Obsession Chapter 1

Obsession Chapter 1 East

I April, 1996 A uniformed man with unruly fair hair was tearing at a dried fish on the second floor of an office block on Leningradskaya, Moscow, eight lanes of traffic gridlocked below. Before him, on the table, were two empty glasses and one half full bottle of Kristalnaya Vodka. The man opposite was tending to grossness. The Beast had seen military service, he’d done time for some minor infraction after he’d left the army and then, unable to find gainful employment of the kind he’d hoped for, had simply devoted himself to the task of making money, hand over fist. Attaching himself to an organization which made such money, he’d soon accrued some powerful protection, in return for certain favours of a delicate nature. A good arrangement all round, but today he’d been compromised. ‘Sirozh,’ he said quietly to Safin and in that very quietness was menace, ‘you appear to have me over a barrel,’ indicating the graphic photo on the table, turning it face down. ‘What exactly do you want, while you still can?’ ‘I'd like to feel, Oleg Alexandrovich, that your interest in my sisters might diminish and that an accident in the family would be unlikely to happen.’ ‘You’re in security – what could possibly happen?’ The younger man smiled and reflected on the foolishness of that last remark. Did he

think they were fools? The Beast was wounded to the quick. ‘Why didn’t you just ask me? I would have agreed, without all this.’ ‘We needed a guarantee.’ ‘And now you’re certain you’ve bought that?’ The younger man had a thoughtful look on his face. No, he wasn’t certain and he’d had to use his sisters as a sort of family insurance policy, it looking increasingly as if it might not have been enough. He hoped his sisters would understand. II Cafe Jardin, in the 12ème arrondissement, was quiet today. Nicolette Vasseur curled a strand of fair hair round her little finger and shuffled on the uncomfortable bar stool, concerned about her childhood friend opposite. ‘Will you take Philippe’s name?’ she asked, in as noncommittal a voice as she could muster but what she really meant was whether the casanova would finally do the right thing. In Nicky’s eyes, the woman opposite her possessed a natural calm which gave her the appearance of maturity although both had just seen their 23rd birthdays. The things which had happened to them in late teenage, on the promise of new careers up in Paris, these things still simmered below the surface. They’d both determined to get even, they’d both tried to set up a security unit of young women with similar histories, with a view to entrapping and exposing abusers in high places, a lofty aim and one which was going nowhere in the male dominated upper echelons of Parisienne political life. Somewhere along the line, as if in answer to a prayer, Philippe Legrande had appeared with the requisite connections and through him had come official recognition of Section 32, the head known simply as Mademoiselle. Nicky smiled that she’d agreed to address her own best friend in such respectful tones but as Genevieve had pointed out, when Nicky was acting head, she’d be addressed by the same title. It was their protocol, that was all. ‘Ha, the most Philippe can expect on that score is a hyphenation,’ muttered Genevieve. ‘Anyway, he’s not asked, he’s not even broached it –’ ‘Is that the main thing under Mlle Lavacquerie’s skin?’ ‘That, Nicky, the nightmares and this current problem.’ ‘Seriously, Mademoiselle, you need a break. You’ve been putting yourself under a lot of pressure lately and it’s getting you down. I can deputize for a few days.’ Genevieve laid a hand on the other’s forearm and smiled her appreciation. ‘I have to know, Nicky, how this money’s getting through. Why aren’t they wiring it? Why does the trail go cold? Who deals in that sort of money in notes these days?’

‘The Russians?’ ‘According to Denis, it’s coming out of a town called Nizhny Novgorod.’ ‘Do you want me to go, Mademoiselle?’ ‘No, I’ll send Marc, I still think it’s an IT matter. Besides, I need you here.’ III The cramped, stuffy office on the outskirts of the Old Town of Shadzhara was cheerful enough today. Ludmilla Valerievna Petrova had called them together to congratulate the section, the Sovyetski champagne was flowing, the table was laden with kolbasa and red caviar on rye bread, plus the inevitable salads but the warm, musty draft still squeezed past the rotting wooden window frames, one cracked pane of glass casting a jagged shadow upon the table. Veronika Sharova, half-mockingly referred to as The Siren, along with elder brother Zhenya who looked every bit spy v spy and played up to the image for his own purposes, had pulled off a minor coup in London and here was the payback. He made the speech, gaunt voice at odds with the efficient physique; Veronika added a curt ‘Spasebo’ but her mind was already on her return to London and on the oppressive heat today. She hated being cooped up inside old state buildings with poor ventilation, at the end of broken asphalt lanes with dried grass sticking through the cracks in the tar. Anyway, it wasn’t wise, especially in these social situations, to say too much communism might have died as a political force and the oligarchs were running amok in the scramble for the dollar but old habits still died hard in the security services and people didn’t appreciate complainers. In the Russia of the mid-90s, you still did what you had to do so Veronika kept her own counsel and accepted the accolades. IV It was a million to one chance, maybe even more. ‘That comes to £108.99, Mr. Jensen, with the shirts.’ The woman took the Burtons Card, which Hugh wondered about, as this was Debenhams, she swiped it and began to wrap the purchases. ‘I’ll wear the trousers, if you don’t mind.’ ‘Let me remove the labels.’ So that was one job done this Saturday morning, just into the school holidays. It had involved a pleasant drive up the A2, parking near Greenwich and taking the boat to the city. Nice to find some stability at last after he’d come down from the north seeking work, holed up in Mill Hill, scanning the TES on Fridays and visiting Hendon Aircraft Museum to break the monotony.

