Caleb’s briefing. He was aided in this endeavour first by using the tines of his fork to draw on the starched snowiness of the linen, then his pen on some paper napkins purloined from a passing waiter and finally in perfect detail with a pencil on several overlapping pieces of A4 paper all supplied by the long-suffering manager Andre Wanago. But it was over dessert, presented with a powerful NV ‘Alcyone’ Tannat, Vinedo de los Vientos, that they had discussed Richard’s worries about Anastasia. Worries that had only seemed to darken over coffee. Worries that seemed to persist, even after Robin got through to the orphanage on Skype.
‘We still have to move pretty quickly,’ insisted Richard, easing off his suit jacket and crossing to hang it in the wardrobe. ‘It’s like a multiple pile-up. She’ll be fine till the wheels come off. Then she won’t be fine at all. All within a second or so. You know how quickly it can happen.’
‘Don’t I ever!’ answered Robin, with feeling. She beckoned him back so that he could unzip her dress for her. As Richard pulled the long zip down, his mind was miles away from the warm, silk and lace-encased flesh that the parting teeth revealed. Robin had been kidnapped — with Anastasia — some years earlier in Benin La Bas, before Chaka took over and restored order. One moment she and Anastasia had been going to a party, the next they had been helpless prisoners, and it had taken all of Richard’s courage and cunning to get them safely back.
‘But give the woman credit,’ Robin continued a little ruefully as he moved back to allow her to step out of the crumpled material, clearly lost in thought. ‘She lives here. Has done for ages. She knows the score — probably better than you do. And she can look after herself. Better than most, I might add.’
‘Even so …’ countered Richard, pulling his tie off. ‘She can be unexpectedly fragile. Look what happened the minute she got back from the kidnapping. She went off the rails completely — hanging out with that rock group Simian Artillery, then going on drugs and what-not.’ He began to undo his shirt, frowning with paternal concern.
‘As I understand it, she developed quite a passion for the lead singer …’ Robin remarked as she hung up her dress.
‘Even though the band themselves had been involved in the drug-related death of her brother …’ He nodded, pulling the crisp cotton out of his waistband.
‘No explaining the vagaries of the female heart, my love …’ she observed wistfully, sliding her half-slip down with a wiggle of her hips.
‘Says you, Mills and Boon and Barbara Cartland!’ he said, loosening his belt.
‘Says me at least. And when the lead singer blew his brains out, she was the one who found him.’ She folded her slip over the back of the chair and paused, looking across at him, regretting the sheer tights. If she had been wearing suspenders, she thought, it would have been easier to get him in the mood. But then again, it was never too hard once he realized what was on her mind.
‘Or what was left of him,’ he was saying as he put one foot up on a chair to untie his shoelaces.
‘Splattered all over the bathroom walls, floor and ceiling. You can see why she went off the rails. And, I think, why Max just gave up on her and let her get on with it.’ She slid out of the treacherously unromantic tights and kicked them across the room.
‘That’s as may be. But we pulled her out of all that so we’re in loco parentis now. We’re responsible for her.’ He stepped out of one shoe and turned to the other.
‘You worked in China too long,’ she observed, reaching behind her to unhook her bra. ‘Isn’t that what the Chinese say? You save someone then you owe them, not the other way round?’
‘Perhaps. But in this case it’s true. If anything happened to us, you’d want someone like us to watch out for Mary, wouldn’t you?’ He stepped out of his trousers and folded them over the back of his chair.
‘And William, though they’re good kids. They’ve never given us a moment’s worry,’ she added, stepping out of her underwear and wondering whether it would be too unromantic to clean her teeth. Her breath smelt of orangey Grand Marnier and lemony wine, with a smoky coffee overlay.
‘Precisely my point,’ he said, hopping from foot to foot as he pulled off his socks. ‘We pulled Anastasia back. Now we’re the ones who need to look after her — if she needs looking after. And I just think she may, that’s all. She’s strong. But she’s not that strong. And anyway, there are limits.’
‘And the resurrected Army of Christ the Infant is well beyond anyone’s limits. OK, I get your drift.’ She decided to risk it and sat down on the bed, surprised to find herself a little unsteady.
‘So we need to get upriver as fast as we can, at least as far as the orphanage, which — if you remember — is named for the last two people who ran it. Both slaughtered and one eaten by the last incarnation of the Army of Christ while Anastasia was forced to look on!’ He stepped out of his underwear and looked across at the bed because his pyjamas were under the pillow. The pillow that Robin was lying on, in fact, looking like a naked blonde Maja waiting for Goya to paint her.
‘It’s that bloody Galahad complex again, isn’t it?’ purred Robin indulgently. ‘You really should have left that in the last millennium, my love.’
‘Galahad complex?’ asked Richard speculatively.
‘Galahad. Knight in shining armour. See a maiden. Assume she’s in distress. Get your lance up and off you charge …’ She settled her hips and wondered whether to go for the Rokeby Venus pose.
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that …’
‘I would. And if you’re getting your lance up, then I’m first in the queue.’
He laughed. ‘You always will be. Especially lying around looking like that.’
‘You’d better believe it. But there is a problem …’ She pouted.
‘Do tell,’ he demanded, crossing towards the bed.
‘Galahad had no maiden fair. No one to get his lance up over. I’d rather you were someone else.’
‘Lancelot, perhaps?’ he asked, one knee on the duvet beside her.
‘Oh, yes. Lance a lot! That’ll do me fine!’
‘I can see where this is heading.’ He straddled her easily. ‘Are you Elaine or Guinevere?’
‘Both! So you’ll have to be pretty active, sir knight,’ she said, reaching up for him.
‘Well, let’s see what we can do …’ He leaned down towards her.