“Nyet.” He snaps his fingers and says something to the two revenants. They split, taking up positions to either side of the street front of the pub. “After you,” he says, waving me into the entrance.
If I was James Bond, this is the point at which I would draw my concealed pistol, plug both heavies between the eyes, get Panin in an armlock, and pistol-whip some answers out of him. But I am not James Bond, and I don’t want to precipitate a diplomatic incident by assaulting the Second Naval Attaché and a couple of embassy guards or footballers or whatever (not to mention sparking a murder investigation which would result in the Plumbers having to conduct a gigantic and expensive cover-up operation, all of which would come out of my departmental operating budget and drive Iris to distraction). And anyway, everyone knows that you don’t get useful answers by torturing people, you get useful answers by making them trust you.
(Why don’t you talk to them? I’d asked the committee.
(Because we might unintentionally tell them something they don’t already know, said Choudhury, after staring at me for a minute as if I’d grown a second head.
(Fuck that shit, like I said.)
So I let Panin buy me a pint. “By the way, do you mind if I text my wife to tell her I’m going to be late?” I ask.
“If you think it necessary, but I promise I will keep you only half an hour.”
“Thanks.” I smile gratefully and whip out the NecronomiPod and tap out a text: HAVING A BEER WITH UNCLE FESTER’S BOSS, HOME LATE. Panin holds up a purple drinking voucher and it has the desired effect: money and a pair of pint glasses change hands. He carries them over to a small table in the back of the pub and I follow him. Panin’s assistants gave me a nasty turn, but it seems this is to be a friendly chat, albeit for extremely unusual values of friendly. I keep both my hands on the table. Wouldn’t do to give the Spetsnaz goons the wrong idea—I have a feeling it would take more than Harry’s AA-12 shotgun to stop them in their tracks.
“To health, home, and happiness,” he proposes, raising his glass.
“I’ll drink to that.” My ward doesn’t nudge me as I bring the drink to my lips. “So. I guess you wanted to talk?”
“Mm, yes.” Panin, having taken a mouthful, puts his glass down. “Do you have any clues to its whereabouts?”
“Have what?” I ask cautiously.
“The teapot.”
“Tea—” I take another mouthful of ESB. “Pot?” There was something about a teapot in those letters, wasn’t there? Something Choudhury said in the meeting, maybe?
“It’s missing.” Panin sounds impatient. “Your people have lost it, yes?”
I decide to play dumb. “If any teapots have gone missing, I suppose Facilities would be the people who’d deal with that . . . Why do you ask?”
“You English!” For a moment, Panin looks exasperated, then he quickly pulls a lid over it. “The teapot is missing,” he repeats, as if to a very slow pupil. “It has been missing since last week. Everyone is looking for it, us, you, the opposition . . . ! You were its last keepers. Please, I implore you, find it? For all our sakes, find it before the wrong people get their hands on it and make tea.”
Committed to paper, this dialogue might sound comicaclass="underline" but coming from Panin’s mouth, in his soft, clipped diction, it is anything but.
I shiver. “Ungern Sternberg’s teapot didn’t get misplaced by accident,” I hazard.
Panin’s response takes me by surprise: “Idiot!” He leans back in disgust, raises his glass, and takes a deep and disrespectful swig. “You are fishing, now.”
Bother, I’ve been rumbled. “’Fraid so. Let me level with you? I know it’s missing, but that’s all I know. But I’ll tell you what, if you can tell me what happened in Amsterdam last Wednesday and why it followed my wife home on Thursday I would be very grateful.”
“Amster—” Panin shuts his mouth with a click. “Your wife is unhurt, I hope?” he asks, all nervous solicitude.
“Shaken.” But not stirred. “The—intruder—was attributed to your people, did you know that?”
“Not unexpected.” Panin makes a gesture of dismissal with one hand. “They do that, you know. To muddy the waters.”
“Who? The opposition?”
Panin gives me that look again, the look you might give to the friendly but stupid puppy that’s just widdled on the carpet for the third time that day. “Tell me, Mr. Howard, what do you know?”
I sigh. “Not much, it seems. I have been seconded to a committee that’s trying to work out why you folks are currently running up an eBay reputation score like there’s no tomorrow. I am trying to deal with an unpleasant domestic situation, namely work following my wife home. My boss is out of the office, and I’m trying to pick up the pieces. If you thought you could shake me down for useful information, I’m afraid you picked the wrong spy. I could tell you more than you could possibly want to know about the structured cabling requirements for our new headquarter building’s fourth subbasement, but when it comes to missing teapots, nobody put me on the flash priority classified briefing list.”
“I see.” Panin looks gloomy. “Well, Mr. Howard, many would not believe you—but I do. So, here is my card.” He passes me a plain white business card—unprinted on either side, but pressed from a very high grade of linen weave. It makes my fingertips tingle. “Should you have anything to discuss, call me.”
I slide it into my breast pocket. “Thanks.”
“As for the teapot, it was never the same after Ungern Sternberg retrieved it from the Bogd Khan’s altar.”
He’s studying my face. I do my best not to twitch. I’ve heard those names before. “I’ll keep my eyes open for it,” I reassure him.
“I’m sure you will,” he says gravely. “After all, it would be in everyone’s best interests for the teapot to return to its rightful office.” He drains his beer glass. “I will see you around, I am sure,” he says, rising.
“Bye.” I raise my glass to his back as he turns towards the door, shoulders hunched.
CLASSIFIED: S76/47 ANNEX A
Dear Mother,
Salutations from Urga! I greet you as Khan Sternberg, Outstanding Prosperous-State Hero of Mongolia, first warlord and general of the Living Buddha and Emperor of Mongolia, His Holiness Bogd Djebtsung Damba Hutuktu! Great events, bloody battle, heroic struggle, and glorious victory have contrived to elevate me to the threshold of my destiny, as inheritor of the empire of Genghis Khan. It is spring in Mongolia, and already I have purged this land of Bolsheviks, terrorists, and subhumans; soon my armies will commence their march on St. Petersburg, to restore the blessed Prince Michael to his rightful throne and to cleanse Mother Russia of the depravity of revolution and the filthy degenerates who have turned their back on the holy Tsar.
(Once I have restored the Tsar I consider it my duty to retake those lands that have been stolen from the Empire, including our homeland. I trust you will think kindly of me for raising the yoke of anarchist tyranny from the necks of the true aristocracy of Estonia when I come to purify the Baltic lands and restore the just weight of monarchy to the upstart Poles.)
The conquest of Urga presented me with a considerable challenge, and I shall describe it for you. Urga lies in a valley between hills, along the banks of the Tula river. When I laid siege to it, the river was frozen; but the degenerate Chinese occupiers had constructed trenches, barricades and barbed wire defenses around Upper Maimaichen . . .
[Lengthy description of the siege of Ulan Bator, 1920.]
Now here is a curiosity:
When we stormed the palace of the Bogd Khan to take the Living Buddha from his Chinese captors, the fighting was fierce: after liberating His Holiness my men executed a tactical withdrawal. But once his excellency was safe, when I ordered the main attack on the Chinese host occupying the city, I detailed a reliable man—my ensign Evgenie Burdokovskii, who the men call Teapot—to secure the treasury against looters. It is a sad fact that Reds and wreckers are everywhere and in these degenerate times the swine I have to work with—rejects and deserters of the once-great army—are as likely to turn to banditry and crime as to bend the neck before my righteous authority. Burdokovskii is a stout fellow, a cossack: powerful and broad-chested, with a little curly blond head and a narrow forehead. He always does what I ask of him, which is a blessing, and if there is one man I would trust to stand guard on a treasure-house for me, it is he.