Quiller Balalaika

'Let's call him Boris.'

'Has he been charged?'

'Yes.'

'When?'

'A week ago.

With a shrug: 'It's still nothing anyone in the mafiya would need help with. Even if the Scorpion refuses, Boris must have more than enough cash in hand to fix the judge.'

'For one thing, he gambles – and loses. For another thing, the girl is still in the intensive care unit, and they don't think much of her chances.'

'So it could turn into a rape-murder.'

'Yes.'

Someone dropped an iron saucepan behind the counter, and Mitzi flinched, took a couple of seconds to recover. 'How do you think anyone in the RAOC could help Boris?'

'By taking the heat off him. Admitting to false arrest.'

She looked down again, turning the ring. 'It would be rather dangerous for you to approach our people over there. I only started work with them a month ago, so I don't know which ones would be open to persuasion. Most of them are loyal to the Administration, I do know that. You go to the wrong one and you'd be in trouble yourself. Deep trouble.'

'So what do I do?'

'Look,' she said in a moment, 'you could be anyone. You could be in the RAOC yourself – we've got internal investigators.'

I got out my wallet and put my identification card on the table. London had embossed it to read Dmitri Vladimir Berinov, Import-Export, Overseas Affiliates.

'What do you deal in?' Mitzi asked me.

'Anything I can find a source for. Antiques – mainly icons – furs, gems, strategic metals, drugs.'

'Have you got anything on you?'

I looked around, then pushed a small plastic bag across to her. 'Keep it out of sight.'

Mitzi opened the ziplock and sniffed the contents, her eyes on me. 'Is this coke?'

'You don't recognize it?'

'I'll take your word for it.' She zipped the bag shut and passed it back, her hand covering it. 'What kind of gems?'

'Diamonds, when I can find them. Rubies, opals, tourmaline, sapphires. That's a nice ring you're wearing. I've been admiring it.'

'Thank you.' She tugged her black sweater down, perhaps to show off her breasts: she'd done it several times, just as she tossed her head to show off her chestnut-brown hair. 'So maybe I'll trust you,' she said. 'Maybe I won't. It depends. This Boris – you mean he hasn't got any funds? Because of his gambling?'

'What would you call 'funds"?'

'I don't know – maybe a hundred thousand US dollars.'

'He might be able to find fifty thousand.'

'That could be enough.'

'But you said you don't know the people over there. The ones you might be able to buy.'

'I wouldn't do it through them.'

'How would you do it?'

Ignoring this, 'Ask him if he'll go to fifty thousand. And a thousand for me.'

'If he can't find that much, I will.'

She took another pastry and bit into it, dropping crumbs, watching me all the time. In a moment, 'What guarantee can you give me?'

'My word.'

'That doesn't mean a lot in Moscow these days.'

'It means a lot to me.'

'I like that.'

'And you like money.'

Laughing, tossing her head back, 'It's all I think about. Why shouldn't I?'

'Absolutely no reason. I'm not in import-export for fun, either. Excuse me a minute.'

There was only one man in the lavatory and I got out my wallet and did some counting. Back at the table I stood close to Mitzi and pushed the wad of notes against her arm. 'Put it away without looking at it.'

When she'd taken it I sat down. 'That's your thousand dollars. I'll hand over the fifty when Boris is off the hook.'

She looked at me with her eyes bright. 'How long will you give me?'

'He's due in court tomorrow.'

'That's rather short notice.'

'So you'll have to be quick.' The sooner the executive can find access at the outset of the mission the better it is for his nerves: he's no longer on the prowl in the field, trying to find his direction.

'I can't guarantee anything,' Mitzi said.

'That's understood.'

'You're a generous man.'

'It oils the wheels.'

Someone came in and let the door slam and she flinched again, and again tried to cover it with a wry laugh. 'Christ, somepeople are so noisy!'

'Gets on your nerves.'

She looked at her watch, a thin Jacques Picquot. 'I've only got ten minutes more of my lunch hour.' Getting a ballpoint and a piece of paper from her pouch, she began writing. 'TonightI'll be at the Baccarat Club. It's on Kirova Vlitsa. I'll be sitting at a table near the door. Be there by nine o'clock and give this to the doorman – he'll let you in.' She pushed the slip of paper towards me.

'And then?'

'There's a man you should talk to. I want to be there when he shows up. If he doesn't, I'll try and find someone else. But he should be there – he plays poker in a private room, most nights of the week.'

'He's mafiya?'

'Yes.'

'How big is he?'

'How big?'

'What's his status in the mob?'

She thought about it. 'Maybe halfway up the scale. But powerful. And dangerous – treat him with care.'

'What's his reket? '

'Protection, mainly, but he also deals in sable.'

'Nothing else?'

'Not as far as I know. But he keeps a few judges in his pocket. That's why you should talk to him.'

'You want to tell me his name?'

'Vishinsky. He calls himself the Cougar.'

'How long have you known him?'

'Maybe a month, six weeks. I've only talked to him a couple of times, but I know his reputation. And I see him around.'

'At the club?'

'Yes. I'm a spare-time hostess there when I've got nothing else to do.'

She looked at her watch again and I said, 'I'll be there before nine tonight.'

'All right. It's formal dress.'

'Black tie?'

'No, just a good suit.' She pushed her chair back, tossing her head. 'So I'll see you at the club.'

I got up and went with her to the door, and as I watched her crossing the street I considered the impression she'd been giving me all the time we'd been sitting together. Mitzi Piatilova was running scared.

4: SMOKE

She was extraordinarily supple, using the whole of her body in a wave of sinuous movement that flowed from her arms downward across her hips and into her long slender legs as she placed her feet with an instinctive precision, following me so closely that I had the feeling we were a single creature prowling through the jungle beat of the music.

Her name was Claudette, and the heavy gold necklace she wore had the flamboyance of solid gold.

Sometimes as we turned I saw Mitzi sitting at the end of the bar, the rainbow colours of its lights playing across her face. She hadn't looked in this direction since my partner and I had moved onto the small raised floor.

'Can you get me in?' I asked Claudette.

'To see him?'

'Yes.'

'Why should I?' Her eyes were huge, glinting with the sheen of black sable under snowlight as she watched me, amused, I think, because I couldn't dance with this serpentine grace that she possessed, give me a chance for God's sake, she was the soul of Africa and I was a runt from London.

'Because I want to do business with him,' I said. 'Mitzi said you might do me a favour.'

We were talking about Vishinsky. He was in the private room across there behind the podium where the band was playing. Vishinsky the Cougar. He had come in twenty minutes ago, two of his bodyguards pushing open the twin gilded doors and leading him along the wall past the rose-shaded lamps where people sat with their drinks. Reproduction? They could be original – this was a rich man's haunt, appointed with an understated splendour: the owner was French, Mitzi had told me.

'I'm needed at the bar,' she had also told me when Vishinsky and his entourage had swept into the place. 'Go and dance with the black girl – her name's Claudette. Tell her I want her to help you.'

We turned, turned again, borne along by the music while these huge eyes watched me, never looked away. More than one man, I thought, must have drowned in them.