'I'm here to fix Antanova's car,' I told the stage doorkeeper. 'Which one is it?'
'What?'
Hard of hearing, a drip on his nose, his hands chilblained. I told him again.
'There are two Antanovas,' he said, 'in the company.'
'Natalya.'
'The BMW.'
'There are three BMWs out there.'
'The gunmetal-grey coupe.'
'Are you sure?' This was important.
He stared at me, rheumy-eyed, as if I were mental. 'I know all their cars,' he said, and picked up his newspaper again, shaking it out.
Snow was whirling under the lights as I went back to the Mercedes; it had been coming down harder in the past hour; the forecast had warned of a blizzard moving in before midnight. I peeled off the overalls, pulling my dinner jacket straight and checking the tie, putting on the overcoat and walking down the pavement for half a block to the first taxi in the rank, giving the driver a $50-note and telling him what I wanted him to do.
'I'm going to lose a fare,' he said, 'when the audience turns out, this snow and all.'
I was ready for this and gave him another $50. 'Do it right, or I'll skin your hide.'
'I don't think there'll be any problem.'
I didn't let the thought worry me, as I sat watching the exquisite Antanova, that the whole of the mission could now depend on whether that driver out there did exactly what I'd told him to do. Go anywhere near the stage door or remain in sight and he'd blow Balalaika.
Another glissade, this one enough to catch the breath. If Natalya Antanova was working to become a prima ballerina, what was she doing with a man like Sakkas?
I didn't hurry when the curtain came down; she'd take a little time getting the grease paint off. People were bunching on the pavement outside the vestibule as the limousines and taxis came rolling in, forming a double lane. My driver wasn't among them.
I was sitting in the Mercedes when the dancers came through the stage door, seeing the snow and hunching forward as they crossed to their cars. With their fur collars raised to shield their faces I wouldn't have recognized Antanova, had to wait until she reached her BMW and saw the taxi blocking it in and turned to look around for the driver.
I got out and went across to her. 'It's broken down,' I said.
She almost whirled on me, her eyes wide. 'How do you know?'
'The driver told me. He's gone to find a mechanic, if he can.'
Her expression half-believing as she stood staring at me, the snow falling on her shoulders; I thought it probable that she only half-believed anything, was running scared, like Mitzi Piatilova.
'How long will he be?' she asked me.
'On a night like this I doubt if he'll be able to fetch a mechanic out anyway. Let me offer you a lift.'
'No, I -' she swung away to look at the warmly lit stage door while I wondered if she'd go in there to use the telephone and call someone to pick her up, two seconds, three, the waiting difficult for me because if she did that, the whole scenario would be wrecked at the outset. The snow spiralled, black against the lights, the wind chill cutting the face.
Swinging back to me, taking in my expensive coat, the sable hat. 'Which way are you going?'
'The Boulevard Ring.' Sakkas wouldn't rule his empire from the suburbs.
'Which is your car?' she asked me.
'That one. You'll freeze, standing out here.'
An expensive Mercedes seemed as reassuring to her as the coat, and she nodded and went over to it and I stopped myself in time from opening the door for her: it would be surprising, dangerous in terms of a tight cover, in a Muscovite, especially to a woman who was regarded as cattle.
'Your performance is beautiful to watch,' I said as we turned north.
'Thank you.'
The face elfin, sculpted almost in miniature, the cheekbones perfect, the eyes large, luminous, the mouth tender, traces of rouge still glowing on one cheek, clown-like, where she'd missed it in the dressing-room mirror, a single curl of chestnut hair hanging loose below her ear, no jewellery. A beautiful woman, yes.
'How long have you been dancing?'
'Since I was three years old.' But with no interest in her tone, even though her work must be her life, or whatever life Vasyl Sakkas allowed her. Perhaps she had worries on her mind tonight, wasn't always so scared of strangers.
The snow was hitting the windscreen with enough force to smother it, and I switched on the heater wash and slowed until the glass cleared.
'I need the address,' I told Antanova.
'Number 1183. It's one of the big houses, lying back.'
I gave it a moment. 'How is Vasyl?'
At the edge of my vision field I saw her head jerk to look at me.
'You know him?'
'I remember the address.'
Still watching me: 'He's in St Petersberg.'
Throp, throp, the wipers. Steam was rising against the windscreen as the lights of a car swept across it and the clinking of chains became louder suddenly, snow drumming in a wave against the side of the Mercedes as the other vehicle swerved across the ruts.
'When's he coming back?' I asked Antanova.
'Tonight.' She was facing her front now, worried about an accident.
'I would have liked to talk to him.'
'Vasyl? You'd need an appointment, and screening. Or do you know him well?'
'We've done business. And excuse me – my name's Berinov, Dmitri. I'm in jewellery, chiefly export.'
The snow blinding in the beams, the dim outlines of the houses ghostly on either side of the street, some of their numbers legible in the back-light: 1175.
'In any case he won't be in Moscow,' Antanova said, 'until the early hours.' Then she was silent for a time, and when I glanced at her I saw she was crying, her face buried in her furs, the tears glistening in the half-light.
In a moment I asked her, 'Can I help?'
She said nothing, shook her head vigorously, even desperately. Perhaps the worry on her mind tonight, then, was Sakkas' return to Moscow. He would have missed her, and was not a gentle man. I pushed the thought away.
No. 1181, and as I began slowing, headlights on full beam stabbed suddenly from the distance, and I dragged the visor down.
'The next house?' I asked Antanova.
She was shielding her eyes against the glare. 'I don't want to go in,' she told me, the tone raw, a soft cry muted by her hands.
'All right.'
But the headlights were closing on us very fast now and I said sharply, 'Get down.'