‘It’s not really important, is it?’ said Danilov. It didn’t contravene his instructions against making any unauthorised statement.
‘You haven’t seen what our media can do with two cents’ worth of fuck all!’ said Rafferty.
They parted outside the Russian compound, Danilov agreeing to see Cowley at Pennsylvania Avenue the following day. On their return downtown, Johannsen said: ‘Seemed quite a nice guy, for a Lieutenant General.’
‘And a Russian,’ completed Rafferty.
Back in the embassy compound, Danilov was unsure if it really had been someone from the cafe who had set up the media ambush. Rafferty had been very quick to hurry forward when the flash-bulbs exploded: almost as if he had expected it to happen.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Yevgennie Kosov agreed it was a pity Larissa couldn’t alter her shifts but they were short-staffed at the Druzhba: it meant, of course, they’d have to eat out. Olga said she hoped Larissa wouldn’t mind and Kosov wondered why she should. Olga said no reason at all. It was flirtatious and fun but not awkward: two old friends playing social games.
He refused to say where they were going but warned it would be dressy, which worried her because it was inevitable he would compare her to Larissa, who always looked like a model who’d stepped from the pages of a Western magazine. Olga laid out what she considered her better outfits and mixed and matched for the best effect. Everything looked faded and old and out of date: during one free-fall dip of despair she almost rang Kosov back to cancel. In the end she chose her black dress with the matching bolero, which was also her newest, and was extremely careful to iron it without making the material shine. She booked for her hair to be tinted but when she got to the hairdresser they’d run out of the deep auburn they’d used before and there was no way of telling when they might get any more. She accepted dark titian, which took unevenly, and didn’t believe the girl’s assurance that it looked like variable highlights.
Kosov was precisely on time. He was totally sober, immaculate in a blue suit that had a sheen, like silk, and presented her with another box of Belgian chocolates. Overlooking the fact that such luxuries had not been available in Moscow until very recently – and could still only be found if a person had contacts or knew the right free enterprise shops – it reminded Olga that Dimitri had never bought her special gifts like this, not even when they had been walking out. She hoped he’d remember to bring back from America all the things she’d asked for.
Kosov chastely kissed her, surveyed her at arm’s length, and declared she looked wonderfuclass="underline" Olga allowed herself to believe it. There was still some vodka from the Kosovs’ previous visit but he refused it, saying they had a lot to do.
The car dumbfounded Olga. In the darkness she didn’t recognise its shape as one she’d ever seen on the streets of Moscow before. The door clicked shut behind her, as if it were closing itself, and she couldn’t hear the sound of the engine. The dashboard was a technicolour of different lights and dials, and there was a smell of polished newness.
‘This isn’t an official police car!’
Kosov laughed. ‘It’s German. A BMW. A new model.’ He touched a dial and music filled the vehicle, from several speakers.
It was a Western tape, a romantic song: Olga didn’t recognise the female singer. ‘You own it?’
‘Brought it in last week. Like it?’
‘It’s fantastic!’ The soft warmth of the heater enclosed her.
‘At least you’ve got the Volga now. When Dimitri’s home, that is.’
Olga understood. ‘Larissa can drive this car?’
‘Of course.’
Kosov drove towards the centre of Moscow until the ring road, which he joined but then quickly left to sweep up towards the renamed Tverskaya Street.
‘A hotel?’ she guessed.
‘Which one?’
Because of where they were she said: ‘Intourist.’
‘That whorehouse!’ said Kosov disdainfully, unaware of Olga’s visible wince at her mistake. ‘We’re going to a proper place.’
She thought she knew when Kosov went around the square to drive past the Bolshoi, but didn’t suggest it to avoid being wrong again.
‘The Metropole!’ he announced. He hurried around to open the door for her and took her arm to guide her inside, halting curiously when she hesitated. ‘What?’
‘You haven’t taken the wipers off.’
For the second time that evening, Kosov laughed in genuine amusement. ‘That’s my car. And it’s known. Already. Professional thieves know better, and Militia patrols protect it from amateurs. Nobody touches my car!’
Olga had never been inside the Metropole, not even before its refurbishment, nor been enclosed in so much unrestrained luxury. There were chandeliers everywhere, each with a million diamond-bright droplets scattering light in all directions: white and grey and black marble patterned the floors and walls: huge velvet drapes, curtains more enormous than she had imagined curtains could possibly be, covered windows and partitions; the carpets and floor coverings were grander and more extensive than the drapes, stretching away from her in every direction, like inviting fields to be walked through.
Kosov broke into Olga’s daydreaming vision. ‘Which bar do you prefer?’
Olga blinked. ‘You choose.’
He took her arm solicitously again, guiding her towards the one off the central vestibule. It was a vault of a room, with more glittering chandeliers and with the upholstery of the chairs and banquettes toned to the carpeting. Kosov was recognised at once – Olga only just detected the identifying green of the dollar note exchanged during the effusive greeting handshake – and they were offered the choice of several banquettes. Kosov chose the most secluded, furthest from the main entrance.
The champagne, in its frosted ice bucket, arrived unordered. The glasses were crystal. ‘French,’ pointed out Kosov unnecessarily, as the bottle was poured. He touched her glass with his and wished her good health, and she said the same back. She felt light-headed before she drank anything.
‘What’s Dimitri Ivanovich think of it here?’
Olga hoped she was not blushing too much. ‘I haven’t been here before. He hasn’t either.’
‘What?’ Kosov sounded disbelieving.
‘He’s been very busy,’ she tried desperately. Using the only defence she had, Olga added: ‘And now he’s in America, of course.’
‘Larissa and I come here quite a lot. We should do it together when Dimitri Ivanovich gets back.’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Have you heard from him?’
‘I haven’t expected to, not this soon.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘He doesn’t talk about work.’
‘He must say something!’ Kosov topped up the glasses.
‘Not a lot.’
‘This assignment must be very important for his career.’
‘I suppose it must be.’
‘I would have expected him to say something.’
‘He hasn’t.’ Olga thought all the women around her looked like models, as Larissa always did, and was glad the subdued lighting concealed the Russian cut of her dress and the colour differences in her hair. Most of the women glittered, she guessed from diamonds in their jewellery. Everyone seemed confident, sure of their surroundings and themselves. Once the jacket of a man at an adjoining table gaped, exposing what she thought was the butt of a handgun: it excited her, whether it had been a real gun or not.
‘I really was very surprised he didn’t get the Directorship.’
‘He thought he would,’ disclosed Olga.
Kosov made a show of pouring more wine, and looked expansively and obviously around the plush room. ‘Ever regret Dimitri coming out of uniform? He seems to have changed a lot since becoming an investigator.’
‘Things were different,’ conceded Olga nostalgically. The Kosovs were their oldest friends, so she supposed it was obvious to them Dimitri didn’t accept favours any more: all they had to do was spend thirty minutes in Kirovskaya, or compare the clothes they wore.