“Care for a lift?” asked Zakovsky.
“Certainly,” said Ilver.
“You too, Mr Jones?”
Jones stiffened. The GPU were the very last people he wanted a lift from but to say no seemed frankly discourteous. He collected his thoughts, smiled handsomely and said: “thank you ever so much.” Ilver gave him a bleak smile as if to say, don’t overdo it, old boy.
In the back of the seven-seater limo was a man in late middle age with short silver hair and hooded eyes. He wasn’t in uniform but wearing a black frock coat, unmistakeably the senior German figure in Attercliffe’s photograph.
“Mr Ilver, Mr Jones, may I introduce Herr Verbling, the German military attache?” said Zakovsky.
Verbling nodded stiffly.
“Hello, Ernst, we’ve met before,” said Ilver. “May I introduce Mr Gareth Jones of the Western Mail?”
“Pleased to meet you, Herr Verbling,” said Jones.
Verbling nodded stiffly once more and sank back into the upholstery, saying nothing.
“What kind of car is this?” asked Jones.
“It’s a ZIS L-1, made exclusively in the Stalin Industries Factory,” said Zakovsky. He turned to Lyushkov and they talked loudly and animatedly in Russian. Verbling had been staring out of the window but he turned to Ilver and Jones and said softly in crisp English, “It’s a Buick 90, shipped out in parts to Leningrad. They managed to tighten the wheelnuts.”
Verbling turned back to his study of the countryside. The rest of the journey passed in silence.
Darkness gripped Jones, as if he lay bound and gagged at the bottom of a deep well. Sweeping aside the bedclothes, he ripped open the curtains to see that night had fallen. From somewhere below, he could hear faint sounds of revelry. Dressing hurriedly, he nodded to the floor concierge, shunned the lift and tripped down three flights of stairs.
From behind two grand doors, he could hear a hubbub and music, a band crucifying elderly hits from America. Jones made to open the door but, at that moment, was stopped by Lyushkov dressed up to the nines in full dress uniform, his chest jingling with medals.
“Can I join the party?”
“Nyet.”
That rumble again, the slow movement of a great stone.
“Please may I join the party?”
“Nyet.”
“Why can’t I join the party?”
“Net chernogo galstuka, net vkhoda.”
“I don’t understand you, Kapitan.”
“Net chernogo galstuka, net vkhoda.” The voice belonged to Duranty. “No black tie, no entry.”
Jones turned to the great man. “Isn’t that a trifle bourgeois?”
Duranty was dressed in a black tuxedo, a glass of champagne in one hand, Natasha and Evgenia on either arm.
“It is, old boy, it is, but he’s a hard man, our Kapitan.”
“Can you persuade him?”
Duranty machine-gunned words at Lyushkov in Russian. The Kapitan made a stony reply, only to suffer a further attack from Duranty. Still Lyushkov wouldn’t budge. Duranty opened the door into the ballroom and slipped inside. In twenty seconds he returned with Zakovsky, who took in the situation in a flash, smiled at Jones and squealed at Lyushkov. The door to the ballroom opened.
“I didn’t know we had to dress up,” said Jones.
Duranty grinned. “No need to at all, old boy. As I’ve said before, Soviet Man loves a party – but he is quite backwards sometimes, almost Neanderthal. There’s a problem with Kapitan Lyushkov too. He’s a little too rigid.”
“Beautiful voice,” said Jones.
“Yes, true.”
“But the Kapitan is a thug,” said Jones.
Duranty stared at Jones, his smile warm, his eyes reptilian. His head tilted to one side and he said softly, “Remember who he works for, Mr Jones.” The smile crept into his eyes. “The dam is a great excuse for a bunfight. Come and sit with us.”
In the main ballroom two dozen tables were laid out, overlooked by twin portraits of Stalin and Lenin. The room was packed. Everyone from the train was there, together with local dignitaries and their women. The locals were marked out by their well-worn suits and out-of-fashion dresses. The exotic was supplied by a handful of consular officials in uniform: German, British, Polish. The most operatic of all was wearing a white tropical uniform and a butchered swan on his head. That would be, could only be, the Italian consul.
On a platform at the far end of the room a gypsy band sawed away at a tune. Jones took a long moment before he worked out the melody they were murdering: “Yes! We Have No Bananas.” A few couples were dancing robotically but most of the company was gorging on the free food. Lyons and Fischer were both deep in conversation with two women who suggested, by their body language, that they were listening to the tongues of angels. Wells was sipping vodka on his own.
To one side, Ilver from the British embassy was leaning against a pillar, his tie undone, chatting to a strikingly handsome youth. In front of him Borodin was arguing passionately with Oumansky – something of a fixture, Jones was beginning to realise. Professor Aubyn and Dr Limner were sitting with Zakovsky who was smiling – and Lyushkov, who wasn’t.
Duranty led the way, nodding to and swapping jokes with some of the other guests as they passed by. Once the party had sat down, waiters swarmed over them, offering wine and a starter of the finest beluga caviar. Jones, who was sick of the stuff by now, waved them away. He found himself sat between Duranty and Evgenia. She was wearing a black full-length dress that both hid and didn’t hide her figure.
Zakovsky came over and stood by Jones, his normal stern demeanour softened – whether by the occasion or drink, it was hard to tell. He squeaked something fast and incomprehensible and Jones smiled idiotically.
“The Colonel wants to know whether you’re married, Mr Jones? Do you have any children?”
Jones admitted that he was neither married nor a father. This was the cue for Zakovsky to open his wallet and show a black and white photograph of Zakovsky Junior, trussed up in the uniform of a Young Pioneer and staring at the camera.
“A bonny lad,” said Jones. “What’s his name?”
“Marlen.”
“An usual name.”
“It’s a combination of the first three letters of Marx and Lenin,” Zakovsky beamed and wandered off to show his progeny to others.
Duranty leaned over to Jones and said, “The way things are going, perhaps it might have been smarter to call the boy Stalen. But maybe that would be seen as being too close to home.”
Conversation in the ballroom faltered as the gypsy band finished their set and the entertainment began. Red Beard had donned Cossack dress and had exchanged the accordion for a balalaika. Taking to the stage, followed by his woman and the plump boy, he started strumming the Kalinka on the balalaika, at which the plump boy did his jolly jig. Next was the Volga Boat Song, the man squeezing out the tune on the accordion, the boy tapping to it with his feet. For an encore, all three of them did a fast run through of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 symphony on squeezebox and balalaika, to bravos from the assembled guests.
“Enjoying this?” Jones asked Evgenia as the applause started to fade.
“It’s very Russian.”
“Nothing Ukrainian?”
“Not yet.”
She smiled weakly at him and he smiled weakly back.
Moments later, Oumansky came over, a syrupy smile on his face. “Congratulations, Mr Jones, on a most excellent article on the great Soviet achievement of the construction of the dam. Very finely written.”
“What?” said Jones. Duranty nudged him sharply with his elbow.
“In fact, we’re so pleased with your insight into our struggle,” Oumansky continued, “that we have arranged for you to have a seat at the upcoming trial of the coal saboteurs.”