The bus dropped him in Russki Boulevard by the National Assembly near a café where the customers were still sitting outside in the mild evening air. Kirov ordered a coffee, found a telephone and called the Balkan Sheraton, asking for Mr Craig. The call was switched to the room and an American voice answered, ‘Craig here.’
‘Wrong connection,’ Kirov replied and replaced the handset.
He left the café and walked to Lenin Square through streets empty of traffic except the fleet of black Mercedes parked outside the Party headquarters. In Moscow the first chills of winter were snapping the air, but here the balmy nights of summer had extended late into the season and the men in shirtsleeves and the women in their light print dresses had an easy way with them so that you could forget how things stood, and the idea of being followed by one of the pretty women whose perfume he could smell as they passed along the pavement had its sinister charm.
The Sheraton chain had refurbished the old Balkan hotel. It had designer belle époque deco and the Americans had changed the management style so that the staff were now as neat and assiduous as Mormon missionaries. Kirov checked with the desk and saw that Craig was still holding his key, which meant he had not left the hotel. He wrote a brief note, left it with the receptionist and an instruction to page the room, and went to the bar where he ordered a Zagorka beer. He sat on a stool facing the door and waited for the police to arrive. Instead, a man came into the bar with a woman on each arm and an expression of curiosity and amusement on his face.
‘I wasn’t expecting you, Mr…’ Craig spoke in well-modulated Russian, although Kirov’s note had been in English. The American was pleased with the effect of surprise he produced. ‘Can I buy you a drink? Ah, I see you’ve got one. Have you eaten yet? We were going to eat here,’ he smiled at the women, ‘and you’re welcome to join us.’
‘I haven’t eaten.’
‘Be my guest. Bring your beer. I have a table for three arranged, but I’m sure that another place can be set.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No trouble.’ The American raised a hand and conjured up the waiter who had trailed him to the bar. He spoke to the man in Bulgarian and asked for his table in the restaurant to be laid for four. The waiter nodded deferentially and left to carry out his commission.
‘You get good service here,’ Kirov remarked.
‘I get good service everywhere,’ Craig answered evenly and treated the other man to a studious look with no hostility behind it as if he had no use for hostility and paid people to hate on his behalf. Kirov put his age at forty, a big man with a handsome monumental head and thick hair cut as neat as a toupee and starting to go grey; then he revised the estimate upwards by ten years. Americans of that class and style carried their years well, their features fined down and firm on exercise, a good diet and an attention to image; unlike their Soviet counterparts, who withered on stress, cigarettes and drink or grew fat and sly on success. Craig dressed to match in an open cotton shirt, an expensive woollen sweater and chequered trousers with a touch of golf-pro chic. ‘Are you going to bring that beer…?’
‘Peter.’
‘…Peter. Call me Bill. My friends call me Bill.’
‘Bill.’
‘OK. Good of you to join us.’ Craig slipped his arms around the waists of his two girlfriends and quit the bar, leaving Kirov to follow.
‘So you want to talk English or Russian?’ Craig asked as they sat at their table, now set for four. ‘Take your pick, the girls don’t speak either, except Minka who can talk dirty in Russian.’
‘Where did you learn to speak Russian?’
‘My grandparents came from the old country a million years ago.’
‘Your family is Jewish?’
‘Part Jewish, part Irish, part nigger — in America who knows?’
‘You have a good accent.’
‘Sure,’ Craig answered indifferently and ordered the wine. ‘I take it you’ve no preference? The local Cabernet Sauvignon is OK.’ He told the waiter to bring some shopska salad and some mineral water. ‘Do you mind if I do the ordering? I know what’s available and what these guys can cook. Where are you staying?’
‘Another hotel.’
‘The Moscow Park? High-class Russians normally stay there unless they’re bunking in one of the embassy apartments.’
‘You meet many Russians?’
‘A few. I’m a sexy guy, the KGB can’t get enough of me.’
‘You’ve had dealings with KGB?’
Craig treated this as a joke. His face broke into a smile of immaculate white teeth. ‘They don’t exactly advertise but you get to recognise the house style. Now I’d say that you were KGB.’
Kirov didn’t reply.
‘KGB, MVD, GRU, I’ve got no prejudices.’
‘You’ve met GRU too?’
‘Maybe.’
‘In 1984, for example, in the spring. What were they looking for?’
‘You tell me. Guilty people? Isn’t that what you characters are always looking for? Find the guilty people and afterwards you can find out what they’re guilty of. You’re talking to the wrong man, Peter. I’m just a businessman.’ Craig snapped his fingers and ordered more drinks. The two women giggled. The waiter came with the salads and took the American’s order for the main dish. Having finished with the waiter, Craig ignored his guest and attended to his girlfriends, taking from his pockets a couple of trinkets, which he gave to them in exchange for a kiss.
‘How long have you been dealing in Bulgaria?’
Craig stopped stroking his partner’s hand. ‘Ten years, more or less. My company provided the technology for the Bulpharma plant.’
‘Your company?’
‘The Lee Foundation. I’m surprised you don’t know them. Didn’t you do your homework before visiting us?’
‘I prefer to get direct answers.’
‘Are you sure you’re not KGB?’ Craig observed tolerantly, and the women giggled at the joke though Kirov believed the American that neither woman could understand them. But Craig spoke a fluent body-language of easy gestures, smiles, hugs and caresses, even if most of it was lies or at best equivocal, and his companions could pick up the joke from the raising of an eyebrow. Kirov merely noted this characteristic and that the other man was trading on his sexual presence, in recognition of the fact that sex and power were interchangeable currencies and easily confused. He had never before had a man so clearly flirt with him — if flirt was the right word since the American’s attentions were directed at the women and it was intended only that Kirov should be seduced by the display of power. He found it neither attractive nor repellent: the poverty of human eloquence meant that every emotion, intimacy or intensity was expressed, at least in part, sexually. And, however masked, this was as true between men as between men and women.
‘Would you like one of the girls?’ Craig asked.
‘What do you do for the Lee Foundation?’
‘I’m the European Vice-President.’
‘Does that mean you visit the USSR?’
‘I sell to the Soviet Union but I don’t need to go there. Your guys know pretty well what they want.’
‘You’ve never been to the Soviet Union?’
‘Didn’t I say that?’
The main course arrived. Craig had ordered shashlyk for everyone and red wine to go with it. The manager and the head waiter came round and in English with American accents enquired with untypical piety how the meal was going. Craig thanked them and slew them with a smile so that Kirov wondered if charisma was neat white teeth, a good orthodontist and the right dentifrice.