The break had come last November and he was back in education after a long layoff, this time as a Prep School Head, of all things, debts paid out and so, at one with the world, today he skipped down the last few steps from Debenhams and made for the double doors, just as two young ladies sauntered through from Oxford Street and stopped him in his tracks. London was a city of foreigners but these two were something else again. They had to be those ice dancers you see on television ... no … maybe a bit too small ... maybe a bit too old now … they were definitely continental, the way they moved ... he had to find out. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked quickly, lest they walked past and out of his life, ‘but are you … er … Russian?’ ‘Da, mi Russkiye,’ the one with the golden hair replied, taking in everything there was of note on him - the cheeky grin, the fairly solid shoulders, the now balding pate, the nerve in even addressing her. She thought she liked his jauntiness. For his part, he was trying everything to conceal his awe. V Marc Lacour checked the travel case on his home scales and it weighed in under 14 kilos. Bon. He checked the mirror and decided the wavy hair needed cropping before departure; also, the slightly graying stubble might have enhanced his angular jaw but it wouldn’t do for this job. Now sitting at the bare kitchen table, a quiet, austere man, slight of form, appearing to be more suave than he was, he looked over the five pages of notes and frowned - the cash seemed to peter out at Nizhny-and restart in Shadzhara, further east. Who was getting paid for what and who was couriering it to Shadzhara? More importantly, what sort of business was generating that sort of cash and why was it appearing in Paris? Well, he was ready to enquire. To be innocuous, to play it deadpan was his forte, to lull people into imparting far more than they’d later deem wise but by then it would usually be too late. Humility had its own rewards. The mobile rang, it was Genevieve and she was on her way round. Fifteen minutes later, her Renault pulled up outside, they went through the procedure which usually ended in a welcoming embrace, moved through to the living room and went through the drills for the next half hour. Yes, he was ready. VI ‘Do either of you speak English?’ asked Hugh, customers sweeping past, as he tried to maintain a place by the counter. ‘Yes, a little,’ replied Golden Hair. That seemed to be the end of that and as he racked his brain for something else to ask, she stepped into the breach and rescued him. ‘We

do shopping but you can come.’ His smiled his relief. ‘Maybe I could even help you.’ Every so often they’d poke a fragrant wrist under his nose and then Dark Hair asked: ‘What do they call you?’ ‘Er … Hugh Jensen. And you?’ ‘Venera … and that’s Ira. I see you prefer blondinki, da?’ ‘Not at all. Are you hungry, ladies?’ ‘Da,’ replied Ira but Venera wasn’t so sure they should go down this path. .o0o. Hugh took a gamble on McDonalds and they ate in the sidestreet, perched on a black wrought-iron railing surrounding a tree but Ira seemed nonplussed how to tackle the burger. ‘Hugh?’ she whispered. ‘Yep?’ ‘How do you eat this thing?’ ‘With your hands.’ ‘I don’t need a spork or a foon?’ He glanced to see if she was pulling his leg but she was deadly serious. ‘Use your hands – hold it in the paper wrapper if you like.’ .o0o. Greenwich Park was the obvious choice - tube - tickets - the boat with the distorted commentary booming through the tannoy, all good stuff and an hour later, the three were seated, cross-legged, on the grass near the flower bed fence, soaking up the sunshine and warming to this new association. ‘Where are you both from, may I ask?’ ‘From Russia,’ answered Ira. ‘I gathered that, but from where in Russia?’ ‘You wouldn’t know it – it’s a town called Shadzhara.’ ‘Actually, I do know of it - an academic from your town visited our school not long back. Care to tell me?’ ‘Hmmm. It’s in the east, halfway to the Urals, as you call them. We have about a million people, half Russian, half Shadzhari and about 80 other nationalities.’ ‘You speak good English.’

