They had gone a little way further on when Jones stepped on a metal drain cover, which clanked under his footfall. They carried on and shortly the same clanking sounded.
“Don’t look round,” hissed Attercliffe.
“Those men from the lobby, are they following us?”
“That they are lad,” said Attercliffe quietly. “They stood in the shadows when we saw the beggars. Everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go. They’re like Mary’s Little Lamb. Little fellow with the put-upon face, he’s Klachov – and the big chap with dyed black hair, he’s Lintz. They follow me everywhere in Kazan, where we live and work. In Moscow, when I come to talk to officials. On the train, everywhere. Their technique is striking. They always follow me at a distance. If I go to a hotel or restaurant, they sit down at a far table and order tea. Never drink, never food. They read Pravda from front to back and then from back to front. They never look at me directly. That is the tell-tale test. Normal people are nosy. Normal people want to know who else is around, what they’re like an’ all. Normal people stare. But my watchers? Never. Not directly. Sometimes, I catch them looking at me via a mirror.”
“Have you any idea why you’re being followed?”
Attercliffe felt silent. Jones thought he heard the soft footfall of the followers some way behind them. Or perhaps he was imagining it.
“Point is, Mr Jones, that I haven’t been followed in all my time in Russia. It started five days after I gave you that photograph. Since then, I’m never alone.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Jones.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Mr Jones.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“You gave the photograph to someone from the embassy?”
“Yes. He was, on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government, very grateful.”
“When we met in the fog, there was one last thing I wanted to tell you. It was my mistake because I should have said it first. I should have said don’t tell anyone my name.”
The Metropol stood before them, all lit up. Beyond it, the towers of the Kremlin were lost in gloom.
“Mr Attercliffe, I can’t imagine the British diplomatic service–”
“No, I don’t think that either. Perhaps they’ll get bored and stop. Still, my wife, she’s worried sick about it. I just wanted to let you know what was happening. So I’m going to have one drink here and then I’m going to go back to the hotel. It’s probably best if I’m not seen socialising with you. Merry Christmas, Mr Jones.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr Attercliffe.”
The two of them joined a long queue to check in their coats, headed to the bar, then went their separate ways. A jazz band struck up, playing with gusto. They were doing hits from the early ‘20s, out of date – but no-one seemed to care. The bar was heaving with people, far busier than Jones had ever seen it. Someone had put a holly wreath around the picture of Lenin but Stalin remained unmodified. A pot plant with a miniature pine tree stood in a corner which, depending on your ideological persuasion, could or could not be mistaken for a Christmas tree.
At a far table sat the watchers, Klachov and Lintz, minus their coats and hats, drinking tea, pouring over two copies of Pravda. The Chekists must have had their own bespoke cloakroom in the hotel with a faster service.
Duranty was propped at the bar, a vermouth in one hand, Natasha on one arm, an ash-blond on the other. Natasha was wearing a pale blue number and the ash-blond a dress made up of black sequins, shimmering dully like the wing of a dead starling.
“Happy Christmas, Jonesy,” said Duranty amiably.
“Happy Christmas,” replied Jones.
Duranty, sensitive as always to what was going on around him, sensed Jones’ bleak mood. “You seem blue. Don’t be an old curmudgeon, Jonesy. It’s Christmas, after all. We’re talking about the inevitability of Communism.”
“Communism is the riddle of history solved, and it knows itself to be this solution,” said Jones distantly.
“Who said that?” asked Duranty.
“Starts with M, ends with X,” came the reply.
“Never mind him. Slinky here” – he gestured to the ash-blond – “is a believer. If love is blind, faith is both deaf and blind. This, Slinky, is the Metropol bar which is a shrine not to Communism but to Hedonism. Jones, Slinky. Slinky, Jones.”
“Hello Slinky,” said Jones.
“My name is Morgan Barnard and I’m from Florida,” said the ash-blond. She smiled winningly.
“You told me that your name was Slinky,” said Duranty, mildly affronted.
“No, I’m Morgan.” She nodded to another blond chatting to an American forestry adviser further down the bar. “That’s Slinky.”
“Slinky, Morgan, let’s call the whole thing off,” said Duranty and the ash-blond giggled.
Something shallow in Jones wanted to join in the fun. Holding his tongue, he watched as Attercliffe left the bar. Half a minute later, Klashov departed after him, as regular as a clockwork mouse. Lintz stayed put, looking up at the ceiling. Jones sensed that Lintz was, of the two watchers, the bigger fish, so it made him uneasy that he had been selected for that honour. Perhaps it was just cold outside and the boss fancied staying in the warm. Secret policemen were only human. The thought gave him scant consolation.
“You alright old boy?” asked Duranty, oozing fake concern. The ceiling was a mirror. Lintz could watch everyone at the bar without seeming to do so.
“I’m OK. But the world…”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Hitler’s on the brink of power in Berlin, the democracies are mired in the Depression and the Soviet experiment isn’t quite what it’s cracked up to be.”
“Looks like you need some champagne.”
“I’ve gone off champagne.”
“Come on, have some bubbly.”
“Sorry, Duranty, I’m not in a party mood. Forgive me.”
Jones smiled an insincere apology, walked down the bar and ordered a beer. There he found himself standing next to a vast shambling man, nursing a bottle of beer and a shot of vodka. When Jones was served, they clinked glasses in companionable silence and said nothing. The big man downed his vodka, and Jones saw for the first time that he had an empty socket where his right eye should have been. For a second he wondered whether the injury was recent, but he quickly realised it had taken place a long time ago. There was something ugly and raw and vulnerable about the lack of a glass eye which made Jones like the big man. He was in his late fifties, hefty, his suit shining with too much use, the cuffs of his shirt frayed.
“I know it’s Christmas,” Jones ventured, “but can you tell why is it so packed tonight?”
“Ssssh, Winnie’s about to sing the song.” The big man’s voice was deep, gravelly, extraordinarily so.
“What song?”
“Hold your tongue and listen up,” growled the big man.
A beautiful black woman threaded her way towards the band, wearing a black boiler suit with a red handkerchief festooned in a top pocket, a bowler hat and sparkling red shoes. She whispered into the mic, “Merry Christmas boys.” Her voice was smoky, sensual, melodic. “This song was sung by my people. And just maybe it’s kind of appropriate to some of you, too.”