Illegal Action

31

How on earth does he afford this place? thought Liz, watching Dimitri taking a long swig from his glass of wine. They were in the library of the boutique hotel in Covent Garden where Dimitri was staying, an intimate Georgian town house where guests poured their own drinks.

Observing him, Liz thought how much he reminded her of Brunovsky. He had the same gusto, a sort of boyish quality, an innocent enjoyment of everything, though Dimitri had none of the oligarch’s manic edge. Instead, there was something sensual and appreciative about his approach to life, as if he wanted to spread his large, long arms and embrace the world.

“I was reading about our prime minister’s trip to Russia next month,” said Liz. “It said that after he’s been in Moscow he’s going to visit St. Petersburg. Apparently, his wife is keen to see the Hermitage. Did you know that?”

“Of course,” he said. “I will be escorting her myself through the Fabergé exhibits in the Winter Palace.”

“Will the prime minister be with her?”

“No, he will not,” said Dimitri.

“Too bad.”

“Not really.” He shrugged. “Have you met many politicians?”

“No,” said Liz truthfully. Bureaucrats were a different matter.

“They are all the same,” he declared. “How lovely to meet you,” he said in a mincing voice, turning and making a little bow. “I am most impressed,” he went on, giving a fatuous smile. Liz laughed, and he said in his normal voice, “They believe in nothing, those people.”

“And what do you believe in, Dimitri?” asked Liz.

“I believe in Russia,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast.

“And art?” she asked. He seemed startled momentarily, then his face broke into a broad grin. “Art, of course. But what I mean is I belong to no political party; I have no religion. I am not a democrat or a Communist. I am Russian.”

Liz smiled back, thinking about the glorious simplicity of this. What an escape it was from difficult issues. But what did it mean? Surely no one could seriously take that line in this day and age. Certainly no one with half a brain, and certainly not an art historian.

Could she imagine herself saying “I believe in England”? Well, of course she might, in certain circumstances, but would it mean any more than a sort of nostalgic attachment to places she knew—the River Nadder in summer, when the meadows were full of wild flowers in the high grass; or St. James’s Park late in autumn, when the ducks huddled together against the November cold, and men started wearing overcoats on their way to work? Or would it mean a set of values—the civility that still hung on, somehow, in a distinctly uncivil age, even here in the bustle of London; the enthusiasm and loyalty that made Dave Armstrong work all hours on counter-terrorist operations even though he might earn five times as much in the City? Was that the sort of thing Dimitri was talking about? She suspected not. In fact she was beginning to suspect that he wasn’t actually talking about anything.

“Where are you, Jane?” She looked up startled, to find Dimitri stirring from his chair. “You seem to me very far away. Let us go to supper.”

Outside it was still light, and in Covent Garden a busker stood in the piazza, strumming a guitar. A teenage boy with a painted face juggled oranges in the air, and they stopped and watched before moving towards the Strand.

“I thought since you are English and I am Russian, we could compromise,” said Dimitri as he opened the door to Joe Allen’s, a restaurant Liz knew as a theatre haunt that served American food—immense hamburgers and barbecued ribs, corn bread and Boston bean soup. Just the sort of thing she would normally avoid like the plague.

They stepped down into a noisy, brick-lined cellar. At a long mahogany bar people stood drinking, waiting for their tables, and the restaurant itself was packed. But Dimitri spoke to the greeter, and they were shown at once to a table in a far corner. It was slightly quieter here, and Liz could just about make out what Dimitri said.

“I recommend the barbecue,” he said when the waitress came to take their order.

“Very American.”

“Of course. Three days in California was like—how would you say it? A crash course.”

“That’s right,” said Liz, thinking of her own week of intensive tuition with Sonia Warschawsky. She asked Dimitri if he had seen her.

“I have,” he said. “She is very excited about the Pashko.”

“You mean the Blue Field?”

“Yes. She wanted to know who had bought it, because in the papers all it said was an anonymous buyer. I asked among some friends, and found that naturally enough, it had been bought by an oligarch.”

“Someone you know?” Liz asked casually.

Dimitri said, “I have met the man, but I do not know him well. He is more cultured than one might expect, so perhaps he will let people like Sonia come and see the picture.”

Liz nodded blankly, slightly disconcerted that he knew Brunovsky. The last thing she wanted was for Dimitri to find out she was spending time in the Brunovsky household.

“What about Blue Mountain?” she asked, moving the subject away from Brunovsky. “Could that turn up too, do you think?”

Dimitri shrugged as their waitress put down a large platter of spare ribs. He grinned wolfishly at Liz, whose grilled tuna looked positively sedate by comparison.

As he cut one of the ribs from the rack, Dimitri said, “I used to think talk of Blue Mountain was just another crazy conspiracy theory. But they found Blue Field, so who knows? It may turn up. I am told the country houses of Ireland are very beautiful, but many are decayed relics full of the webs of spiders, dusty corners with snakes and possibly lost pictures.”

“There aren’t any snakes in Ireland,” Liz interjected. “St. Patrick charmed them all away.”

Dimitri nodded appreciatively. “Ah. The power of religion. I like that story.”

Dimitri recounted a story about his friend who bought art for the oligarchs and had almost paid $10 million for what turned out to be a phoney Rothko. “I told him to take advice, and fortunately for him he did. When he buys in my own period, I help him sometimes. For the purposes of authentication. He pays me,” he added. “A little.”

Liz nodded. Perhaps this explained Dimitri’s lifestyle—the restaurants and expensive hotels.

Suddenly she heard a chirping noise like a twittering bird. It was only when Dimitri reached for his jacket pocket that she realised it was his mobile phone. “Excuse me please,” he said, and answered it. As he listened his features tautened, the happy smile of the evening gradually replaced by a frown. He spoke tersely, in Russian, and when the call had ended and he put away his phone, he looked concerned.

“Is everything all right?” asked Liz.

“No,” he said bluntly. He gestured with annoyance. “It is that friend I spoke about. He is in London and requires my help.”

“What? Now?” she said in surprise. She hadn’t been quite sure where the evening was heading, but she had not anticipated it ending like this.

“I am terribly sorry. I would ask you to come along. But my friend, he has managed to get himself into a…” He paused, searching for the word.

“A fix?”

“Yes. A fix. It would upset him if I brought someone along he does not know. Damn!” he cursed, putting one hand to his forehead.

“Don’t worry,” Liz said. “I understand.” She had done much the same thing herself on occasion, called away from dinner, even once from a concert, but never by a friend, only by her work.

Outside on Exeter Street, Dimitri offered to walk Liz to her car. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Let’s find you a taxi. Your friend needs you.”

As he opened the cab door, the Russian looked at her earnestly. “I hope I have not spoiled the evening for you. I have enjoyed it immensely.”

“Likewise,” she said.

“When will I see you again?”

“That’s up to you, Dimitri,” she said lightly. “Let me know when you’re coming to London.”

His features momentarily lost their anxious cast and he smiled broadly again. “I will make it a priority,” he said and, leaning over, kissed Liz squarely on the mouth.

What on earth was all that about? Liz thought as she walked to her car. Though she had enjoyed Dimitri’s company in Cambridge, somehow he didn’t translate to London. His little-boy enthusiasm did not quite ring true. It was almost as though he was acting, though she didn’t know why he should. Perhaps he just felt uneasy now he was on her home territory. Perhaps she was imagining it. But with her mind back in Cambridge, she remembered the odd incident in her hotel room. She had never satisfactorily explained that to herself. She suddenly thought of Charles and what he had said about risk. For the first time she felt uneasy.