‘We learn it nine years,” said Venera. ‘We’re on Berlitz course,’ she thought to add, ‘for Ira’s job, you know and I came too.’ ‘Do you teach English? I mean, what’s your interest in it?’ ‘Ira works for airline company; I do this and that.’ That caused a lull in the conversation and Hugh realized he’d have to do something to keep the momentum going. ‘Would you like to see the deer?’ VII ‘Well that’s just wonderful,’ Valentina Vitalyevna Alexandrova muttered to herself as her husband stormed out for their Nizhny Novgorod flat one last time. ‘Pavel,’ she’d long ago told him, ‘you have to adapt to 1990, you have to adjust. All right, they rationalized the service, yes, they offered you early retirement, I appreciate that but why haven’t you taken other work? You’re an engineer and a good one too from all accounts. I don’t need you here at home, half drunk; I don’t wish to come home to this every evening.’ ‘You don’t understand –’ he slurred. ‘No, you don’t understand. How many times have you stormed out of here? How many times have you come back next morning, expecting it all to have gone away? Pavel, if you storm out of here now, then that’s an end to it, do you hear?’ ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Valya. Have I hit you? Have I shouted all night like Habibullin?’ ‘Nyet. Nyet but you’ve had a long time to pull yourself together now. I’m tired, Pavel, I’ve had enough and this has got to stop. Go on, go round to Dima’s, I can see you itching to go. Cool your heels for a few days and then we’ll talk about the future.’ ‘Valya!’ ‘Pavel, just go,’ she collapsed into the tigerskin rug on the armchair. ‘Please?’ He took one look, rose unsteadily and staggered out of the front door, not bothering to close it behind him. Pavel Junior called from the second room, she went through, then came back to the kitchen, stared at the phone and called a number. She was going to change the locks. VIII ‘Oui, Marc?’ Genevieve snapped her mobile open. ‘Anything yet?’ ‘Nothing so far. I’ve drawn a blank in Shadzhara but there’s definitely a connection with Nizhny Novgorod - they do seem to be physically couriering it through but why it has to go there before Moscow and Paris beat me. It’s probably so that it would attract little or no suspicion. Nothing’s shown up in the checks at this point.’ ‘Any approaches from the locals?’

‘Only one … une jeune femme I met last time, at a cafe called Giuseppe. Chulpan by name, local name … un enfant sauvage.’ Genevieve was disinterested. ‘Anything from that?’ He understood what she meant by the question and reviewed the incident for anomalies. ‘Non, I think she was just curious.’ ‘Right, I’ll leave it with you.’ He’d not stop until he’d got to the bottom of the matter, Genevieve knew that and so another trip to Russia seemed likely in July. IX The executive meeting at the south London school on the second Monday was grimmer than usual, the Principal's mouth a tight line as they waited for him to begin. The prognosis was not good. Basically, someone in the school’s recent past – the bad old days - had been cooking the books, contracting sub-standard constructors for the basic edifice and the whole thing had finally imploded. Even the damning accounts had disappeared and this was not good in such a small school, particularly in these new days of the hegemony of Ofsted, throwing its weight about. Robin Wilson gave a little cough and spoke. ‘I need hardly remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that we can’t meet the cost of the renovations at this moment, given the monthly salaries we’re currently paying. Something will have to give, I’m afraid. Any suggestions?’ Ashen faces stared back at him and they waited for the next item on the agenda but there was not to be one. ‘Thank you. We’ll reconvene on Thursday, at 16:20.’ The staff trooped out and he took Hugh and Paul Medhurst aside to ask them from where they felt the first cuts should come. Both promised to think on’t. ‘Fancy a pint, Hugh?’ asked Paul as they stepped onto the flagstones. A weak sun popped out from behind a bank of clouds and immediately hid itself again, seeing the writing on the wall or so Hugh surmised. ‘Why not?’ Silence prevailed all the way over to the Prince of Wales but the first pint loosened Paul’s tongue. ‘I know it’s not the done thing but I can guess your salary as Prep Head, given mine as Head of the Sixth Form College. You catch my drift?’ ‘Loud and clear.’ ‘We’d save Robin the requisite deposit on the repairs, along with four who’d be offloaded anyway – French and Maths for a start.’ ‘The thought’s most likely gone through his mind as well although there’s such a thing as experience and results.’ They sipped silently for a minute.

