Moskva

16 Supper with Beziki

In the three days that followed Tom heard nothing from Sir Edward, had his request to see Mary Batten turned down and was invited to supper by Beziki on the afternoon of the third day. Partly out of bloody-mindedness, mostly because he was fucked if he was going to be condescended to by Sir Edward, he asked Anna Masterton if she’d like to come too. He didn’t mention the cat, though.

The place Beziki suggested was shut for refurbishment, according to a sign outside. The shutters were closed, right enough. And the scaffolding on Gorky Street had made Tom wonder if he and Anna had come to the right place.

They had. Inside, chandeliers glittered, candles flickered and the tables were laid with cloth and silver. On the wall, an engraving showed three hunters cross-legged on grass. They wore muted robes, heavy beards and criss-crossed cartridge belts. The man who handed Tom a wine list could have been their grandson.

‘Has Alex’s relationship with Sir Edward always been difficult?’

‘She took her father’s death badly.’

‘So you mentioned. It was recent?’

‘Alex was six. We were divorcing anyway.’

Empty Shampanskoye glasses stood in front of them. These had been hurried across the moment they entered. But no one had offered a refill and Anna was jumpy enough to leave if Erekle Gabashville didn’t arrive soon.

‘More wine?’ Tom asked.

At her suggestion, he ordered a Tsinandali, which arrived in an ice bucket with a crisp napkin over the top. Tom sniffed the dribble he was poured and nodded to say it was fine, waiting for Anna to take the first sip.

‘How polite,’ she said.

‘Shouldn’t you be somewhere?’

She hesitated on the edge of taking a second sip.

‘I mean…’ Tom looked at his Omega, a present from Caro, as were his cufflinks. As was his shirt come to that. ‘Seven thirty on a Wednesday night. Isn’t there bridge, or something? An embassy wives’ committee to attend?’

‘Don’t be a shit. Edward’s in meetings. Everyone’s in meetings. Well…’ She shrugged. ‘Everyone who matters.’

‘I’m not.’

‘There you go.’

‘He’ll ask how your evening was and you’ll say fine?’

‘Something like that. I won’t lie. But I’m not going to volunteer information unless he asks for specifics.’

‘Tell me again…’

‘I had a call from a militsiya major. Svetlana something. Her English was perfect. Her manner less so. She said she’d heard my daughter was delinquent. And a foreign teenager answering Alex’s description was shoplifting in GUM.’

‘Why didn’t they stop her?’

‘Alex has embassy credentials, for God’s sake. She isn’t even officially missing. Edward won’t tell the Soviets and he won’t tell me why. Maybe the major was just being kind and thought I should know?’

‘What did you do?’

‘Went straight to GUM, obviously.’

Three hundred yards long, a hundred yards wide, three storeys high and roofed in glass, the department store had a hundred and fifty shops selling nothing very much and four hundred thousand people a day looking to buy it. Finding someone in there who didn’t want to be found would be damn near impossible.

‘Any sign?’

‘Nothing,’ Anna admitted. ‘I’d just got back when you called to ask if I wanted to go to supper. You didn’t say we’d be meeting someone else.’

‘Did you get the major’s number?’

She scowled as if he was the one changing the subject. ‘No. I should have done. But I was so excited someone had seen Alex… I know it’s stupid. It’ll be the first thing my husband asks.’

Alex in GUM? Shoplifting?

If she’d simply run away with her boyfriend and they were both at large, then possibly. But Tom figured her boyfriend was dead, killed in that fire. And Alex, well, wherever Alex was, he doubted very much she was wandering department stores. Although the shoplifting was a nice touch.

It’s what delinquent Western girls would do.

Tom wondered who was winding Sir Edward and Anna up and why. He’d barely done more than consider the question before the manager hurried from behind his counter and headed for the door. He helped Erekle Gabashville out of a full-length sable and folded the fur coat carefully over his arm. Tom rose to meet him.

‘What’s she doing here?’

‘You should meet her.’

The man’s eyes flicked to Anna, who sat very still and looked so serene she had to know she was being discussed. All signs of her earlier jumpiness were gone. Tom couldn’t help being impressed.

‘How should I name her. Lady Anna?’

Tom nodded. It would do.

She was Anna, Lady Masterton.

Tom didn’t believe it mattered. Caro would though.

But then Caro was Lady Caroline Fox, daughter of an earl. She wouldn’t revert to her maiden name when they divorced. She’d regard that as common. She’d remain Lady Caroline Fox until she became Lady Caroline Someone-Else.

