The Kremlin Device Part 43

"Sasha must have told you already."

"He has. But I want to hear your version."

"You will. But I won't bore you with it yet. Wait till we get there. I need a drink to get me going."

"All right. It's not far."

Once again we sped down that d.a.m.ned road, then cut away through the northern edge of the city. I complimented her on the car, on her driving, on her clothes (even though I couldn't see them) anything to avoid plunging into the saga, because I was afraid that once I'd started, everything would come out.

My mind was whirling as Anna pulled up in a scruffy sidestreet.

"Here we are," she announced.

A small, red sign proclaiming TAIGA glowed faintly above a battered wooden door. If you hadn't known what the place was you'd never have given it a second glance. But inside it was like a forest growing in a cave: real tree-trunks, some birch, some pine, divided up little cubicles from each other, and the ceiling was a riot of branches. The air was warm and full of a wonderfully rich, meaty smell.

The waiters were dressed in forest green. From the way one of them sprang forward to take Anna's coat, I saw that she was a star guest. Another man showed us straight to a table in a corner cubicle: he ushered Anna into her chair and held a brief conversation as he poured out two gla.s.ses of vodka from a bottle already sitting in an ice-bucket on the table. That was apparently all the ordering she needed to do: no question of menu or wine list.

She raised her gla.s.s and said, "Pc yekhali!"

"What's that?"

"It means "Bottoms up" when you're drinking vodka. It's what Gagarin said when he was about to go into s.p.a.ce "Let's get moving."

"Pc yekhali, then." I clinked my gla.s.s on hers, and we both drank. Now I saw that her suit was made of turquoise shot-silk, and that she was wearing a pearl necklace. For the first time since I'd met her, she'd put on visible make-up not much, but enough to accentuate her good features. She had darkened her eyebrows slightly, which made her eyes look bigger, and a touch of lipstick made her mouth seem more generous. She'd washed her hair, too, and done it so that it stood up in a shiny black curve above her forehead.

"Have some caviar," she said.

"It's the best thing with vodka."

She took the lid off a white pot cradled in a bed of ice, revealing a nest of shiny black eggs underneath. At that moment a waiter arrived with a dish of hot toast wrapped in a napkin.

"Please!" she said.

"Dig in. Is that the right expression?"

"Spot on!" I dug deep with a teaspoon, and heaped caviar on to the toast the best mouthful I'd ever eaten. More vodka, more caviar. She too seemed hungry, eating and drinking level with me. I don't usually pay much attention to food, but the salty fish eggs and ice-cold spirit were such a combination that for a few minutes I really had to concentrate on my taste buds.

"Don't overdo it," Anna said presently, again with that amused glint in her eyes.

"There are other things coming Siberian specialities "Why all this Siberia suddenly?"

"That's where I come from."

"Really!" I looked at her with new interest.

"Tell me."

She began to talk, quite fast, about how she'd been born in a village called Charysh, three thousand kilometres east of Moscow, in the Altai mountains a primitive community, without electricity in those days, and most of the houses made of wood. Her family had been dirt-poor, but her father was the local schoolmaster, and when Anna had showed intellectual promise at the age of nine, he'd sent her to live with an aunt and uncle in the capital so that she could get a better education.

The waiter brought us hot plates and a bowl from which steam rose in clouds, but Anna was so immersed in her narrative that she didn't immediately notice. Then, breaking out of her reverie, she said, "Look! Pilmeni dumplings with spiced meat. And this is special cabbage, cooked with walnuts."

She helped herself and started to eat, but in a vague manner, not focusing on the delicious food. Her mind was out in the mountains and forests, and on she went, talking, talking, as she recalled how the River Charysh froze over in winter, so thick that army trucks could drive across it, and how, when the snow came, it would blanket the land a metre deep for four or five months on end.

Red wine had appeared on the table. I drank some, and kept eating. The little dumplings were irresistible. I lost count of the number I put away as I listened to her stories, fascinated to see a different, softer, more vulnerable person emerging from the tough chrysalis which was all I'd known so far.

Soothing taped music was playing, no more than a gentle background drone. But suddenly, as a new song started, Anna gave a twitch and cried, "Oh! This one I love." With a flick of the hand she bade one of the waiters turn up the volume, and the sound swelled into that of a male-voice choir, with a single, clear tenor reaching high above a groundswell of sonorous ba.s.ses.

To my amazement, I saw her eyes fill with tears. For my benefit she began to translate the story, speaking low and fast as each haunting phrase of the song came to an end.

