The voice on the phone went on, ‘McKay… Bruno McKay – you know, the amusing chap you met at lunch the other day? We shared a table, you remember.’
And she did remember, of course. Bruno. She’d looked him up in the Staff Directory after lunch and found there was only one Bruno in Head Office. He worked with Geoffrey Fane, though his precise job wasn’t clear from the directory and nor did it give his surname, just the initial ‘M’. Now her heart lifted at the mere discovery of this mysterious Bruno’s full name. Laurenz had been scathing when she’d reported back to him about her conversation with the man: ‘It’s no use telling me you’ve made a great new contact if you haven’t even managed to find out his name or what he does. I don’t believe you’re trying. You’d better be careful,’ he’d added threateningly.
‘Yes. How could I forget?’ she replied, trying to match Bruno’s light-hearted tone. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well, Ms Kapoor, I was hoping to see you again.’
‘That would be nice,’ she said hesitantly, thinking of all the work she had to get through. On the other hand, she was desperate to find something to satisfy Laurenz. ‘When were you thinking of?’
‘Well, it’s almost seven o’clock in Paris, which calls for an aperitif, oui? Why don’t I meet you in half an hour just outside the building, on Vauxhall Bridge Road?’
Jasminder thought for a moment, comparing the contrasting prospects of a late night spent working in the office then a solitary takeaway curry at her flat, or finding out more about this intriguing-sounding colleague. In the end, there was no contest. ‘That sounds good,’ she said.
‘See you there then,’ said Bruno McKay, and rang off.
Fifteen minutes after the agreed time, Jasminder was still waiting on the corner of Vauxhall Bridge Road, wondering where this man McKay had got to. Lots of people were leaving work but there was no sign of him. How long was she supposed to wait?
She’d just decided to give it another five minutes when she heard the toot of a horn, and saw across the street a white Audi cabriolet drawn up by the pavement. It was a warm evening, the car’s top was down and she recognised the man at the wheel from their lunchtime conversation. He waved and smiled, and she waved back as she waited for a gap in the traffic to allow her to cross the street.
‘Hop in,’ said Bruno, leaning across to open the door for her.
They drove off, Bruno talking nineteen to the dozen – most of it proving entirely inaudible, drowned by the sound of the traffic. Crossing the river, he steered through a bewildering maze of side streets until they came to Hyde Park Corner, where he zoomed east on Piccadilly, turned at Fortnum’s, then wiggled his way up a side street and came to a halt before a small but smart-looking hotel. The doorman seemed to recognise the car; he came out quickly, opened Jasminder’s door, then caught the keys that Bruno tossed to him and got into the driving seat as Bruno shepherded Jasminder into the hotel.
Was he staying here? she wondered. More disturbing, had he brought her here hoping for what the French called a cinq à sept in his room? But no, he escorted her up the steps and turned straight into the hotel’s small, discreet bar.
‘Now,’ said Bruno, as the barman came over, ‘what’ll it be? A glass of champagne? Whisky? Gin?’
‘Sparkling water?’ asked Jasminder weakly.
‘You can have that as a chaser on the side,’ he said, and promptly ordered two glasses of champagne.
After a short time spent listening to Bruno’s flow of light conversation, Jasminder leaned back against the soft cushions of the armchair, sipping her champagne and starting to relax. Bruno was saying that he had only recently been posted back to London, having been Head of Station in Paris for the last four years.
‘That must have been a very busy Station,’ said Jasminder, trying to remember what sort of things Laurenz wanted her to find out.
‘Of course. Though nothing like as busy as it is back here. Geoffrey Fane is a hard taskmaster. How are you finding it working for C? I’m very flattered you said yes to coming out tonight. I had assumed you’d be rushed off your feet and your social schedule would be chock-a-block.’
‘Lots of work,’ said Jasminder. ‘Not much time for a social schedule.’
‘But I imagine there’s a partner in your life. Where is he tonight?’ said Bruno.
She stiffened slightly, wondering why he thought she was attached. She was all too aware that she had never declared Laurenz to MI6. ‘That’s where your sources have let you down,’ she said, hoping that Peggy Kinsolving was not one of them. ‘I’m unattached.’
‘Ah. No sources. I was just guessing, actually. Not many women as attractive as you are unattached.’
The flattery was so outrageous that Jasminder couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’
‘Only the attractive ones,’ said Bruno with a grin.
Though this light-hearted banter in this comfortable bar with this self-assured man was very pleasant, it was getting her nowhere. She must not allow herself to relax. Jasminder sat up straight in her chair and changed the subject. ‘So are you back in London for good now?’
Bruno shrugged. ‘Who knows? Things move pretty fast in the Service as I’m sure you’ve found out. And even now I’m back here, I still travel a lot.’
‘Exotic places?’ she enquired, hoping not to sound too inquisitive.
‘Sadly not. Mostly all the Stations in places Geoffrey Fane doesn’t want to go to himself.’
‘Didn’t you say you were in Russia last week?’
‘Yes, and Estonia and Latvia – I’m saving the joys of Lithuania for next year.’
‘I suppose the Moscow Station has a busy time at present?’ asked Jasminder. This seemed a safe enough question. He’d just think it was natural curiosity.
‘It’s chaotic,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘But that’s true of most Stations. Except Paris,’ he added with a grin. ‘I left it absolutely shipshape.’
By now Bruno was on his second glass of champagne. ‘I have to say, the main drawback to the Russian Revolution – other than the small matter of the forty or fifty million people Stalin had killed – was that it severed the traditional ties between Russia and France. Ever since then, the Russians have been almost defiantly nekulturny. I know there’s the Bolshoi and all that, but the veneer is very thin.’
‘Even now?’ He’d sheared off at a tangent. None of this was going to be of much value to Laurenz, but she wanted to keep Bruno talking about Russia. Something might come out, she told herself, especially if he kept drinking champagne.
Bruno smiled. ‘I’d be delighted to give you a sermon on conditions in present-day Russia, but there’s a caveat attached.’ When Jasminder raised an eyebrow, he said, ‘That you be my guest for dinner here. Hotels rarely stand out for their cuisine, but this place is a remarkable exception.’
They moved on to the dining room, which was small and elegant, with crisp linen tablecloths, silver cutlery and beautiful china. Candles on the tables were reflected in mirrors and small chandeliers sparkled. The food was excellent and Bruno was entertaining company, though he seemed incapable of sticking to any one topic of conversation for more than a bon mot. Each time Jasminder tried to steer him back towards the topic of Russia, and in particular the workings of the Moscow Station, he made a half-serious, half-facetious remark and promptly talked about something else. She tried the Baltic States but the same thing happened. She didn’t manage to find out where the Station there was – or even if there was one.