“Right.”
She went on talking, told me she had studied Russian at university along with Polish and Swedish, and had done graduate work in Warsaw. Her grandmother was Polish and a scientist, and Fiona had a background in physics and chemistry because of it.
“My grandmother raised me,” she said. “She thought girls should learn.” Colquhoun’s looks suggested an ice queen but she was open, warm, surprising. “She left me the house in Highgate where I live,” she added. “A lot of Russians there, the new, the last wave, we’ve got them all, white, red, dead, rich, oligarchs, we’ve even got Karl Marx. Did you know he’s buried in the cemetery at Highgate?”
“Yes.”
“Unusual for an American to know, but you aren’t entirely American, are you, Artie?”
“Yeah.”
How much did Fiona know about me? Why was she making small talk? I wondered, and then she said, “Will you let me help?”
I didn’t answer, not then. Maybe she was connected to both Pettus and to Larry Sverdloff, and it didn’t make me happy, but I needed Colquhoun’s help. In the street light her face was pale, the expression on her lips wry.
“I’m also a cop, Artie, if that makes you feel better,” she said.
Pravda22 was almost empty, but the bartender, Rolly, saw me and beckoned us in. A few people sat at tables in the back. He knew Fiona’s name.
“I’ve been here before,” she said by way of explanation. I asked for Scotch, Fiona for a small brandy. We sat at the bar.
“You’re a cop?”
“Yes, as I said. I moved in and out of the police, I went to higher education and back, took a graduate degree, worked for a while designing gender-related studies for the police college. I was a homicide detective, British style, you know, like Morse?” She smiled. “Then I shifted to one of the joint forces.”
She had done the business, I realized, though she looked younger, she was probably my age, even a couple years older.
“You speak Russian?”
She nodded.
“You work with Roy Pettus?”
“I work with a good number of people,” she said. “We’ve had to gear up quite quickly.”
“On the Russians?”
“Yes, and not long ago we had good relations with them. Just after the attacks on New York, and then on London, we had marvelous relationships, your people, even the bloody Russians.”
“But not now?”
“I wouldn’t say we’re exactly friends. The Litvinenko thing has triggered a little Cold War, we accuse them of killing him, they retaliate by persecuting Brits in Russia, the ambassador, anyone they can. Did you know there are as many Russian agents here as during the real Cold War?”
“So you work with them?”
“Not if I can help it. I prefer you Americans,” she said.
Perched beside me at the bar, Fiona had great legs, a witty curious face, beautiful when she smiled. Another time, place, I would have been interested, but not now. Now there was only Val.
“I believe you worked quite a big case here in London once,” said Fiona. It wasn’t a question.
“How did you know?”
“It’s a small country. I worked once with a detective who knew you.”
“Who’s that?”
“Chap called Jack Cotton.”
“Christ.”
“That’s pretty much how Jack thinks of himself now. He’s one of our top cops. He’s Sir Jack now.”
“No shit, so he’s a top dog?”
“One of the biggest, and when Sir Jack barks, all the little puppies sit up and beg,” said Fiona. “Shall I send your regards? He’ll give us some help on this if I ask, if I say you asked.”
“Not now.” I wanted to operate on my own for now, I didn’t want red tape.
“He said you were very good and rather unreliable,” said Fiona Colquhoun. “That you did what you liked, and people put up with it because you get results. Good taste in music, Artie had, he said. He says you had mixed feelings about this place, always called it bloody London.”
“You asked him if you could trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Because he’s one of yours?”
“Of course. And Sir Jack said you liked carrying a gun even in London. Is that right, Artie?”
“If I have to.”
“Please don’t do that,” she said. “I can’t help you if you do.”
“Listen, I’m here because of Valentina Sverdloff’s murder,” I said. “I’m guessing you knew that. I’ll do what I have to do,” I said, and tossed back the Scotch.
In the gilded mirror over the bar, I saw a familiar figure moving in behind me, coming at me, the woman who had cried like crazy at the party, long sad face, pointed nose. I ordered another drink.
“I understand, Artie, I’m still a cop in my bones, and I know how good your people, how good they were to me, when I worked in New York,” said Fiona, tapping me lightly on the arm.
“When?”
“Nine-eleven. There were Brits who died in the Towers, and a few of us volunteered to go over, our tragedy, too. Your people, police, firemen, were extraordinary. When I got back, I asked to move over to an anti-terrorism squad,” she said softly. “I would like to have stayed.”
“But?”
“I have a daughter, Gracie, she’s twelve.”
I was moved and pissed off. She meant what she said but she knew, like a great detective, if only instinctively, how to seduce. Telling me about her part after 9/11, how she had taken part in the now holy events, got to me.
“I met Valentina Sverdloff once,” said Fiona.
“Where?”
“At her uncle’s house. My daughter is friends with one of Larry’s girls.”
“Larry Sverdloff?”
Yes.”
“You get around.”
“He’s the father of my daughter’s friend, or do you think I use my daughter to spy on Russian oligarchs?”
“You tell me.”
“You think because I know Agent Roy Pettus and Larry Sverdloff, I’m working both sides? Did Larry give you my name, too, is that it?” She looked at me. “I see.”
“Are you? What sides?”
She knocked back her drink and got off the bar stool. I put out my hand to keep her from going.
“You met Val when?”
“About a year ago at Larry Sverdloff’s house in London, one of his daughters was playing piano, Val was sitting near her, I had never seen anyone so alive, so incredibly vivid. I’m so sorry. I know you and her father are great friends.”
“Was she alone?”
“Greg was there. I think he had a Russian name as well, which I didn’t catch, and frankly until the other day when this case came up, I didn’t think about him again. I told him I spoke the language and I loved the literature and he just opened up. Bit of a bloody nationalist, I thought, just a fraction too zealous, but he was a good-looking young man, charming, and deeply in love with Valentina. Greg told me how he and Valentina were working for the fatherland, explained to me how Putin was turning things around. Very persuasive, but he waited until Valentina was out of his hearing. ”
“What else?”
“They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. She was besotted. They were an astonishing couple, wonderful to look at, whispering to one another as if they had all the secrets to being alive.”
I didn’t answer.
“When Valentina was murdered, Larry Sverdloff called me,” she said. “He thinks whoever killed her did it to warn his cousin, Tolya. Is that what you think?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been doing a little asking around privately,” she said.
“Can you find this Greg?”
“You really do think he’s a suspect?” Fiona said. “You’re going to need a lot more than thinking, Artie, you need a little bit of evidence,” and then we were interrupted by the long-faced woman I’d seen in the mirror.
“Elena Gagarin,” she said, and held out her hand to me, ignoring Fiona. “We met at the ball.” Sloshed, she had been crying, mascara streaked her face. “I was Valentina’s friend,” she added. “She showed me a photograph of you. She said, this is my Uncle Artie, my dad’s best friend. Also at her daddy’s house, there is a picture of you. So I see you, I try to say this at the party, I think, God, is this Valentina’s Artie?”