In the end it wasn't needed, because I spotted my guest before he saw me: a big fellow, a good six feet, and broad with it, walking very upright. He had a wide forehead with mid-brown hair swept across it, a rather flat face, and a quick, alert look as his gaze swept back and forth across the waiting crowd. I also noticed a fuzzy vertical scar on his left temple. As he came towards me I had time to think that in the old days you would have expected a Russian officer to carry duelling scars, but this one was clearly the result of a burn.
The guy was wearing jeans and a black leather jacket that looked rather expensive, and was carrying a hold-all slung over one shoulder. As he drew level with me I raised my right hand to attract his attention, and said, "Major Ivanov? Zdravstvuite."
He stopped, focused on me and said, "Sergeant Major?
Zdravstvuite." His face broke into a smile, revealing that his two front teeth were made of metal, and he said, "Vui gavarete pa Russki?"
The words slipped out so fast that I took a second to recognise them. Then I managed, "Nemnogo."
"Khorosho!" He looked delighted. We shook hands over the barrier and I motioned him towards the exit. As he came through, he fired off something else in Russian, and my bluff was called.
"Sorry," I went.
"When I said nemnogo, I meant it. Only a very little."
He smiled again and said, "Doesn't matter. I speak English
OK."
I tried to take his hold-all off him but he wouldn't let me, and we set off for the car. He walked fast, with a springy gait, and I could see straight away that he was fit.
"Good flight?"
He shrugged.
"The pilot he landed it like a ton of shit."
"But you survived."
He smiled.
"It remind me of when I get these teeth. Hard landing in Siberia. Into seat before."
He was all eyes as we walked out on to the third floor of the stack, past ranks of shiny new vehicles.
"Cars!" he exclaimed.
"Such types of cars!"
"This is ours." I unlocked the Passat, opened the boot and put his bag inside. Automatically he made for the right-hand front door.
"This side." I pointed.
"Excuse me!"
"Rassat," he said as he ran a finger over the car's logo.
"It's a P," I said.
"Passat."
"Of course! He is English?"
"German.~ Soon I realised that, although he spoke English with fair fluency, he had trouble recognising letters, as if he'd picked up the language by ear, rather than by reading. I could see him mouthing words to himself as we passed the hoardings. I had to stop myself smiling at his accent, which was tremendously Russian. His Hs were very hot: he pronounced Os like As, and jacked Y sounds on to the front of Es — prafyessional. He also made 'kill' into keen. His L's were beautifully liquid, as if he were rolling a mouthful of vodka round the back of his tongue.
In a few minutes we were heading west on the M4.
"Your first time in the West?"
"How come you speak English so well?"
"I learn in school. Also from American attached to our unit."
"I see. Can I call you Alexander?"
"Sasha, please. Sasha is small name of Alexander. The diminution. Your name is George?"
"Geordie. That's a kind of diminutive, as well."
"Khorosho! And second name?"
"Sharp."
"That is family name. I mean patronymic."
"What's that?"
"Your father name. My father is Vassily. So I am Aleksandr Vassilyevitch Ivanov. Your father is.
"Was. Michael, I think."
"You think? You don't know?"
"I never knew him."
"I am sorry. Well anyway, you are Geordie Mikhaiovitch."
His accent made him pronounce my name "Zheordie', but who was I to complain? His English might be fractured, but at least he could get along in it whereas my Russian was limited to about twenty words.
Already I liked his enthusiasm, the keen interest he took in everything he saw for instance, the surface of the motorway.
"This street!" he said.
"He is vary good. Our streets are full of holes. Cars soon break. The suspenders always breaking."
Another thing that fascinated him was the smallness of the suburban houses, and their gardens.
"How many families live in such a house?" he asked, pointing at a row.
"Those are what we call semis semidetached, two joined together. Two front doors, you see. Probably one family in each side."
"In Russia we have all big house. Not like this." He saw me glance across and said, "Apartment blocks. Fifteen, twenty pieces high. These are like izbas."
"What's that?"
"Izba is old house in the country. Peasant house."
"A cottage?"
"Yes, but very old. And such a house…" He gestured at a thirties villa standing in a large garden.
"This belongs to government?"
"No, no. I'm sure it's private. A private individual. I think I read somewhere that you can buy houses in Russia now.
"Yes it is just starting."
"And land? Could you buy a farm, for instance?"
"By no means. No land can be sold, except for gardens."
The afternoon traffic was light and the fast lane was often clear, but I kept my speed down to eighty and let the BMWs whip past. I explained the system of number-plates: how S indicated the current year, just started in August, that next autumn there'd be a scramble for Ts, and that freaks paid huge sums for special numbers. Just at the right moment to illustrate my point, we were overtaken by a hell-driven Peugeot 205 with the number PiNTA.
We started to compare British and Russian special forces, and I asked about the base at Balashika.
"It is home of our famous Dzerzhinsky division. That belongs to Ministry of Interior. They have many facilities at Balashika.
Beeg strelbilshze."
"Barracks?"
"Nyet. Barracks is kazarma. Strelbilshze is ranges. Beeg ranges, beeg training area. Between town and forest. Town this side, forest this side. Only thirty kilometres from Moscow, to the east. All behind concrete fences."
"Fences?"
"Walls. Concrete walls, two metres tall. From outside you see nothing."
When I brought up the subject of the Mafia, he instantly became indignant and twisted round in his seat to look at me.
"They keen everybody! Half the population has become what we call vor v zakone. That means "thief in the law". In other words, creeminals.
"They keen businessmen, bank managers, property men anyone. Last year they even kill Larisa Nechayeva!"
"Who?"
"Nechayeva? Boss of Spartak football club. They shoot her in her dacha, her country house. Another woman with her. And why? Beecause she refused to pay them money. Also they kill
Valentin Sych, ice hockey president."
"What's the motive?" I said.
"Why kill all these different kinds of people?"
"Marney!" Sasha held up his right hand, rubbing thumb and forefinger together.
"Marney, marney, marney! Everyone wants more. Always US dollars. Russian money no good. You know how we call it? Deregannye den gi or deregannye rubli. That means wooden money, wooden roubles. Throw it in the stove!"
"But you've just had a revaluation. Didn't they divide by a thousand?"
"Konechno. Of course. Before, it was seven thousand roubles to one dollar. Now it is seven. But what is the difference? Prices are still crazy. No change."
"These murders who's carrying them out?"
"Contract killers. Almost all. With one bullet, a man can earn half million dollars." He looked at me and went on in a soft, menacing, ingratiating voice: "Eemagine. You are manager of bank, big boss, yes? Somebody telephones.
"Look, Meester Sharp, you should pay us some marney." You tell them, "Get to hell."