‘You’d probably be retained as Junior Head,’ said Paul, ‘but on half the money. You’ve had some results and you present well.’ ‘As do you. I’m not going to suggest it but I think Robin should retain Lisa as nominal head and take on the admin himself.’ ‘My error too, appointing the capable Josephine but we’re not to know these things at the time, are we?’ ‘What would you do if it came to it, Paul?’ ‘Not sure really. Maybe go back to Horsham, find some work at my old school. You?’ ‘I think I might do something remarkably crazy.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘Going to Russia.’ .o0o. At a small table at the Traveller’s Arms, down the A2, sat an Infant Mistress and a Prep School Head. As he told his tale between bites, Lisa gazed over until he eventually fell silent. ‘What do you really want from me, Hugh? To give you the seal of approval? You’ve jumped before you were pushed but still you tell me it’s inevitable.’ She suddenly grinned. ‘I would have waited but I can guess what really precipitated it though.’ ‘Does it look bad from where you sit?’ ‘Which of them are you looking at?’ she asked, taking a mouthful. ‘I have Ira in mind.’ ‘I thought as much, at least you’re honest. Bit of an age difference.’ ‘So forget it, eh?’ ‘I didn’t say that. She was the one who made contact with you again, wasn’t she? What about children? Where would you live? How would you live on a Russian salary - what is it these days - sixty pounds a month? How would the family accept you anyway, with your track record – two wives and no children - doesn’t look so good.’ ‘There were children.’ ‘But not yours. Do you want kids?’ ‘Not particularly but if she does, I’m still within range.’ ‘Of course she’ll want and why isn’t she married already? You have to consider that too late 20s is very late in Russia. You know nothing about her and anyway - are you sure she feels the same way about you going there?’ ‘She seemed delighted. Look, this is a firm job offer, so the romantic side hardly matters at this point –’

‘Oh, come off it. I've seen the photo, remember.’ ‘All right, she’s nice but … it’s just that … well … with this thing finishing up here, Lisa, it’s either the dole queue and the TES again or else ... let me get the refills.’ When he returned, he asked, ‘So what about Riccardo?’ She snorted. ‘I’m working on it.’ ‘Plenty of time.’ ‘Hugh, I’m twenty-six. That’s not plenty of time.’ X July, 1996 In an office on the outskirts of Shadzhara, Viktor Igorovich wound up his festivities about 23:00. His old cronies from the tax police were putting on the regulation knees-up and they fell roughly into two categories – those who understood and wished him all the best with his new English language venture and those who failed to understand how he could give away the cameraderie for some vague notion of self improvement. He’d been learning English for years, had been part of the soviet youth underground which listened to British music whenever bootleg copies found themselves past the Iron Curtain and there was the Samizdata. Now he’d made a promise to himself to knuckle down and pursue English to the point where he’d be taken for a native, he’d buy cassettes, he’d travel … if he could scrape together the money, of course. That day he swore off all but the odd social drink and the cavalier lifestyle. Putting his Paul McCartney cassette into his player, he readied himself for bed, frowning at the triceps in the mirror - ten days off training and he was already going soft. XI At Orly, Marc sipped one last coffee with the svelte Nicolette, she of the cheeky grin and the fair hair always swept up in a bun. For her part, she thought he looked quite dashing this morning in his charcoal blouson, polo tee and cords but knowing his lack of interest in things sartorial, concluded there’d been a female behind the choice. Now who? Not Genevieve, she was fairly sure - Genie was more conservative. Francine? Nicky hadn’t heard of anything going on there and she’d have been the first to pick up on that. Ah, she had it - it had to have been the efficient young Claudette, non? She sprang it on him: ‘Claudette not travelling with you, Marc?’ Then she watched the shot reach home. ‘Oh Marc, surely not with Claudette?’ ‘What’s wrong with Claudette?’ came the reply.

