Scores of people started to dance, then more, all moving to the music. Russians, Brits.
Fiona gestured with her head, and I saw him, Greg, a tall guy in a tux and a mask with a girl in a milkmaid outfit, blonde hair to her waist. She wore a cat mask. Greg had Pushkin’s face on his own mask.
Anybody who grew up in Russia would know it, Pushkin, our national hero, the most admired man in Russia even though he died in 1837. We kids all knew Pushkin, the face, the poems, by heart. Maybe this guy, this Greg, figured himself for a hero.
I was sure he knew I was watching him. He knew who I was. Maybe Val had told him about me, her dad’s friend, her “Uncle Artie”. And then, for a split second I was distracted by the band which was going crazy on “Satisfaction”.
On the stage, Mick Jagger did his stuff, strutting, twirling, smirking. I’d figured it for a tribute band, a good one. It wasn’t. It was the Stones. It was the real thing.
“Jesus,” I said under my breath. I had lost sight of Greg.
“The big Russians hire bands privately,” said Fiona. “A perk of my job, Artie. My kid goes to a party, the parents fly in Britney Spears. I’ve seen McCartney, they pay anything, millions, sometimes two, three bands, once I saw the whole bloody Royal Ballet.” She followed my gaze, I was staring at the Pushkin mask. “You want to talk to him. You want me to insist?”
“What makes you so sure you can force him?”
“I’m pretty persuasive,” she said.
I didn’t wait for Fiona, I got myself close to Greg, close enough so he could hear me, close enough he could see me. In the seconds between numbers, as the band stopped playing, I called his name out.
He turned his face, the Pushkin mask, towards me. The hair was cut short, almost black, the mouth smiling-all I could see of his face was part of his mouth and the blue eyes through the eye holes in the mask.
For a second he was so close I could feel his breath, this pretend Pushkin, I could feel it, and I leaned into him, my mouth next to his ear. “You killed her, didn’t you?” I said. “You did it, isn’t that right? You killed Valentina and I’m coming for you,” I said. I was pretty drunk.
He didn’t say anything at all, just smiled slightly and then moved away and slipped into the crowd.
On the ground, over the lawns, pathways, skirting the Orangery, the gardens, the huge trees, the torches, I was running, looking for him, swerving between people watching the sky. My lungs hurt from running, my head was full of booze, but I ran, looking for him.
The Stones had finished. An orchestra was playing the l812, and now fireworks threw up huge gold flowers into the sky, red white and blue waterfalls, Russian flags, Union Jack, more flowers, and in the light of it, I thought I saw him again. He saw me. He raised the mask and showed his face. The handsome face stared at me, the intense blue eyes seemed to be smiling or laughing, and then I realized what the message was-it was a threat. He wasn’t scared of me. He was coming after me.
He replaced the mask, and again I lost him. He was too good at it; had he been trained? This was a guy who could have slipped in and out of New York and killed her.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Larry Sverdloff. It was ten, fifteen minutes after I’d seen Greg, and I was still looking, in the parking lot now, among the big cars, among the waiting drivers, and the drunken partygoers.
“I saw him.”
“I know,” said Larry Sverdloff, looking pissed off. “He told me.”
“Fucking told you what?”
“That you accused him of being involved in Val’s murder.”
“I said I wanted you to find him for me,” I said. “You didn’t make much effort.”
“I was going to get you together later, I thought you wanted to talk to him, not accuse him.”
“Yeah, well, it’s what I think. Unless you know different.”
“That’s crazy,” said Larry. “I loved her and I loved him, too, for chrissake.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He was a good kid, they were the real thing,” said Larry. “My crazy cousin Tolya didn’t approve of him. Val told me she loved him. I thought you wanted his help. Jesus, Artie, what the fuck are you doing?” said Larry. “I’m going to take you to my place, and tomorrow I’m putting you on a plane. Let’s go.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Val stopped seeing him?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“They broke up, so what? She wouldn’t talk about it. Let’s go, I want you out of here and out of London,” said Larry. “You tell people you think they killed somebody, they don’t like it.” He looked at the crowds, some climbing into cars, others going back for more to eat and drink. “I hate it. I hate this. I hate what it did to my cousin and to Val.”
“Who? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“All of them, Russians,” he said. “Bastards.”
Fiona was standing close by. Unruffled, smoking, listening, she had been close by me most of the evening and she still was and I wondered what her business was, and how come Larry Sverdloff had told her about me. Was she his official contact, one of the officials he said he worked with? Something else?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I didn’t go with Larry Sverdloff, I left the party, and walked out of the park, along the avenue next to it, turned right, looking for a place I’d spotted earlier, figuring that on Queensway, a bar would still be open. Found myself near an all-night cafe, no booze, kept moving.
From behind me there were steps on the sidewalk again, the scuffle of feet, the raucous hoot of young men, a low mean whistle. The crummy street where I found myself was lined with shuttered shops. The sidewalk was crumbling. A few teenagers drinking out of paper bags wandered into a late-night game arcade. A shitty chicken takeout was empty except for the counter man asleep on a table. Some Arab-looking boys glared at me from the doorway of a kebab place.
I kept walking. I heard a car coming slowly along the dark road. It slowed to keep pace with me, and then I heard her voice.
“Artie, please, get in the car,” called Fiona. “I’ll give you a lift.”
“I want to walk,” I said.
“Then at least buy me a drink,” she said, and parked her Mini and got out. “Sverdloff’s club will still be open,” she added.
I need a drink, I thought.
“I’ll walk with you,” said Fiona.
“If you want.”
“You’ll come to Sverdloff’s club?”
“Maybe.”
Overhead, clouds scudded away, revealing a piece of white moon that cast a strange light over the empty streets where we walked.
Fiona had a big stride like an athlete and she talked very softly, had a way of projecting her voice just far enough so I could hear clearly but keeping it low. Nice voice. English, husky.
For a while we walked silently, Fiona smoking, and then I realized we were in Moscow Road.
“Something about this road strikes a chord?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
Then the shabby streets of cheap hotels and small shops gave way to tree-lined roads, pretty houses, foreign cars parked in front, trees thick and green.
Finally, I said, “What are you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What are you? What’s your job? How come you know all the Russians? How come you knew my name? Spell it out for me.”
“You didn’t know?”
“How the fuck would I know? I figured you were something official,” I said. “But what?”
“Didn’t Agent Pettus tell you?”
“Roy Pettus?”
“Yes. I’ve been waiting for you to ring for several days, Pettus told me you were coming across.”
“Jesus.”
“What did you think?”
“Tell me what you are.”
Lighting one smoke from another, she told me she was a special liaison, coordinated projects between Scotland Yard and MI5.
“Your FBI,” she said.