December. James Steel

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СКАЧАТЬ clinked with the other two. ‘See you under the table!’

      Vladimir laughed and shook his head in admiration. ‘Sergey Stepanovich…’

      Sergey smiled affectionately back and then threw his arm round Alex and said to Vladimir, ‘Right, I’ve got to talk to this boring geologist. You can fuck off and find yourself something to do.’ He pointed at the pole-dancer.

      Vladimir looked at Alex and grunted, ‘Geology, huh!’ and then looked at the dancer and grinned at Sergey. ‘I prefer biology…’ he grinned, and lurched off through the crowd towards her twisting figure.

      Sergey grabbed Bayarmaa around the waist and steered her out of the room. ‘Come on, let’s go to my office,’ he said over his shoulder to Alex, who followed, clutching his foaming, green drink.

      By now he was seriously disturbed by what he had seen of Sergey. This is the man in charge of organising the most dangerous political coup ever? he thought as they threaded through the guests in the huge ground-floor room and made their way up the sweeping main staircase.

      Alex had finally remembered where he had heard Sergey’s name before—on the gossip page of The Times. There had been a paparazzi photo of him leaving a club late at night with some starlet. He couldn’t remember what the salacious element of the story was but it didn’t surprise him in the least after what he had just seen. The operation was risky enough without having a lunatic in charge of it.

      They came to the top of the broad staircase where another pole-dancer was flexing herself in a large open room. A group of businessmen was gathered around her, admiring the show. The atmosphere was calmer here: music played but guests were chatting, and canapés and champagne were circulated by yet more uniformed staff.

      Set in an alcove on one side of the room were a large pair of polished wooden double doors. In front of it a small crowd of people was standing around with drinks, talking and evidently waiting for someone. Blocking them from the door was a large man in a dark suit with buzz-cut hair and an earpiece. His hands were clasped firmly in front of him and his eyes scanned the guests in a mechanical way.

      Sergey detached himself from Bayarmaa and suddenly switched to hyperactive.

      ‘Friends, friends, friends! Yes!’ he shouted and then ran around the group embracing men and women alike, kissing everyone three times on the cheeks and making manic small talk with each of them.

      ‘Yes! Yegor! Ah-ha! The new pipeline, great flow rates! Well done! Yes! I love it!…Tatyana! Ah! I love the new store! Yes! We need to talk about the manager on the second floor, though; she’s got to go!…Misha! Great! We’ll speak about Production Line Two. I have a new idea! Maybe we’ll actually make some money out of it, heh?…OK, please, talk, drink—I’ll see you all in good time!’

      Sergey gestured to Alex to take a seat on a large divan covered in oriental rugs along the wall opposite. He then pushed open the door to his inner sanctum and waved two men inside: one was Grigory, whom he had been dancing with—arty-looking with curly black hair and a crumpled Armani suit—and the other a pallid man in a formal dark suit and tie, whose eyes glittered quietly as he glanced round and slipped in through the open door.

      Bayarmaa took up what seemed to be her usual position as charming hostess at the door, chatting to Sergey’s employees. Alex sat down, feeling annoyed at the chaotic way things were being handled. He took a slug of his strange drink—it was actually not bad. He sat back and quietly people-watched as guests came and went up and down the stairs.

      After ten minutes, one panelled door opened and Grigory and the pale man came out, looking tense. They muttered goodbyes to Bayarmaa and walked off with their heads down. She turned to Alex and motioned him to come over.

      He stood up and made to move towards her when something cut into the corner of his eye. His head flicked round.

      The woman was tall with a lean silhouette mainly composed of long blonde hair, cheekbone and leg. She wore designer jeans, heels, and a white shirt with a high collar and large cuffs, sculpted to emphasise her generous cleavage—all very simple, very elegant, very impactful.

      Despite all that was on his mind, Alex felt a systemic shock go through him. It wasn’t just her figure, it was also the way she walked: head back, looking neither to left nor right. She was in her twenties but had the presence of a grande dame.

      She moved from the top of the stairs and past the crowd admiring the semi-naked dancer in a few long strides; cutting through the sleazy atmosphere with the cold indifference of a Soviet icebreaker.

      The woman fired a look like a bullet at Bayarmaa, who curled her lip in return but stepped back from the door. The guard also withdrew deferentially and the woman pushed open both doors at once, marched purposefully into the room and slammed them behind her. Alex sat back down, feeling a slight tremor from watching the episode.

      It was five minutes before both doors were again wrenched open and she strode out. Sergey hurried after her: eyes wild, hair astray and hands outstretched imploringly. He put a hand on her elbow to stop her, but in one fluid movement she spun round and hit him hard with the back of her hand on his shoulder. He deflated instantly, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders. From this defensive posture he looked up at her with humble affection; his hands held meekly open in front of him as he mumbled some explanation. The woman listened to him with hands on her hips, mouth set firm, her gaze level and eerily calm.

      Sergey finished speaking and looked at her imploringly. She held his gaze for a long moment, neither assenting nor dissenting, before turning her head away. He fumbled in his suit pocket, pulled out a small jewelled box and pressed it into the palm of her hand. She glanced at it wearily, sighed, and tucked it into a little handbag hooked over one shoulder before walked away from him.

      As she moved past Alex, her head turned towards him and they looked at each other for a split second. The woman strode on and made her way down the stairs.

      

      She walked out of the gate in her long fur coat and stepped into the back of one of Sergey’s chauffeur-driven, black Range Rovers with tinted windows. As the driver moved off, she pulled the ornate box out of her handbag and turned it over in her hand, thoughtfully examining the gold whorls and the precious stones set into it.

      After looking at it for a while she flipped the clasp open with her thumbnail and took out the single folded sheet of plain, white paper. On it were two lines of Sergey’s appalling scratchy handwriting: cramped, unevenly spaced and with occasional spikes up and down.

      She recognised the verse. It was Pushkin:

      Past sorrow to me is like wine

      Stronger with every passing year.

      The woman closed her eyes for a moment in a look of pain. She folded the note, put it back in the box and looked out at the dark city sliding past.

      

      Sergey suddenly switched on his normal, manic persona and threw his arms open towards Alex: ‘Ah-ha! Grekov!’ He gestured into his office.

      Alex put his drink down and stalked through the open door, his dark brows knit in a frown of disapproval. He was not impressed by what he had seen of Sergey so far.

      The room was a long rectangle, dimly lit with a large boardroom table down the middle and elegantly curtained windows along the left-hand side. On the opposite wall and between the windows were enormous bookshelves СКАЧАТЬ