the flow. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’
And then the Ambassador arrived.
The diplomat ended up with his wife seated on his right, Monica on his left, and Kurbsky opposite. Dunkley beamed away lower down the table, facing the French Ambassador and proving that an Englishman could speak the language perfectly. The whole thing was thoroughly enjoyable, but glancing across the table, Monica was conscious that Kurbsky had withdrawn into himself. He reminded her once again of Dillon in a way. For one thing the champagne intake was considerable, but there was an air of slight detachment. He observed, not really taking part, but then that was the writer in him, judging people, constantly assessing the situation in which he found himself.
He caught her eye, smiled slightly and raised his eyebrows, as if saying what fools they all were, and then silence was called for speeches and the Russian Ambassador led the way. It was as if it were international friendship week, nothing unpleasant was happening in the world, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan faded into obscurity, the only thing of any significance being this dinner in one of New York’s greatest hotels, with wonderful food, champagne, and beautiful women. Everyone applauded, and when Monica glanced again at Kurbsky, he had joined in, but with the same weary detachment there. As the applause died, the French Ambassador rose.
He kept it brief and succinct. He was pleased to announce that if Alexander Kurbsky would make himself available in Paris in two weeks’ time, the President of France would have great pleasure in decorating him with the Légion d’Honneur. Tumultuous acclaim, and Kurbsky stood and thanked the Ambassador of France in a graceful little speech delivered in fluent French. It was a fitting ending to a wonderful evening.
Later, as people dispersed, Monica and Dunkley hovered. There was no sign of Kurbsky. ‘What an evening,’ Dunkley said. ‘I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’ They were on a Virgin flight to London in the morning, leaving at ten thirty local time. ‘I’ve got an early start, so I’m for bed.’
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said.
As he walked away to the lifts, Monica paused, still seeking a sign of Kurbsky, but there wasn’t one. In fact, he was outside the hotel sitting in the Volvo talking to Bounine.
‘This Legion of Honour nonsense. Did you know about it?’
‘Absolutely not, but what’s wrong, Alex? The Legion of Honour – it’s the greatest of all French decorations.’
‘Do you ever get a so-what feeling, Yuri? I’ve been there, done that.’
‘Are you saying no? You can’t, Alex. Putin wants it, the country wants it. You’ll be there in Paris in two weeks. So will I. God help us, you’ve got your own Falcon back to Moscow in the morning, and a Falcon’s as good as a Gulfstream.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘Yes, old son. I’ll pick you up at ten sharp.’
Kurbsky shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose you will.’
He got out and Bounine drove away. Kurbsky watched him go, turned and went back into the Pierre. The first thing he saw was Monica waiting for a lift and he approached, catching her just in time.
‘Fancy a nightcap, lady?’
She smiled, pleased that he’d turned up. ‘Why not?’
He took her arm and they went to the bar.
There weren’t too many people. They sat in the corner and he had Russian vodka, ice cold, and she contented herself with green tea.
‘Very healthy of you,’ he told her.
‘I wish I could say the same to you, but I’m not sure about that stuff.’
‘You have to be born to it.’
‘Doesn’t it rot the brain?’
‘Not really. Drunk this way, from a glass taken from crushed ice, it freezes the brain, clears it when problems loom.’
‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.’
‘No, it’s true. Now, tell me. I know about your academic accomplishments – the Ministry of Arts in Moscow is very thorough when one is attending affairs like this – but nothing about you. I’m puzzled that such a woman would not be married.’
‘I’m a widow, Alex, have been for some years. My husband was a professor at Cambridge, rather older than me and a knight of the realm.’
‘So, no children?’
‘No, a brother, if that helps.’ Her smile faltered for a moment, as she remembered her brother, Harry, recuperating from the terrible knife wounds he had so recently suffered, and, even more, the terrible psychological wounds. To see his wife assassinated in mistake for him – the healing process would take a long time…
She brought the smile back. ‘He’s a Member of Parliament,’ she said, making no mention of what he really did for the Prime Minister.
Of course, Kurbsky actually knew all that, but he kept up the subterfuge.
‘But there must be a man in your life, a woman like you.’
She wasn’t offended in the slightest. ‘Yes, there is such a man.’
‘Then he must count himself lucky.’
He poured another vodka and she said, ‘What about you?’
‘Good heavens, no. The occasional relationship, but it never lasts. I’m a very difficult man, but then, I’ve had a difficult life. You know about me?’
‘A bit. Your aunt raised you, right?’
‘Svetlana was everything. I loved her dearly, but life in Moscow under Communism was difficult. When I was seventeen she got a chance to travel with a theatre group to London – she was an actress – and she met a professor named Patrick Kelly, a good man. For once she had found something for herself, so she refused to return to Moscow, stayed in London and married him.’
‘How was it you managed to join her?’
‘That was my father. As a KGB colonel, he had influence. He arranged for me to visit Svetlana, hoping she’d change her mind.’
‘And your sister?’
‘Tania was at high school and only fifteen. She’d never been close to Svetlana and so she stayed with my father. There were servants, a couple living in my father’s house, to care for her.’
‘And where did the London School of Economics come in?’
He grinned, looking different, like a boy. ‘I always had a love of books and literature, so I didn’t need to study it. I found a new world at the LSE. Svetlana and Kelly had a wonderful Victorian house in Belsize Park, and they felt I should fill my time for a few months, so I took courses. Sociology, psychology, philosophy. The months stretched out.’
‘Two years. What made you return to Moscow?’
‘News
