1-2: The Garden

garden table

Chapter 1-1 hereChapter 1-3 here



In an office on the outskirts of Shadzhara, Viktor Igorovich left the luncheon about 13:40, he had clients.

His old cronies from the tax police had put on the regulation knees-up to farewell him 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 their camaraderie for some vague notion of self improvement.

He’d actually been learning English for years, he’d been part of the soviet youth underground, the Samizdat. Then 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.


Zhenya was sitting in the kitchen of Ksenia’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, in a place where they hadn’t destroyed the forest.

As 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, Ksush? 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 … I don’t want that.’

He narrowed his eyes, grinned 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, with veiled menace, until he was behind his sister, a position she’d never have allowed him to occupy 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, 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 eyes observing.


The meal in the Garden hit the spot – meat and vegetable soup, marinaded chicken pieces and salad, everything fresh, especially the berries they’d picked to have with the tea and Hugh saw they were a ritualized tea drinking nation – days of the Raj.

Anya explained that the best tea came overland, presumably meaning from Ceylon but surely that meant over the sea?

If language was a barrier, the spirit of goodwill was not and he was being plied with bowl after bowl, until it dawned on him that they were going to keep doing this until he somehow stopped them. Anya’s eyes were creased with laughter and when she judged the moment appropriate, told him to say, ‘Na yel’sa,’ with the stress on the ‘yel’, then, ‘Spasibo.’

Things began to be cleared away.


The two of them went for a wander after that, he in long shorts and boat shoes, she wearing a light cotton shirt reaching down to her knees, gathered in at the waist, flip-flops on her slender feet and sporting a broad-brimmed straw hat.

The sun was beating down something awful as five minutes or so later they reached a little lake, where she shed her outer shirt, revealing a one piece costume, quite modest but clingy all the same.

Gingerly, she stepped into the water, turned and beckoned him, making it to near the middle of the lake well before him and he was no slouch in the water.

As he swam up, she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, laughed, released him and swam hell for leather back to the bank.


At the Garden once more, they sunbathed, she on her tin roof, he below on a deck chair, a nice afternoon really and as evening closed in, the grandparents came back from a visit to a neighbour.

She came down the ladder and showed him two Nivea caps. ‘Do you know what these are for?’

‘Er … no.’

‘I read you shouldn’t suntan your nipples – it’s bad for your health.’ She slipped quickly into the doll’s house to change, leaving him to muse on that.


An hour later, a whiff of smoke emerged from the banya chimney and anxiety gripped yet again – did they … er … expect him to … er … join them there … in the nuddy?

He breached it with her but she explained that no, as foreign guest, he’d be first through – he asked if the grandfather needed any help getting things ready.

Apparently not.

Carrying a towel and a clean change, he followed her to the outer door which creaked open, they went in, this was the outer room for changing. She now patiently waited for him to do just that and also noted his redness from the sun.

They went into the next room and the blast of heat hit.

There was a wooden slatted floor, used to being awash, big swishes of some birchy type were in the corner and she saw him look askance at those. Grabbing one, she began to hit her back and neck with it and he understood.

‘You’re doing that to me?’

‘It’s for you, Hugh, you take it in with you.’

‘Hours of pleasure.’

‘No, we must go through too.’


Supper on the verandah two hours later comprised fish, tomatoes, black bread and oukrop [dill], with watermelon, then tea for afters. The crystal clear air and the quietness of the Russian countryside, the banya, the food, the grandparents and finally her – they’d all begun to seep into the soul on what was really his first proper Russian day.

It was time to retire for the night, she went to one room with them, he to the other and of course, it had to be this way, all proper and above board.

Deep silence now fell on the Garden but of course he couldn’t sleep, not on this first night of possibility. He turned over on his back, put hands behind his head, turned on his side, then onto his back again … restless. Listening. Waiting.

He willed her to come but of course, she didn’t.


Then suddenly she was there, silhouetted, almost naked in the moonlight, the outline of her dishevelled hair wreaking more havoc than he cared to admit. Sensing he was wide awake, she reached into a drawer for a T-shirt, took one look over her bare shoulder and went back to the other room, threw the T-shirt on the chair – she hadn’t needed it anyway – and flopped onto her bed.

Turning onto her side and staring out of the window, the half light crossed her and she didn’t really know what to think. If he’d been sweet on Dilyara, well, she’d have been most annoyed – angry, in fact. He was an opportunist, her Mr. Jensen, trying things out and not having the vaguest notion what he was in for but so was she and he was her captive for the summer.