"A man is running through the taiga .. . He follows the tracks of wild animals... A storm is blowing... His way is long.. . Hide him in your breast, dark taiga .. . Far away he has left his native land, his mother, his wife and children .. . He will die in a foreign land and be buried there.. . His wife will find someone else .. . But his mother will never find another son.

By the end, the tears were rolling down her cheeks. I reached over and covered her hand with mine. She looked up, smiled and gave a great shudder. Then she brought out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

"I'm sorry. The song is very sad."

"I could hear that."

"It reminds me of many things."

"Anna," I said instinctively.

"Why have you never married?"

The question seemed to jerk her back to the present. She raised her eyebrows and said, "Married? I am married. My son is ten years old."

I stared at her in amazement.

"You never told me.

"Why should I?" She looked amused again.

"That's nothing to do with my professional career.

"No, but.. . Where is your husband?"

"In Petersburg. He manages a bank there. We drifted apart years back."

"And your son?"

"Mitya? He's at school here in Moscow. He lives mostly with his aunt, my sister."

"Where's he tonight?"

"Who?"

"Mitya."

"With his aunt."

"And your husband?"

"In the north."

She was looking at me steadily.

"Geordie," she said.

"I've sent a message to your people at Balashika to say you'll be there in the morning. You're coming back to my apartment, to spend the night with me.

"Fantastic!" I took a deep breath. These revelations seemed to be the cue for me to open up. G.o.d knows what it was that made me decide to confess. Now that I'd disconnected Apple, there was no need or logical reason to reveal anything. Yet I knew in my heart that I had to do it. Otherwise, my conscience would never let me rest. It wasn't as if I'd reached this conclusion under the influence of alcohol: all this I'd worked out earlier, when I was stone-cold sober.

"Listen," I said, looking round our little cubicle.

"I don't suppose the KGB have got this place bugged."

"Of course not!" She grinned mischievously.

"You're probably the first foreigner that's ever come here. It wouldn't be worth their while."

"Then I've got something to tell you.

In the next few minutes I went overboard. I dived in headlong and told her all I knew about Apple and Orange. My mind was moving at incredible speed. I was vaguely aware of waiters removing plates and bringing tea, but I ignored them and rattled on, spilling secrets left and right. Even as I talked, I knew I was betraying my mates, the Regiment, my country, and that I was probably bringing my career in the army to a rapid end. But the acc.u.mulation of guilt had become too great to bear, and the act of freeing myself from it brought a feeling of fantastic liberation.

I finished on a high, amazed at my seW but exhilarated.

Throughout my performance Anna had watched me as if half hypnotised She kept absolutely still, with her eyes fixed on me; yet after a while I realised that she was registering neither surprise nor anger. As before, her predominant expression was one of faint amus.e.m.e.nt.

When finally I came to a halt, she said, "You need some cognac," and signalled to the waiter, who brought two small gla.s.ses and a bottle.

"Armenian brandy," Anna announced.

"Your famous Prime Minister used to say it was the best."

"Tony Blair?"

"Don't be ridiculous! Winston Churchill. Cheers!"

We clinked gla.s.ses, and I drained mine straight down.

"Aren't you furious with me?" I asked.

"Why should I be?"

"For having double-crossed you all this time."

"You weren't being very clever about it."

"You mean you knew what we were doing?"

"Not exactly. But we knew you had some secret agenda."

"How?"

"Every time you went to the Emba.s.sy you were followed."

"Jesus! But not into the churchyard?"

She shook her head.

"We lost you there."

"What about that time we went up to the university and we got chased?"

"Those were some of our people."

"Were they hurt?"

"One was killed."

"I'm sorry.

I poured myself some more brandy.

"But when the bomb was lifted that wasn't you?"

"No that was the Mafia all right. But Geordie the Americans will realise that Apple isn't responding to signals. In fact, they must already know something's wrong. What if you get an order tomorrow, telling you to go down and check the device?"

"I'll tell my people at home it's impossible. I'll say the churchyard's been compromised, that the head of the shaft is under guard."

Her eyes were holding mine.

"Listen," I said.

"What were you doing that day you came poking your nose into our lap-top?"

She threw back her head and laughed.

"That! A throwback to my old habits, I suppose: a little private espionage. Of course I was curious to find out more about what you were all doing.

"But you never got into the program?"

She shook her head.

"What'll you do now?" I asked.

"Now I've told you?"

"Nothing." This time it was her hand that took hold of mine.