‘Well ... er ... nothing, nothing at all, apart from being nineteen years old. Will we hear wedding bells?’ Now it was his turn to grin. ‘The brain works overtime with you, Nicky, doesn’t it?’ He said his farewells and went through, the plane took off and in the next sentient moment, he was once again queuing at Sheremetyevo 2 immigration control, discovering that the stamp on his visa was not sufficiently over the photo and having to fork out the equivalent of $US152 plus 400 roubles for inconveniencing the authorities, all of which bemused rather than annoyed him – he’d heard horror stories of Sheremetyevo and considered he’d got off rather lightly, all told. A taxi took him to the station for eastbound trains and it was now a case of filling in a few hours until the 19.28 departure. He checked his bag in at the left luggage and went for a wander. XII Aeroflot SU 241 for Moscow was open for check-in at Heathrow. In the slow moving queue, about the only excitement, Hugh felt, was when a young lady accidentally fell against him, knocking his cabin bag to the ground, spilling all the documents, photos, and bits and pieces over the concourse floor. At second glance, he wondered if they cloned them over there - sculpted face, athletic figure, high cheek bones and light blue-grey, melancholy eyes. The young woman apologized profusely, in heavily accented English, scrambling over the floor, helping put them back in his pack but when he protested, she simply disappeared. Not that there was anything valuable in there – the cash and documents were in his special underpants with the holdall gusset, one of his inventions but still - he did an inventory as far as he could remember. All through that flight, her eyes remained on his mind. Did they all have melancholy eyes like that? .o0o. Three hours later, over Russia proper, he looked down from the cabin window onto the forest below; it was easy to make out a long straight road with bumper to bumper traffic and he could see a cruise ship on the meandering river - that might be something nice to try out one day. The last of the whisky in the plastic beaker went down the throat rather nicely. .o0o. The moment they hit the ground in Moscow, passengers were out of their seats, scrambling for baggage from the stowage lockers, the hostess pleading through the intercom for them to remain seated - never a dull moment with these people, he grinned – then in next to no time, they were in the customs area. Two uniformed, auburn haired women were sharing a private joke; one took up her place in the booth. She seemed friendly enough, which augured well and it certainly began pleasantly enough until her eye caught the visa.

The face fell, the pouting lips tightened, she left the booth to consult with her superior; an eternity later she returned; there was a problem with the photograph, the stamp hadn’t been placed correctly over the corner; no it wasn’t incidental, he’d have to wait over to one side and his bags would be held for the next plane back in the morning. One of the airline officials now slid over to him and spoke soothingly. ‘It can be resolved, my friend, don’t worry, the consulate can solve this problem of yours.’ Nervous waiting followed, interminable waiting but eventually the official returned with a spring in his step and a bundle of documents; all was well. Did Mr. Jensen have dollars? A little matter of $US152 plus 400 roubles fine for inconveniencing them. Anyway, it got the clunk of stamp on passport and now followed the unwanted attentions of the unofficial, deregulated taxi drivers, vying with each other for his fare. He’d prepaid Intourist for a taxi to the station and his lift was meant to have been here by 17:00 but there was still no sign. Hugh bought a drink, found a free table and watched the door for a man in a hurry. .o0o. The driver rushed in at 17:45, thin and wiry, rubbing his moustache, knowing he was late. He also knew how to cut through Moscow’s peak hour traffic, Hugh’s hands gripping the door handle, as the Muscovite mounted footpaths and shaved parked cars with his wheel arches, all the while keeping up a jaunty monologue. ‘You only true Moskvitch if you born inside Garden Circle ring road.’ ‘Watch the old lady!’ ‘Da, ya Moskvitch –’ ‘Tovarishch, the old lady! For goodness sake.’ ‘No to worry, friend,’ puzzlement on his face. ‘Everything normal, khorosho.’ The Volga shot through gaps and brushed curbsides but they got to the train on time, screeching to a halt at an angle to the traffic, the driver grabbing Hugh’s case and shoving his way through the throng towards the carriage, Hugh tagging along as best he could, avoiding random passengers who all seemed to be lugging light-blue tartan, square shaped pvc bags with both hands. He’d taken half a ‘lux’ and was relieved to see a snappily-dressed, slightly greying chap, French as it turned out, which augured well. Expecting to have to speak Russian, he could practise his French instead, that is, if the other could stand it. .o0o. The grey-green train gave a shudder at 19:28, creaked a little, then shuffled out of Moscow, into the more open countryside, slowly picking up speed. The wooden sliding door was flung open, a uniformed woman came in and perched on the olive vinyl bench with a sort of bus conductor’s leather satchel at the ready. Some passing girl in the corridor said they wanted tickets, passports and some money, the Frenchman was still non-plussed so Hugh translated and all was well.

