Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(27)

“Indeed. One of our guest speakers is most eager to meet you.”

“How intriguing.”

This dance, she thought, was as formalised as anything Jane Austen might have imagined; the polite lies offered; the half-truths exchanged, hoping to pass unnoticed. The spook world was its own quadrille. In recognition of this the company had arranged itself in small groupings, each distinct from the other, as if there were circles painted on the floor. But then, this had become the norm at formal gatherings, before the drinks had taken hold; everyone conscious of the clouds others walked in; of the area round a warm, working body that’s full of sweat and spittle, and leaving traces in its wake. Diana remembered being told, when young, that the way to apply perfume was to spritz a dash into the air and walk through the mist. Not an image today’s advertisers would reach for, the lingering nature of airborne particles being a tough sell.

Already, her functionary was yielding her to an approaching male. “Enjoy your evening, Ms. Taverner.”

The newcomer was in late middle age; his head hair dark, his neatly crafted beard shot with silver. Five ten, she estimated. In good shape for his age and profession: like her, he spent his working days underground, surrounded by screens and well-trained staff; so like her, his apparent good health was testimony to early hours working out, or pounding round a park. His suit—new tie—bore no traces of recent international flight, and the smile with which he greeted her was in his eyes too, which had a greenish tinge. Diana had never met him in the flesh: MFD, as he was abbreviated on the hub. Moscow’s First Desk. Her opposite number. She was no mathematician, but found herself wondering: Would such a meeting produce a zero? And then dismissed the frivolity in much the way Vassily Rasnokov dismissed the functionary: both departed without a murmur.

“Diana Taverner. I saw your name on the guest list, and was disappointed to hear that you’d declined. But this afternoon I was told that you’d become available, and it gladdened my heart. It would have been a disappointment not to meet, after all this time.”

In the current manner, he clasped his hands and gave a little bow.

She said, “A previous engagement was cancelled. I was glad of it too. This is a rare opportunity.”

“Rare indeed. I don’t know about you, but there are people back home who will be furious we’re in the same room unaccompanied.”

“Same here.”

“And others who would want me to bring back your autograph.”

“I’m ahead of you there, Vassily. I have any number of people who can do me your autograph.”

He laughed, without overdoing it, and raised a hand for the nearest waitress. When she arrived, he took a glass of mineral water from her tray.

Diana went on: “This is a surprise, though. I didn’t see your name on the visitors’ list.”

He shrugged so hugely he might have been French. “I was a last-minute substitution. There was an illness, and a lecture had to be cancelled. Which would have been a shame, as the staff here were looking forward to it. It just so happened that the topic—”

“Battleship Potemkin,” Diana contributed.

“Yes. Happens to be an interest of mine. So I thought, well, why not come over to London and give the lecture myself? And enjoy your beautiful city in the autumn sunshine.”

“Which happened so swiftly that we have no documented entry for you.”

Rasnokov shook his head, sympathy in his eyes. “Ah, paperwork. How many things fall between the cracks? But let’s not look a gift horse in the teeth. It’s very satisfying to meet you face-to-face. For you, maybe not such the pleasure, eh?”

She gave this a moment’s thought. “Oh, I don’t know. The beard rather suits you.”

He seemed in a relaxed mood, but then, he’d had a reasonably laid-back few days. The hastily assembled itinerary Diana had received just hours ago had verified his arrival at Heathrow on Tuesday morning, though the passport he’d shown had been in the name of Gregory Ronovitch, which was also the name he’d used when checking in at the Grosvenor. He’d eaten there Tuesday evening, and had gone to bed asking for an 8 a.m. alarm call. Wednesday morning he’d breakfasted at the hotel, enjoyed a well-detailed shopping excursion which had taken in every second emporium along Regent Street, though had resulted in no purchases that wouldn’t fit in a single bag, and then returned to the embassy for—presumably—meetings, after which the Grosvenor again, dinner and bed. This afternoon, following the catch-up meeting at the Park when his presence had dropped like a bagful of pennies, the luckless Pete Dean had picked him up leaving the embassy once more, this time with a seven-strong team counting his footsteps: they were treated to a crawl along the South Bank, culminating in a full hour and twenty-eight minutes during which Vassily sat on a bench with that morning’s Guardian, gazed across the river, and made no contact whatsoever of any kind with anyone. That, anyway, was their claim, and even now that same team was back in the Park’s viewing room, studying the footage at quarter speed like a bunch of poloneckers at an Andy Warhol retrospective. Rasnokov, meanwhile, had cabbed back to the Grosvenor, from which he’d reappeared fifty-four minutes later, freshly-suited, to head on back to the embassy.

And here he was.

She said, “The tie was a good choice. The one with spots was a little much, I thought.”

“It’s a question of what you can carry off, isn’t it? I prefer the low-key look.”