“All yours,” he said.
Ross regarded him. “Very nice, Mr. Burns.”
Milton shook his head and smiled. “I’m going to get some ice.”
“Don’t mind me,” Ross said. She went to the bathroom, allowing the towel to drop before she closed the door. Milton caught a glimpse of her in the mirror, turned his head away and went to the table. He collected the plastic ice bucket, left the room and walked along the corridor to the ice machine. He placed the bucket beneath the chute and pressed the button for ice; the machine chugged and grumbled and, eventually and rather resentfully, ejected a few dirty-looking cubes.
Milton took a moment for himself. He couldn’t drink tonight. He wanted to, very badly, but he knew that it would be unwise. He needed to be careful with Ross and, more than that, he needed to be on his game tomorrow. He was wired tight, all the usual nerves and anxieties amplified now that they were close to the moment of action that might bring the affair to a close. He was as confident as he could be that his planning was good. He had done his best with limited information and an abbreviated timeframe, but their reconnaissance today had been satisfactory and he had discovered no threats that would give him cause to abort.
He knew why he was more nervous than would normally have been the case: it was Ross. He had grown to like her despite—or perhaps because of—her spikiness and unpredictability. He didn’t know how much he trusted himself, and tomorrow was going to offer another, bigger challenge.
The receptionist recommended L’Gold Star, a restaurant that specialised in Russian food with Chinese influences. It was on Ulitsa Alleya Truda, a mile and a half from the hotel, and, on Ross’s insistence, they took the hire car that Milton had rented when they had returned to the hotel from their day’s reconnaissance. The place was small, with fifty covers and basic decoration; it wasn’t much more than a café.
“You take me to the nicest places,” Ross said after the waiter had rather peremptorily shown them to their table.
Milton looked around and saw that there was only one other occupied table. The couple sitting at it had been there before them and, judging from the fact that they were enjoying dessert, it seemed that they had been there for a while. They couldn’t have been FSB surveillants. Milton was satisfied that they were not being watched.
The menus were in Russian, and Ross offered to order for them both. The waiter came back and, without looking up, scribbled down the items that Ross selected, collected the menus and disappeared.
“What did you pick?” Milton asked her.
“You don’t trust me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
She grinned. “Cantonese pork ribs and crispy sea bass. We can share. You want a drink?”
“I do,” he said, “but I’m going to pass. So should you. We need to be clear-headed in the morning.”
“Spoilsport,” she complained.
The waiter came back with a tray and two bowls. He grunted something as he deposited the bowls before them; Milton looked down and saw borscht. There were spoons on the table. Milton’s was dirty, but he decided it would not be politic to complain and wiped it on the back of his sleeve. He spooned up a mouthful of the soup.
“Good?” she asked him.
“Very good,” he said, spooning up another mouthful. They hadn’t eaten properly today and he was hungry.
Ross gazed at him across the table as she ate. “How much of what you’ve told me about you is the truth?”
“I can’t remember what I’ve told you.”
“I know the military liaison thing was a line.”
“No,” he admitted. “That’s not strictly true.”
“So what is true?”
“That almost everything is classified.”
“And the bits that aren’t?”
He paused, wondering how much he should tell her. “I was a soldier for a long time.”
“That’s obvious.”
“It was years ago.”
“You can still tell. Did you see any action?”
He smiled weakly; memories flickered like distant flashes of lightning. “Enough for me,” he said.
“Special forces?”
“Eventually. Royal Green Jackets first, then the SAS.”
“And then whatever it is you can’t tell me about.”
Milton nodded, keen to move the conversation away from himself. “What about you? How’d you end up working for SIS?
“None of it was very unusual,” she said. “I’m not that interesting.”
The self-deprecation struck a bum note. Milton guessed that she would enjoy the opportunity to talk about herself. “Go on,” he said. “Tell me.”
She ran through her career highlights, including her recruitment and early years. Milton remembered what he had read in her file and found it more interesting to see which parts she omitted. He wasn’t surprised that she ignored the disgrace of her affair and her child.
“You’ve got secrets too, then?” he said when she was done.
“What do you mean?”
“You left some of it out.”
She eyeballed him. “Meaning?”
“You didn’t say anything about when you got into trouble.”
“You know about that?”
“I’ve seen your file.”
If she was irritated, she did not show it. “Yes,” she said. “I ended up making a series of catastrophically bad choices and sleeping with the secretary to the minister I was responsible for briefing. That was probably the biggest one.”
“But you’re still here,” he said.
“Because I’m fucking good at my job. And who else has got the sort of messed-up private life where no one cares if they jump on a plane to go to a dump like this at the drop of a hat?”
“And there I was,” Milton said, “thinking you were having a good time.”
“Are you kidding?” she said. “This is about the most fun I’ve had since this whole sorry mess got started.”
The waiter collected their empty bowls and replaced them with their main courses. Milton took the sea bass and Ross took the ribs.
“You make any mistakes?” she asked as she chewed on a forkful of pork.
“Too many to count,” Milton said.
“Any like mine?”
“With a woman, you mean?”
She nodded.
“I was married once. It didn’t last long. We were both too young and my career meant too much to me. I was a bad husband.”
“Same,” she said. “Career comes first.”
“Things would’ve been different now,” Milton said. “I’m different. My priorities are different to how they were back then. I’m older. Seen more.”
He stopped. He hadn’t meant to be so frank. He rarely mentioned his ex-wife; it was so long ago that he hardly thought about his failed marriage at all, and, whenever he did, it always triggered a moment of wistfulness.
“Go on,” she said.
He took a drink of water. “Life is all about choices. Every now and again, we have a decision to make that determines how things might look further down the line. The jobs we apply for. The people we meet. I was married before I got into the thing that I do now. I think if I had chosen her instead of my work, I would have been a very different person today. Life would definitely have been different.”