Bebchuk looked puzzled, and Bruno imitated the casting motion of a fly rod with one hand. Bebchuk laughed. ‘No, I do not fish.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Bruno, shaking his head and smiling. ‘So what do you do in your free time?’
‘I like football,’ said the Russian. ‘And movies.’
‘What kind of movies?’
‘All movies,’ said Bebchuk easily; he’d drunk most of his glass of champagne and was relaxing a little. ‘But especially French films.’
‘What’s your favourite?’
Bebchuk hesitated. ‘Belle de Jour,’ he said, naming the Buñuel film starring Catherine Deneuve as a bored housewife who finds work in a brothel. ‘But don’t tell my wife. I don’t want her getting any ideas.’
Bruno laughed. ‘You can count on me,’ he said, taking another glass of champagne from a passing waitress and handing it to Boris Bebchuk.
Boris said, ‘I didn’t quite hear you when we were talking with the other gentlemen. What is it that you do here?’ His expression was friendly, but his eyes steady and probing.
‘Well, when I want to impress people I say that I’m in capital investment. But that’s just a fancy term for taking rich people’s money and buying things that will make them even richer. I suppose that makes me a kind of trader.’
‘Traitor?’ said Bebchuk, his eyes widening.
‘No, no,’ said Bruno hastily. ‘Trader – a buyer and seller.’
‘Ah. That I understand. What do you like to do in your spare time?’
‘Nothing so intellectual as watch Buñuel. To be honest, I love to eat – especially lunch. I play a game with myself: I try to eat in a better restaurant each time I go out than the last one I went to. It doesn’t have to be expensive; it just has to be good.’
‘And there are enough of these places in Moscow?’ Bebchuk sounded sceptical, which amused Bruno. Usually the Russians would bristle at any suggestion that the Moscow version of something – from art to light bulbs – was inferior to its Western counterpart.
‘There seem to be – I’ve been on a pretty good run lately. And I’ve lined up another place this week.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Near the Kremlin, believe it or not. It’s not much more than a hole in the wall but I’m told the dumplings, the pelmeni, are truly special.’
‘You like pelmeni?’
‘I do,’ said Bruno firmly. ‘Don’t you?’
‘I love them,’ said Boris emphatically. ‘But I would think for a foreigner they were not to your taste. When are you going to go to your hole in the wall?’
Bruno paused as if to consider his coming diary of appointments. ‘I thought of going on Thursday.’ His face suddenly lit up. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to join me? I enjoy this little game of mine, but it’s always nice to have company when I go to a new place.’
Bebchuk was watching Bruno carefully. Eventually he said, ‘Thursday. It could be possible. Give me your card and I will telephone you to confirm this lunch. I am sure I would enjoy it,’ he said, though the expression on his face was unreadable.
24
Peggy arrived at the British Embassy in Berlin promptly at nine o’clock. She had flown in the evening before and, anxious to do well on her first mission abroad, she had resisted the temptation to explore Berlin, eaten a modest supper in her room at the hotel and been in bed by ten o’clock.
The Embassy, at the north end of Wilhelmstrasse not far from the Brandenburg Gate, was within walking distance of her hotel. She had never visited Berlin before but she had seen pictures of the city during the Cold War, and it gave her a thrill to know that she was walking in what had once been Communist East Berlin. She had no difficulty in recognising the Embassy building – it was huge, forbidding and, to her eye, rather prison-like with its rows of recessed windows. It was blocked off at the street entrance by concrete bollards. In the reception area a policeman stood guard, armed with a Heckler & Koch automatic.
She was relieved to find Sally Mortimer already waiting in the foyer. Her warm welcome immediately dispersed the chilly feeling of the place. ‘I thought I’d drive us to the BfV,’ she said amiably. ‘My car’s garaged just down the road. It will take a while to get there but that gives us plenty of time to discuss tactics in the car.’
Peggy was soon admiring the deftness with which Sally manoeuvred her car through the crowded streets of Berlin. As they threaded their way confidently through the morning traffic, Sally said, ‘I’d better tell you about this man we’re going to see. His name is Lamme, Abel Lamme, and he’s pretty senior in the Service. I’ve had dealings with him before and he’s what my mother would call an S-H-I-T.’
‘Oh God,’ said Peggy, her thoughts of a pleasant morning disappearing. ‘What’s his problem?’
‘We are, I’m afraid. He’s supposed to be very clever and good at his job but he can’t deal with women at work – all his colleagues say so. He actually refers to his secretary as “the girl”, even though she’s about sixty. I wonder she doesn’t slap his face, but she’s too polite and well brought up.’ Sally shifted gear smoothly as she glided around a taxi dropping off a fare. She went on, ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here. Maybe we can pull his leg a bit. Don’t worry,’ she said as Peggy started to demur, ‘I know we want to persuade him to do something for us; he’s simply far too pleased with himself to notice we’re winding him up.’
‘Are all the men in the BfV like that?’ Peggy asked, curious. ‘Are they all sexist?’
‘No. Not really. On the whole it’s not too bad,’ Sally replied. ‘No worse than the average. And don’t get me wrong, I like it here – the city’s wonderful, and the work is fascinating. No complaints there.’
She paused, and Peggy waited. Finally Sally asked, ‘Are you married?’
Peggy shook her head.
‘Boyfriend?’
Peggy said, ‘No.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘I had a long-term partner, but he did something stupid and embarrassed me. We were living together, but he moved out about four months ago.’
‘I’m sorry. Though if he let you down then perhaps it’s for the best.’
‘Definitely,’ said Peggy. ‘How about you?’
Sally gave a small groan. ‘That’s the bad side of this posting. There simply aren’t any available men. The ones at the Embassy are either married or, to be frank, only interested in getting me into bed. The German men are friendly enough but hard to meet, and they’re all so formal.’ She said in a thick German accent, ‘Vould Fräulein Mortimer care to accompany Herr Stuger to the opera this Saturday?’
Peggy laughed. ‘Perhaps they think that’s the right way to treat a foreign diplomat.’
‘I know,’ said Sally, ‘but sometimes it’s positively painful.’
‘How about back home?’ asked Peggy. ‘Is there anyone there?’
‘Not really. I was very keen on someone in the Service. We went out a bit. He’s older than me and he has a bit of a reputation. He’s never married; been on a lot of postings at the sharp end and I think he finds it difficult to commit to anyone. On the surface he’s the kind of man everyone warns you off. But he’s actually very kind and completely charming. He could make me laugh more in five minutes than anyone else could in a month.’