‘Now you’re being offensive, Peter. Casting nasturtiums. Not nice.’ Lucas threw back his drink and took another piece of sausage. He was old and wily and played out; and dangerous as an ancient tiger turned man-eater for the easy meat. ‘I think I want to go to bed. The good boy needs his bye-byes.’
‘Why did you invite me to Yelena’s party?’
‘Just as you guessed. I wanted you and Lara to get back together again.’
‘That’s what I thought at first.’
‘At first?’
‘And then I remembered that, during those two or three days, you called me several times. Yelena wasn’t giving a party every night, was she?’
‘I was lonely.’
‘You were quite insistent.’
‘That’s a matter of interpretation. I don’t know what you’re getting at, Peter.’
‘No? Well, let’s say that all those calls were intended to create an opportunity for someone to meet me. Who would it be? Not Lara. She was as surprised to meet me as I was her. And she wouldn’t have been with Radek if she had wanted to see me.’
‘Ah!’ Lucas defended himself. ‘Got you there! I never said that Lara wanted to see you. It was all my own idea. I knew Lara would be at Yelena’s party and the thought just came to me: Peter — Lara — friends and former lovebirds. I’m a sentimental old thing.’
‘And the day before? You knew where Lara would be the day before when you suggested we have a drink together? Is that the story, Neville? You would have arranged another casual meeting? I’m surprised you know so much about Lara’s movements.’
Lucas turned sour. ‘You have a cruel intellect, Peter. Full of nasty and suspicious thoughts. Not the way to make friends — no, not at all.’ He stretched his arms and yawned beneath his wideawake eyes. ‘Sleepy times,’ he said. ‘Yes, definitely. I’ll say goodnight to you, Peter. Sleep well. Hmm — yes — time to give Teddy a cuddle.’
Lucas and his woman slept in the next room. Nadezhda Dmitrievna snored. Her soft breath made a trilling noise like a caged bird. Kirov sat in the main room with the model railway and the piles of cigarette cartons, and dozed fitfully in the darkness.
Some time in the early hours Lucas came padding into the room wearing his pyjama jacket, long underwear and socks. He regarded Kirov doubtfully, then grinned and said, ‘What, still awake? I’ve got a sodding headache. Trying to remember where I left the aspirins.’ He poured a drink and fiddled with the record player. He fanned himself with an old black disc, big as a dinner plate, then placed it on the deck. The strains of ‘In the Mood’ broke the stillness.
‘Not Glenn Miller,’ he said, and added with cautious pride, ‘My dad. Just as good, don’t you think? Bum-bum-bum-dee-diddle-dah. Duggie Lucas and His Big Sound. During the war the old man used to knock them dead in the fleshpots of Morpeth and North Shields except when the American army bands were in town. He could do that since he didn’t have to fight. Reserved occupation essential for the civilian war effort — he was a black marketeer. I suppose your old man was in the war?’
‘In Minsk.’
‘Bit of a hero, eh?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Ah — not sure, eh? I understand. In this country it’s never clear who the heroes are.’
They sat in opposing chairs. Lucas stared at his feet while his fingers took a walk around his glass.
‘Look — about your business,’ he began slowly. ‘I’m sorry to have buggered around. Old habits. You won’t hold it against me?’
‘No.’
‘Only I did know Viktor. It’s just as you say, except that it wasn’t at the Aragvi I met him, it was that restaurant in the television tower, place off Prospekt Mira near the Park of Economic Achievement, I forget the name. Otherwise you have the picture: Viktor and his smiling crew straight off the morning flight from Tbilisi, buying everything in the restaurant and generally up to no good. And not to forget the girls, one for everybody and a couple of spares to hand out like tips. He liked his style, did Viktor.
‘I was invited to join the party. It was embarrassing — me with a tart on each knee and my Russian none too special. Tongue-tied, that’s the expression. I had a few too many, you understand.’
‘I understand.’
‘And I told them I was in the KGB — gave them my rank and all,’ Lucas went on guiltily. ‘Well, I thought it would impress them. And it did! The following morning I’m sitting at home nursing a thick head and there’s a knock on the door and a character outside with a bouquet of flowers you wouldn’t believe. With Love From Viktor — I must have told him about Nadezhda Dmitrievna — at least, I hope they were for Nadezhda Dmitrievna — yes, they must have been. All those women — Viktor couldn’t have been…. And there’s a letter. We must have talked about books; Viktor wanted to know if I could lend him some. He was a fanatic for books.’ Lucas paused. ‘I behaved bloody silly really.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’
‘Viktor began to ask you for favours.’
‘No.’ Lucas shoved back his drink, poured another and turned the record over to play ‘American Patrol’. ‘No,’ he repeated, ‘it wasn’t like that.’
‘How was it?’
Lucas searched for a word and came up with, ‘Different.’ But it was unsatisfactory and he wrinkled his brow before trying to explain. ‘I think Viktor liked influence for its own sake. Not to use. Maybe it gave him a feeling of security, just knowing that people owed him something’
‘That’s unusual?’ Kirov answered sceptically. He thought of where Viktor’s influence had ended. He had lain on a slab in the Butyrka, and the doctors, on the instructions of his friends in MVD, rummaged in his guts for diamonds.
‘Viktor was unusual,’ Lucas answered. As an afterthought he added, ‘Someone told me that one night at dinner he burst out crying. Now I call that unusual.’
‘Who told you that — George Gvishiani?’
‘I see you’ve guessed about George,’ Lucas replied ruefully.
‘Did he tell you why Viktor created a scene? Perhaps he mentioned someone called Zagranichny?’
‘Zagranichny? Never heard of him. Not that I would. Viktor used to make up names for his friends; even George Gvishiani was known as Sergei. Viktor said he was a relative of Kosygin’s son-in-law and an authentic big cheese, but I think that’s all balls. The only favour I ever did was for George, and there wasn’t much to it. He wanted to meet you — to size you up, he said — I mean honest, Peter, where was the harm? George was pissed off with Viktor, thought he was cracking up after the crying business. Frankly he was glad when Viktor died. But you worried him: he wasn’t happy at the thought of a KGB investigation. “Neville,” says he, “I want to meet this Kirov and see what he’s made of, see whether he’s friendly.” “Bollocks to friendly,” say I, “Kirov is straight” — that’s the truth, I told him that — but he wants to meet you, and no one is to get hurt. You know the rest: I asked you out for a drink and invited you to Yelena Akhmerova’s party. George Gvishiani was there by arrangement. It was a coincidence that Lara turned up!’
The last bars of the record expired. Lucas got to his feet and shuffled around the table with its railway layout. He set an engine going and studied it with morose distraction. Without shifting his eyes, he asked, ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Someone is trying to kill me,’ Kirov answered.
‘Uh huh,’ Lucas murmured dully. He watched the train go clickety-clack all the way to his childhood. After a moment he said, ‘In that case it would be better if you only stayed one night.’