After the woman had collected, neatly folded and stowed the items in her satchel for the night and offered them glasses of sugar, with added tea, in ornate metal holders, there was relative peace and they finally felt they could relax for the first time. .o0o. The endless silver birch treed forest began to rollick past now, as the train settled into its rhythm and both men settled back on their bunks. After Hugh’s French and the Frenchman’s Russian had not passed muster, they settled on English as the medium for conversation and both wanted to know what the other was doing travelling to this eastern outpost. Lacour thought Hugh’s story the most romantic he’d heard in a long while. ‘Do you really think so?’ he asked, anxiously. ‘I rather suspected people might see it as a bit tacky.’ Then he had an idea. ‘Tell you what, if you give me your mobile number, Marc, I'll give it to Venera tomorrow –’ ‘Not to Ira?’ Marc smiled; he ignored it and pressed on. ‘And I’ll say there’s a wonderful Frenchman who came here just for her and who’s expecting her call. What do you say?’ Lacour handed over a card. Hugh apologized that he had no business card in return but if Venera and he made contact, then he, Hugh, could also be contacted. ‘By the way,’ Marc added, hands behind his head, ‘I’m not really French, you know, though it helps a lot with the girls.’ He had Jensen's attention. ‘Actually, our family roots are French but two generations ago, they went to Warminster, of all places, settled down and I’m from that branch of the family.’ ‘I thought the English was a bit too good. Yet you retain the French accent.’ ‘My parents returned to Châtelet-en-Brie when I was four, I grew up in Melun and the French generally take me as one of them. Your accent has something in it as well, I think. Educated but it has something else.’ ‘Bit of antipodaean, actually - the family’s split between both places.’ ‘So we have our first common ground, Hugh. Let me show you some photos of my two elder sisters.’ Hugh scrutinized each in turn and the family resemblance was there – the long-bridged nose, the pleasing curve to the jaw, the wavy hair. ‘And this one?’ Hugh asked. ‘That’s Marie-Ange.’ ‘Well?’

‘I loved her but it ended not long ago. Let me show you my parents.’ .o0o. The train came to a shuddering halt only two to three hours out of Moscow, Shadzhara still another nine hours or so away. It had started raining some time earlier, the window of the compartment was partially fogged and droplets were trickling down outside of the pane. Rubbing the glass, Hugh could just make out some figures over by another stationary train – obviously they were at some station and much as he tried to glimpse its name, it was to no avail. People were jostling for position out there, holding up crystal chandeliers and all sorts of glassware for passengers to peruse; a handful of passengers actually did step down to buy and were immediately set upon by up to fifteen vendors trying to push their wares onto them. He remembered he’d read about it now - Vekovka, where the workers were paid in their own products and had to sell them to passers-by to survive. Appalling. One girl of about twenty, cigarette hanging from her mouth, had become bored and was now joined by a young spiv, clearly on the make, right under the carriage window. ‘Fancy her?’ smiled Marc. Hugh’s look said it all. ‘So what type do you fancy?’ ‘I suspect it’s more a case of what they think,’ Hugh replied. ‘You were quite charming to that girl in the restaurant car.’ ‘Marc, you’re what … seven or eight years younger than me, maybe unmarried and you’re not a bad looker. You can play the field but I have my eye on one young lady in Shadzhara and I think that’s my lot.’ ‘Really? I have some unfinished business there aussi.’ ‘Does she have a name? ‘Oui … Mlle Database.’ Hugh chuckled. XIII Sergei Safin was bored, waiting for the call. The tie had been loosened, his shirt opened at the neck, only the pips on the epaulettes of his brown green jacket indicating his rank. Feet up on the divan, he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, ran powerful fingers through his unruly fair hair and then the cacophany of the phone began.

‘Da? Khorosho. Da. You’re sure? Khorosho. Kama Camp? Tomorrow morning, all right, I’ll find him; he’ll be the centre of attention, won’t he?’ The woman continued at the other end and Safin assured her: ‘Ladno, I promise - I’ll just observe, that’s all.’ He replaced the receiver and went out for a drink. XIV 07:12 saw Lacour and Jensen both stepping over the tracks at Shadzhara railway station - no roofed in platforms here - and there were three cars waiting to take a largish party, including Hugh, straight down to Kama Camp, the resort by the Kama River. These were his new school colleagues but of Ira and Venera, there was no sign. Marc Lacour bid adieu and seemed to slip into the shadows. Hugh took one quick look at the Kama as their car pulled out and drove past the imposing white Kremlin with its leaning, brown bricked tower and rattled past low, cream coloured buildings, broad waterways and stone Venetian bridges. The stifling, oppressively hot day was improved just a little by the open road and he settled back for the panorama racing past at breakneck speed. .o0o. An hour later, they turned left into another road and he saw the river on their right. They eventually slowed, turned right through the Soviet green wrought iron gate – there was an inscription in Cyrillic in the wrought iron archway, which he suspected might say something about Arbeitet Macht Frei and now they came out on a domed, flying saucer shaped building, which would have been labelled art deco style, had it been in the west. A short distance from this, to the left, was a long table under the silver beriozi trees which they now joined, many guests, many speeches, every new speech by someone further down the table a signal to raise glasses. A young man standing behind Hugh saw it as his job to keep the foreigner’s glass full of vodka. .o0o. The speeches wore on. The day wore on. Hugh excused himself and stumbled some distance in search of a tree, just as Venera appeared from the forest, an exotic bird in olive bathing costume and yellow wrap. On autopilot, he kissed her cheek and she nodded - so Mr. Jensen had come to her home after all. Swaying slightly from the heat and vodka, which impressed her not, he reached into his pocket and extracted Paul’s card. ‘What’s this?’ she asked. ‘It’s a Frenchman who’s patiently awaiting your phone call at his Hotel, handsome chap