At various times Caro’s father had been minister for education, minister of defence and home secretary. These days, his own father being dead, he sat in the Lords and on a handful of committees.

Invariably committees that mattered.

He’d decided early on that Margaret Thatcher might not be ‘one of us’ but she was going places and only a fool would stand in her way. It was a good call and the last few years had been kind to him. He’d begun to talk about his legacy.

After the recent riots in Brixton, Orgreave and the Beanfield, Tom wondered if his legacy would be what he thought it was.

Beziki asked Tom to say he was delighted to make Lady Anna’s acquaintance.

Anna Masterton said how sorry she was to hear of Edvard’s death and she hoped his other son would be returned safely.

‘You told her about that?’

‘I thought the two of you should talk.’

The manager stood squirming on the periphery of this. He knew who and what Gabashville was, without knowing what made him suddenly furious.

‘What matters,’ said Tom, ‘is that we save the children.’

‘Bit late for you though, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Tom agreed, feeling pain wash over him like lava. ‘It’s too late for me. It’s not too late for you, though. It’s not too late for her.’

Beziki gripped him by the shoulders.

‘You’re a good man.’

‘There are many who would disagree.’

Letting go, the Georgian laughed. ‘You and me both.’

Turning to the manager, he reeled off a list of dishes and the order in which they should be brought and the length of time to be left between each. Then he nodded politely to Anna, pulled out a chair and seated himself. She winced and he shrugged as it creaked under his weight.

‘You’ve eaten here before?’ Anna asked.

‘Often,’ Beziki said. ‘Never with someone so beautiful.’

Leaning across, he took Anna’s hand and kissed it, then sat back and nodded as dish after dish was delivered from a kitchen that must have half guessed his order in advance.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we all know God doesn’t exist. And Georgia is part of one big happy union. All the same, it was hard work making the world and God was exhausted by the time he finished Russia. That’s why it’s so flat and boring. Being hungry, he told the angels to bring him food. The food was so good he forgot about improving Russia and sent for more. In his hurry to eat it, scraps fell from his plate on to Georgia. That’s why Georgians still respect God. Also why our food is the finest.’

‘I’ll be sure to include that in my report on religion.’

‘It’s a good story,’ Anna said.

‘A true one.’

Having finished his wine, Beziki suffered Tom to pour him another glass and downed that just as fast, then he put his wine firmly aside and a flask of chacha appeared without him asking. Anna had just put her knife and fork neatly together when a massive silver dish of shashlik chicken was carried in.

‘Dear God,’ she muttered.

Beziki scooped half of it into his own bowl.

Then he produced a snapshot from his pocket and put it in front of Anna. ‘These are my boys.’ He seemed pleased that she examined the photograph carefully, before passing it to Tom.

‘Tell her,’ Beziki said, ‘that what I’m about to say is for her alone. Not you. Not her husband. If I could say it without needing you to translate, I would. Tell her I know what it is to have a child vanish. Tell her I have good connections. The kind of connections that should be able to discover who would dare do such a thing. They have discovered nothing about my child or hers.’

The fat man waited for Tom to put it into English.

‘I have no idea what her husband has been asked for. It is not my business to know. Apparently, since you don’t know, it is not yours either. He will, however, have been asked for something…’

Beziki stopped.

‘Please translate that exactly.’

Tom did.

‘What they wanted was for me to betray my friends, old comrades from the darkest days of the war. These are not people I can give up. They are not people it is safe to give up. They also asked for money. I collected double the amount requested. I intended to offer it in place of my friends. The kidnappers never made contact. They didn’t need me to tell them my decision. They already knew.’

‘So now,’ Anna said, ‘you don’t know who to trust?’

‘So now I talk to you.’

Anna ate and drank very little after that and Beziki conceded defeat and signalled to the manager that pudding should be skipped. He sat while Anna sipped coffee the consistency of silt, and stood the moment she pushed back her chair. ‘My car is at your disposal. Or a taxi is waiting if you prefer. The driver knows where to go.’

Glancing between the two men, Anna’s eyes narrowed.

‘Major Fox is staying here?’

‘It would seem so,’ Tom said.

‘Perhaps a little highly strung,’ Beziki said, after the taxi pulled away, ‘but charming. Now, this husband of hers… He tells you Alex wrote a note but can’t produce it. He admits things were difficult between them. He asks you to find her. Then he tells you to stop. Teenage stepdaughters can be tricky for some men. I imagine that’s occurred to you?’