Already, her functionary was yielding her to an approaching male. “Enjoy your evening, Ms. Taverner.”
The newcomer was in late middle age; his head hair dark, his neatly crafted beard shot with silver. Five ten, she estimated. In good shape for his age and profession: like her, he spent his working days underground, surrounded by screens and well-trained staff; so like her, his apparent good health was testimony to early hours working out, or pounding round a park. His suit—new tie—bore no traces of recent international flight, and the smile with which he greeted her was in his eyes too, which had a greenish tinge. Diana had never met him in the flesh: MFD, as he was abbreviated on the hub. Moscow’s First Desk. Her opposite number. She was no mathematician, but found herself wondering: Would such a meeting produce a zero? And then dismissed the frivolity in much the way Vassily Rasnokov dismissed the functionary: both departed without a murmur.
“Diana Taverner. I saw your name on the guest list, and was disappointed to hear that you’d declined. But this afternoon I was told that you’d become available, and it gladdened my heart. It would have been a disappointment not to meet, after all this time.”
In the current manner, he clasped his hands and gave a little bow.
She said, “A previous engagement was cancelled. I was glad of it too. This is a rare opportunity.”
“Rare indeed. I don’t know about you, but there are people back home who will be furious we’re in the same room unaccompanied.”
“Same here.”
“And others who would want me to bring back your autograph.”
“I’m ahead of you there, Vassily. I have any number of people who can do me your autograph.”
He laughed, without overdoing it, and raised a hand for the nearest waitress. When she arrived, he took a glass of mineral water from her tray.
Diana went on: “This is a surprise, though. I didn’t see your name on the visitors’ list.”
He shrugged so hugely he might have been French. “I was a last-minute substitution. There was an illness, and a lecture had to be cancelled. Which would have been a shame, as the staff here were looking forward to it. It just so happened that the topic—”
“Battleship Potemkin,” Diana contributed.
“Yes. Happens to be an interest of mine. So I thought, well, why not come over to London and give the lecture myself? And enjoy your beautiful city in the autumn sunshine.”
“Which happened so swiftly that we have no documented entry for you.”
Rasnokov shook his head, sympathy in his eyes. “Ah, paperwork. How many things fall between the cracks? But let’s not look a gift horse in the teeth. It’s very satisfying to meet you face-to-face. For you, maybe not such the pleasure, eh?”
She gave this a moment’s thought. “Oh, I don’t know. The beard rather suits you.”
He seemed in a relaxed mood, but then, he’d had a reasonably laid-back few days. The hastily assembled itinerary Diana had received just hours ago had verified his arrival at Heathrow on Tuesday morning, though the passport he’d shown had been in the name of Gregory Ronovitch, which was also the name he’d used when checking in at the Grosvenor. He’d eaten there Tuesday evening, and had gone to bed asking for an 8 a.m. alarm call. Wednesday morning he’d breakfasted at the hotel, enjoyed a well-detailed shopping excursion which had taken in every second emporium along Regent Street, though had resulted in no purchases that wouldn’t fit in a single bag, and then returned to the embassy for—presumably—meetings, after which the Grosvenor again, dinner and bed. This afternoon, following the catch-up meeting at the Park when his presence had dropped like a bagful of pennies, the luckless Pete Dean had picked him up leaving the embassy once more, this time with a seven-strong team counting his footsteps: they were treated to a crawl along the South Bank, culminating in a full hour and twenty-eight minutes during which Vassily sat on a bench with that morning’s Guardian, gazed across the river, and made no contact whatsoever of any kind with anyone. That, anyway, was their claim, and even now that same team was back in the Park’s viewing room, studying the footage at quarter speed like a bunch of poloneckers at an Andy Warhol retrospective. Rasnokov, meanwhile, had cabbed back to the Grosvenor, from which he’d reappeared fifty-four minutes later, freshly-suited, to head on back to the embassy.
And here he was.
She said, “The tie was a good choice. The one with spots was a little much, I thought.”
“It’s a question of what you can carry off, isn’t it? I prefer the low-key look.”
“Along with an off-the-cuff approach.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m still wondering about the suddenness of your visit. You’re sure it wasn’t prompted by circumstances back home?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I had the feeling, not long ago, that you were less than satisfied with some of the more, ah, provocative actions sanctioned by your boss.”
“You’re succumbing to wishful thinking, Diana. It’s always satisfying to imagine, what shall we say, an opposition team falling prey to rifts and squabbles.”
“It can be even more alarming to see a united front despite the criminal nature of the party line.”
“We might have to disagree on issues of legality.”
“Murder’s a black-and-white matter, I’d have thought.” She took a sip of champagne. There were other trays circling too: caviar, blinis. “Do you ever worry you’re headed back to the bad old days?”
“The Cold War was a two-way street.”
“I was thinking of older days than those. There were Tsars who wielded less power.”
“If you’re looking for flaws in public figures,” Rasnokov suggested, “maybe you should direct your gaze nearer home. Your own Prime Minister, perhaps. A man who’d rather people remember the promises he’s made than count the ones he’s kept.” He looked thoughtfully at the glass in his hand, but didn’t drink from it. “Though of course, to call him your country’s leader might not be entirely accurate. Say what you will about our president, but he is not a glove puppet.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s brought comfort to his victims.”
“Are we going to discuss politics? There are flaws in every system, Diana. I prefer to leave reform to those who know what they’re doing. Your own Anthony Sparrow, for instance. An interesting man, don’t you find?”
“Don’t believe all you read in the press.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. But I meant in person. We had a most enjoyable conversation over dinner.”
Diana nodded, because all the words made sense, and had appeared in intelligible order: enjoyable, conversation, dinner. Her apparent lack of concern failed to impress Rasnokov.
“You look, I’m not quite sure what the word I’m reaching for is. Unsettled?”
“The champagne,” she said. “Poor quality brands have that effect.”
“You’re running through my itinerary in your head, yes? And you’re wondering how I managed to squeeze in dinner with Mr. Sparrow without your being aware of it.”
She couldn’t tell whether he was toying with her; whether he knew Regent’s Park had dropped the ball, and he’d been free to wander at will before this afternoon. “Really,” she said. “You make it sound like you’re newly arrived in a police state.”
“Oh, no. Police states are famous for their efficiency.” He drank some of his water at last. “But you can relax. I’m sure your people were doing their job. No need to dispatch them to, what’s the name of this department? Slough House?”
He mispronounced the word; deliberately, she was sure. But she made no attempt to correct him.