"You look like that fat git we came up with."
"Spasibo, mate."
"Let's stretch our legs," Whinger suggested.
"Eyeball the Kremlin."
That seemed like a good plan. It was already 9:45 local time, but only 6:45 by our biological clocks, and since we'd eaten on the plane we didn't feel any need for food. Besides, I knew that the British Embassy was somewhere close by, just across the Moscow River from the Kremlin, and I reckoned we might as well suss it out, as I was going to have to report there regularly during our operation.
On our way down in the lift Rick suddenly started shitting himself with laughter.
"What's so bloody amusing?" Whinger said irritably.
"Some cunt left a menu from one of the restaurants in my room. The stuff on offer is incredible."
"Like what?"
'"Needles in meat sauce", for one. Then there was "frog's paws in paste"."
"That's frog's legs in batter," Whinger told him.
"I know but think of it…"
It was a fine evening for a strolclass="underline" the sky was clear and the air cool. Out on the pavement, we elbowed through the sc rum of taxi drivers and walked down the slope towards Red Square. The street was so wide and the traffic was moving so fast that the subway seemed the best way to cross. We went down some steps into a concrete tunnel, past young people bus king and old women begging, and up the other side. A minute later we were walking uphill on another short, broad thoroughfare and emerging on to the huge open expanse of Red Square.
"Never realised it was cobbled," said Whinger.
"Nor that it was so big."
It gave me a strange feeling to be looking at buildings I'd seen a thousand times in pictures. As a young soldier, during my early years in the army, I'd spent hours in classrooms doing recognition training, staring at black-and-white slides of Soviet tanks and missiles until we could pick out T54s, T64s and T72s in our sleep and name all the main types of ICBM. The place all these weapons were photographed most often was Red Square, during big parades on the anniversary of the 1917 revolution and suchlike so now the buildings in the background were like echoes from the past.
Rick's mind was moving on the same lines.
"Think of all the military hardware that's rolled along here," he said.
On our right the low, squat hulk of Lenin's mausoleum sat hunched against the wall of the Kremlin. Wherever a light was shining on the wall, we could see it was made of dark red brick.
"Funny there aren't any guards on the mausoleum," said Whinger.
"You'd expect there to be some official presence. Isn't it a national shrine?"
"Not any more," Rick told him.
"I read on the Internet that they're arguing about what to do with the old bugger. The diehards are all for keeping him, but a lot of people want him out."
"Burning'd be too good for that bastard," said Whinger bitterly, surprising me with the anger in his voice.
"If anyone sent the Russian government a bill demanding compensation for all the misery he and his bloody ideas have caused, this country'd be bankrupt for the next thousand years.
"That's why they're not paying the Regiment anything for our job here," I said.
"All the funds are coming from the States or the
UK."
Ahead of us in the distance rose the multi-coloured onion domes of St. Basil's Cathedral, some striped horizontally, some vertically, some segmented like the skins of pineapples. Even I, ignorant as I am about church architecture, sensed that there was something wild and barbaric in those amazing shapes and colours.
"What about that German kid who landed a light plane here?" said Whinger.
"Some feat, that. I bet it made them cut about a bit. The Russkies must have been fairly shitting themselves when they found out how easily he'd got through their de fences without the aircraft even being called."
"Rust, his name was," I said.
"Mathias Rust. He landed up the slope." I pointed ahead.
"That means he must have come in from that direction, towards us. Didn't the cheeky bugger get a job at some travel agency in Moscow, once he'd come out of gaol? I think so. It just shows how times change."
Soon we were walking down the gentle hill past St. Basil's. At the bottom we found a bridge over the river, and decided to cross to the other side, so we'd be able to look back across the water and get a view of the Kremlin. We cleared the steps on the far bank, and had just started walking, the river on our right, when Rick said quietly, "We've got a tail."
"Sure?" I asked.
"Pretty much. He's been with us at least since the bottom of the square."
"Keep walking, then. When we get to that bench, we'll sit down and see what he does."
On the embankment a hundred yards in front, a metal bench faced out over the water. When we reached it, I sat on one end, took off a shoe and proceeded to shake out imaginary bits of grit.
Up on Red Square there had been plenty of people wandering about. Down here by the river the wide road was deserted, and our follower stood out like a spare prick.
"He's stopped," Rick announced.
"He's leaning over the wall."
"Let's tip the bastard in," said Whinger.
"It could be someone Sasha's laid on to keep an eye on us, Rick suggested.
"Hardly," I said.
"I don't think he'd do that. More likely a common-or-garden mugger. He could have mates waiting up ahead, though. He may be trying to push us towards them. We'd better sort him."
Whinger agreed so we strolled forward, slower than before, then suddenly turned and began walking fast towards our pursuer. He'd started after us again, and it seemed to take him a moment to realise what was happening. Then he also turned round and began to scuttle off By now we were running, and we were on to him in a flash.
Whinger and I each went for an arm and grabbed him, bringing him to a rapid halt. We couldn't see him too clearly in the lamplight, but he looked a swarthy lad of twenty-odd, with a bit of a ragged beard, wearing a check shirt and a thin jacket of some dark material. He was angry, but also scared.
"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" I snapped.
He let fly a stream of Russian, of which I understood not a word. Rick said something in Russian, and he spat out an answer. Then he started to struggle, and for a moment I was afraid he was going to scream to attract attention. I got my handkerchief rumpled in a ball, to stuff in his mouth if he opened it any wider, but already Rick was frisking him, and in seconds came up with a nasty, slim-bladed knife which he held in front of the guy's face.
That made his eyeballs rotate and quietened him nicely.
"Into the river," I said, and Rick flipped the weapon over the wall. We heard the splash as it hit the water.
"No mobile phone or radio?"
Rick shook his head.
"No wallet or money either."
"In that case he's probably after ours."
Suddenly I remembered one of the unofficial phrases Valentina had taught us. Valite otsyuda!" told him, and indicated the direction he could go back the way we'd come.
He got the message, no problem. As we released him, he shook himself like a dog and set off without a word. I saw that he had a bit of a limp, dipping slightly on his right leg. We watched until he had disappeared up the steps by the bridge, then we carried on along the river.
"What did he say, Rick?"
"Just that he was out for a walk."
"Like hell he was.
Rick was the most observant member of our party. He had a terrific knack of noticing any small object or incident that was out of line, and his memory for faces was phenomenaclass="underline" even a year or more after an event he'd remember a person's appearance. Sometimes it took him a minute or two to place them, but then the setting and date would come back. I'm sure his skill derived partly from all the surveillance work he'd done in Northern Ireland, and often it stood us in good stead.