Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(28)

“Along with an off-the-cuff approach.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m still wondering about the suddenness of your visit. You’re sure it wasn’t prompted by circumstances back home?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I had the feeling, not long ago, that you were less than satisfied with some of the more, ah, provocative actions sanctioned by your boss.”

“You’re succumbing to wishful thinking, Diana. It’s always satisfying to imagine, what shall we say, an opposition team falling prey to rifts and squabbles.”

“It can be even more alarming to see a united front despite the criminal nature of the party line.”

“We might have to disagree on issues of legality.”

“Murder’s a black-and-white matter, I’d have thought.” She took a sip of champagne. There were other trays circling too: caviar, blinis. “Do you ever worry you’re headed back to the bad old days?”

“The Cold War was a two-way street.”

“I was thinking of older days than those. There were Tsars who wielded less power.”

“If you’re looking for flaws in public figures,” Rasnokov suggested, “maybe you should direct your gaze nearer home. Your own Prime Minister, perhaps. A man who’d rather people remember the promises he’s made than count the ones he’s kept.” He looked thoughtfully at the glass in his hand, but didn’t drink from it. “Though of course, to call him your country’s leader might not be entirely accurate. Say what you will about our president, but he is not a glove puppet.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s brought comfort to his victims.”

“Are we going to discuss politics? There are flaws in every system, Diana. I prefer to leave reform to those who know what they’re doing. Your own Anthony Sparrow, for instance. An interesting man, don’t you find?”

“Don’t believe all you read in the press.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. But I meant in person. We had a most enjoyable conversation over dinner.”

Diana nodded, because all the words made sense, and had appeared in intelligible order: enjoyable, conversation, dinner. Her apparent lack of concern failed to impress Rasnokov.

“You look, I’m not quite sure what the word I’m reaching for is. Unsettled?”

“The champagne,” she said. “Poor quality brands have that effect.”

“You’re running through my itinerary in your head, yes? And you’re wondering how I managed to squeeze in dinner with Mr. Sparrow without your being aware of it.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was toying with her; whether he knew Regent’s Park had dropped the ball, and he’d been free to wander at will before this afternoon. “Really,” she said. “You make it sound like you’re newly arrived in a police state.”

“Oh, no. Police states are famous for their efficiency.” He drank some of his water at last. “But you can relax. I’m sure your people were doing their job. No need to dispatch them to, what’s the name of this department? Slough House?”

He mispronounced the word; deliberately, she was sure. But she made no attempt to correct him.

“Your dining companions are your business, Vassily. I’m just surprised you found time to arrange such an outing. What with your unplanned arrival.”

“It would have been a hasty occasion, yes. But I was referring to an encounter last month, back in Moscow.”

“I see.”

“Nothing official, Diana. A social gathering. The world has become such a small place, don’t you find? Connections that could never have been made a decade ago are commonplace now. And anything that brings us together is surely better than the many things that drive us apart.”

The thought of Anthony Sparrow, special adviser to the PM, having made a connection of any kind with Moscow’s First Desk was going to bear closer examination. Especially if it had happened in Moscow itself. But for the moment all Diana did was smile, as if Rasnokov were confirming details she’d long since logged in her workbook. She sipped her champagne, mentally begged its pardon for her slur, and glanced towards a nearby couple, poets by the look, who had hijacked a waitress and were making short work of her canapés. Anthony Sparrow, Diana thought. Not technically a member of Her Majesty’s Government. But a figure, nonetheless, who should definitely have filed a report of spook contact made when on a jaunt abroad. Or anywhere else.

Perhaps this train of thought made its way past her expression, because Rasnokov suggested again that she relax. “It’s the curse of our profession, to be always thinking around corners. But this is a party. There is good food, good drink. Life is returning to normal. You should learn to enjoy yourself. London is full of opportunities, as so many of my countrymen have discovered.”

“Largely because they’re frightened to go back home.”

“And still you cannot help yourself. I understand your hostility towards my government. But is this an appropriate occasion on which to indulge it?”

She nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m simply concerned for you, Vassily. All pretence aside, we both know you work for a psychopath. The closer he gets to the end of his reign, the more blood there’ll be in the gutters. I’d hate to think yours might run with it.”