December. James Steel

Чтение книги онлайн.

       Chapter Two

      THURSDAY 4 DECEMBER

      Alex stumbled on an icy patch in the dark and cursed. He steadied himself and moved on more carefully. Getting around London now was like going for a walk in the countryside at night: there were no streetlights at all and he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

      The road was silent and knee-deep in snow; the stuff was falling slowly but heavily, his footsteps were muffled and he felt a soft resistance to each stride. A thick layer of snow had accreted on every horizontal surface, no matter how small: the tops of car wing mirrors parked along the street; between the uprights of the black metal railings screening the houses from the road.

      He had met Harrington two days before and was now making his way from his house up the New King’s Road to The Boltons in South Kensington—the exclusive street where he had been instructed to meet the oligarch. He hadn’t even been given the man’s name yet. Apparently he had just flown in from Moscow and was hosting a party, although Alex wasn’t sure how the hell he was going to do that in the present circumstances: there was no power, and food stocks were beginning to run low.

      Harrington had read out the invitation with a pained expression: ‘It’s to celebrate the Fixed Great Feast of the Russian Orthodox Church: Entry into the Temple of our Most Holy Lady Mother of God and Ever-Virgin Mary.’

      He had then barked in irritation: ‘Look, just turn up and introduce yourself as Alexander Grekov. Our contact will take it from there. I will sort the transfer of the money and I’ll look into that other thing…’ He waved his hand in disgust at Alex’s demand for a VC. ‘Just pull this off and frankly you can ask for the bloody world. As far as you’re concerned, though, this is your last contact with HMG. From now on we don’t know who you are and we don’t care if you get into any shit when you’re on the op. You are totally deniable. You’re on your own, Devereux!’ he had added with relish.

      Alex stopped to check his location with his torch. He shone the beam along a wall looking for a street name; familiar places suddenly became alien when they were plunged into pitch-darkness. The few passers-by he did meet seemed threatening and they huddled away from each other. He found a name and then brushed the snowflakes off the torch, stuck it back in his overcoat pocket, and walked on.

      He was always struck by the huge scale of the houses in The Boltons neighbourhood: five floors plus basement. ‘House’ was an understatement; they were really white stucco palaces. Some of them had candlelight shining dimly from their windows but most were just black looming hulks.

      Despite the ill-tempered meeting with Harrington, Alex was actually feeling a sense of excitement. He was committed to the operation now. The chance to serve his country again was irresistible once his anger against Harrington had died down and he was also galvanised by the huge sum of money that he stood to earn. This could be the restoration of the Devereux family’s fortunes that he had always dreamed of. Plans of how he could repair Akerly had already begun to circle in his mind.

      He wasn’t sure what to expect at the party. A Fixed Great Feast of the Russian Orthodox Church didn’t sound like a bundle of laughs.

      He was nearing the address now and thought he could hear a faint sound against the backdrop of the silent city. He walked cautiously on and detected a muffled beat coming through the night; there was also a faint glow from round the corner up ahead.

      As he rounded it he saw a huge house lit up with strings of white fairy lights twisted around the bare branches of a pair of old beech trees, spreading a canopy of twirling lights over the driveway. A large mobile generator unit hummed under one of them. The place was lit up like a cruise liner gliding through a dark sea. Arc lights on the walls poured out a wasteful excess of light—almost obscene in the midst of all the darkness.

      On the road outside stretched a line of cars with chauffeurs: huge, long-bonneted Rolls-Royces, Range Rovers and pumped-up 4x4s. A line of chattering guests filed up to the double gates of the drive; they looked like Eurotrash: twentysomethings in expensively ripped jeans and blazers, and middle-aged businessmen in casual suits with trophy wives all wrapped up in expensive furs.

      Alex walked up and stood awkwardly in line. He had been preparing to talk small-scale military operations rather than small talk. The house gates were open but blocked by two huge security men in black bomber jackets and a very attractive tall, slim girl from somewhere he couldn’t place in central Asia—Mongolia? She wore high-heeled black boots and a long sable coat with a cowl-like hood. Standing in front of the two doormen, she was welcoming guests and checking them off on a clipboard.

      She flashed a dazzling, friendly smile as Alex stepped forward, and said cheerfully: ‘Dobry vecher!’

      Alex quickly replied: ‘Dobry deetche.’

      ‘Kak vasha familia?’ she continued, holding the pen poised over her clipboard.

      ‘Maya familia Grekov.’

      ‘Ah, Alexander!’ She seemed to be expecting him and smiled as if she had found a long-lost friend, then ticked his name off.

      She continued in Russian:‘Welcome to Sergey Shaposhnikov’s house. My name is Bayarmaa.’ She held out a delicate gloved hand. ‘Please, follow me.’ She handed the clipboard to one of the bouncers and led the way up the drive with a swirl of her long coat.

       Shaposhnikov.

      So that was who it was, thought Alex as he followed her. Sergey Shaposhnikov—he knew the name but couldn’t think in what context he had come across it.

      He followed Bayarmaa up the large front steps flanked by white columns and in through the open double doors. Heaters blew a curtain of warmth over them. There seemed to be no shortage of power here and the excess of heat felt luxurious after so many days of shivering.

      The heat was СКАЧАТЬ