and he’s heard all about you.’ Venera glanced again at the card and commented, ‘And what if I already have a perfectly good boyfriend?’ ‘I’m sure you have to beat them off with a stick, Venera. Do you think you could show both of us the city tomorrow?’ She murmured, ‘I think Ira has plans for you tomorrow.’ Reason now reached Hugh’s foggy brain, he went to put the card away but her hand stopped him, took it and slipped it inside the neck of her costume. ‘Never know what might happen, do we? Did you bring your swimming costume?’ ‘Er ... no,’ he slurred. ‘Pity,’ she replied, kissed him on the cheek and went back to the forest from whence she’d come. He stood there some seconds, turned and stumbled back to the others. .o0o. The next morning, Ira finally turned up with her father in a red Zhigoulie, the local variant of the Lada. She sat in the front, he in the back and the ride wasn’t too bumpy. Before he knew it, the city finally came into view, they drove through the outskirts and then the father pulled up outside a flat in the Kvartel area - Ira called it ‘the edge of geography’ - one of those long housing blocks, nine storeys high, a hundred and forty flats in one block. Within the kilometre square block, houses were interconnected by a labyrinth of service roads, most connecting with others, some not, some leading to archways through one of the houses, all surfaces potholed and in need of urgent repair. Her own flat was a brisk twelve minute walk away, through the yards between these service roads and houses, bleak yards generally, some leafy and pleasant, all of them with tubular metal rug-beating frames and broken children’s play equipment. She went inside, then returned some minutes later and a rapid Russian conversation ensued, the father not happy, thick fingers drumming impatiently on the roof of the car. Ira poked her head through the window and announced, ‘They’re redecorating your flat; you can’t stay here. Would you mind staying with me instead?’ ‘For how long?’ ‘For the rest of the summer.’ Gulp. All belongings were deposited upstairs at her house, he met Ira’s mother in passing then she asked, ‘Can you be ready in five minutes to go to the Garden?’ ‘Garden, what garden? Do I need to pack?’ ‘Pack?’

‘Clothes, things, you know, to take with me.’ ‘Enough for a few days, da.’ Seven minutes later, they were en route for The Garden, to Zhilploshatka on the outskirts of town and the heat had not become any less oppressive. Hugh stole a glance across at her in the car, she allowed herself the quickest of smiles and just as quickly, it faded. He was wondering why the Russians always had to rush here and there - was there some legal time limit on each journey or were they just charged by the minute? XV Venera did meet Marc, at Cafe Giuseppe on the broad, tree-lined administrative street called Kryemlyovskaya, high up on the ridge, looking down over the old town. If she was expecting a wolf, she found a lamb, a well-dressed lamb with perfect manners and with the grace to ask what her tastes were. She hoped he wouldn’t ask why she’d brought him here because the silly reason she’d chosen this place was no more than that it was originally called the Hotel France. Besides, it was the perfect stepping off place for the little tour she’d organized but she’d have to put him straight on alcohol. Also, there was something she’d read that in France, there were certain sensitivities about Muslims in some quarters and she wasn’t sure how Marc was placed this way, whether he’d react negatively once he knew. After a nice meal, he paid up, they embarked on their tour and the conversation was little more than desultory, again using English as the medium, he asking about her family and friends, she asking about Paris and French life in general. ‘Venera, you live in three rooms, you say?’ ‘Uh huh.’ ‘You mean three bedrooms?’ ‘Three rooms. One is a living area during the day, one is a study with books and one is for storing things. At night, they become bedrooms.’ ‘Really?’ .o0o. By Lake Nabak, leaning over a parapet, she could feel Marc’s calm presence, quite different to any of the local men but his conversation lacked that earthy repartee. What was good in him was not so much his charm as his awkward self-assurance, if there were such a thing plus his gentlemanliness. For his part, it was her long dark hair and slender form and the kind smile set against the razor sharp focus of her equally dark eyes which was playing on his defences. ‘When must you leave?’ she asked. ‘This evening – I’m here only this day.’

‘Will you return?’ ‘Now that I have a reason.’ ‘You’re French,’ she laughed nervously, ‘you’d say anything.’ ‘Really?’ he challenged. ‘I’m sorry. I'm just get a bit anxious when I like someone a lot.’ She let that one sink in. ‘Vera, if you’d like, I’ll come back to you here or you can visit me at my home. Would you do that?’ As she didn’t reply, he added quickly, ‘Perhaps I could phone you sometime?’ She smiled her relief and wrote the number on the piece of paper he offered, with the pen he offered. He folded the slip carefully, placed it in his wallet and as he was clearly not going to make the move himself, she planted a light kiss on his cheek, causing him to blush. Oh yes, she felt she was falling for this one. XVI ‘Does everyone have a garden outside the city?’ Hugh asked Ira, as the car slowed over a broken section of asphalt. She turned to face him from the front seat. ‘Most families have a garden because you need somewhere to grow fruit and vegetables for winter. Only those who work stay in the city – those or the poor people.’ The father drove on, not sure if he liked the English language or not. The rough approach track to where they were headed was really something, bordered by rickety wooden fences but eventually they were adjacent to a green painted weatherboard doll’s house, overhung by leafy trees which had grown to full height and width over the decades, the vine-entangled verandah on the far side looking out on row upon row of cabbages, potatoes and tomatoes, with the berry trees behind that again - all irrigated. In the far left corner, above the toilet, was the Tin Roof she’d said was for suntanning, accessible only by stepladder. In the far right corner was the banya – the Russian sauna they’d enjoy in the early evening, so she’d said. And in the middle, under a huge apple tree, was The Table, the centrepiece of the whole garden. From around the corner of the doll’s house now came an elderly couple and the pieces fell into place. It was their garden, their pride and joy. The grandfather was a good looking cove, about Hugh’s height, with wiry strength in a thin body; the grandmother was not undernourished and now she beamed from ear to ear. She saw Hugh gazing at The Table and asked, through Ira, ‘Lunch. You must be hungry.’ The reason he’d really been scrutinizing the Table was the mobile telephone carelessly left lying there. In the west - yes at that time but here, in this province … well, he was

puzzled and besides, it wasn’t like his chunky vodaphone – it was the small, two piece, snap-open variety. XVII Zhenya was sitting in the kitchen of Veronika’s soon-to-be-offloaded flat in Hadi Taktash, an area she didn’t mind in the least vacating and consequently, the price of the one room apartment was only going to realize around eight thousand dollars. It’d been bought three years ago for four and a half so she wasn’t losing on the deal and yet she’d need to find another twelve for the two-room in the new area, north of the river where they hadn’t destroyed the forest. One of the first with extended credit in this land, it struck her that this was merely the vanguard for an almighty rush of credit once it became generally available to the average punter but what the heck – the new place was a dream with its parquet floors and stocked with western whitegoods. Zhenya sipped on his black tea, long legs either side of the reversed chair and gazed at her. ‘So why face-to-face, Nika? Why not by phone?’ ‘You know why.’ ‘What’s your problem? You’re sounding more like Valerievna every day.’ ‘It’s Finmart, Zhenya, that’s the problem.’ He groaned. ‘Did she put you up to this?’ ‘Zhenya, if you compromise the section, it’s not only you who go down, I’m tarnished along with you and I don’t want that.’ He narrowed his eyes and asked, ‘Are you going to arrange an accident?' ‘I just might if you don’t wake up.’ Zhenya sprang up and almost immediately slowed down again, deliberately placing one foot before the other until he was behind his sister, a position she’d never have allowed herself to have been in had it been anyone else. Even now, she was poised to counter him. He slipped first his hands, then his forearms over her shoulders and she knew the move of old. ‘Don’t worry, Sestra, don’t concern yourself,’ he reassured her in his version of a silky voice, his hands now clasped together in front of her neck and turning his forearms inward towards her arteries. She sat motionless. Then he laughed, released her and returned to his chair, all bonhomie. She, on the other hand, continued to sit motionless, her narrowed eyes observing him.