Why had she allowed him to come anyway? He was like a fish out of water and had absolutely nothing in common with anyone here.

And yet …


Next door, it was difficult getting her out of his head and the temperature was still quite high out there.

For the first time he wondered what the hell he hoped to achieve and he began to plan it out. They’d go back to town, a flat would be found he could rent or share, he’d always been pretty good at fitting in and no doubt there’d be someone along the journey.

That was the best way – Russia seemed an orthodox society from what he could gather, there seemed rules of engagement, it was fine. This was lovely, all of this, outdoors and healthy. Yep. He turned over to the wall and tried to drop off.


He became aware of a presence, turned over and was shocked. She quickly slipped under the light sheet and it was on.


It would have been twenty minutes later that he realized that he … well, he couldn’t go through with it … mentally he couldn’t, though the bod was certainly up for it and had appreciated her touch.

There was something not right about it this way with the grandparents next door. She sensed his reticence and yet there’d been no reticence in the clinches and that member had made its feelings known in no uncertain terms. Puzzled, she slipped out of the bed and went back next door.


Dilyara occupied the flat her parents had vacated when they’d left the city and retired to the forest.

That much was excellent but the down side was that her younger brother by one year also occupied the flat and despite the agreement they had, and despite the good relations between the two, it was next to impossible to bring anyone home. Lying on her bed, she reasoned she’d have to go to Marc instead but the difficulty was that he’d already left for Nizhny Novgorod that morning.

On a whim, she phoned his mobile and hoped he wouldn’t be angry.

Actually, he was delighted.

‘Oui? Can’t hear you well … Oui … Excellent … Excellent … Pardon? Dilyara, that’s not possible … Non, non, you don’t see … I am on a job from home … They are paying me for results and it is … well … delicate … Non, non, not that but I might have to move fast, to go here and there …’

He listened to the low voice at the Shadzhara end, stared at his mobile for a few moments and replied, ‘I know all that … yes, I know you wouldn’t but you would still be my responsibility, if anything happened. These are serious people.’

There was dead silence at the other end.

Then he conceded, ‘Alors. All right but when you arrive, you’ll have to take a car to an address I’ll give you now … it’s not exactly where I’m staying … All right?’

He gave the address and the time on the morrow and that was that. He sighed.


The next sound at the Garden was the squawking of the birds in the trees outside the little window next morning, he heard the crackling of potatoes being fried in the kitchenette, yawned, got up, dressed and went outside to greet a lovely day.

The grandmother beamed and handed him a towel, indicating the wash basin around the side of the house.

Anya was on tiptoes, picking berries and breakfast was almost ready on the verandah. He wandered over, she kept her eyes trained on the berries above and asked, ‘What do you expect from me then, Hugh?’

He smiled. ‘I expect nothing but hope for everything.’

She stewed over that for a few moments. ‘Shadzhara’s like a village, Hugh – don’t you understand that? People would talk. They’re already talking and it’s still only summer.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘I didn’t make any promises in London, did I?’

‘No, you didn’t.’ he then told her the way he’d been thinking just before … well … last night. ‘We all work on signals, don’t we? I never detected any negative signals from you and believe me, I’ve listened and looked out for them because no one likes rejection.’

‘Did that feel like rejection last night?’

‘No but I had trouble because well … you know … your grandparents were next door.’

‘Yes, I know. It would have been all right but yes, I know what you mean. There’s another thing I’m defensive too when someone I want gets close. I like that person close but then I close the shutters. You have to lead.’

The grandfather now took a phone call over at the Table and then another call followed. This time he handed the mobile to Hugh.


‘Mr. Jensen?’ A female voice, Russian, somehow familiar, accented English.

‘Who’s this?’

‘You might remember me from Heathrow – in London.’ He smiled at the ‘in London’. ‘I think I might have dropped my cassette by mistake while I was helping you. Did you find a tape by Linda, by any chance?’

‘I’ll have a look. Linda, you say? We’re not in the city just now. Who are you anyway? What’s your name?’

‘Please put it in an envelope and post it to the address I gave the man I just spoke with.’ There was a pause. ‘Please?’

Hugh handed the mobile to Anya, she closed it and asked the same question, ‘Who is she?’

‘Miss Heathrow.’

‘So let’s look when we go back, which is soon by the way – I’m on duty tomorrow. Can you be ready in an hour?’


Ksenya looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and saw some crows feet starting to appear – just the faintest sign of them, which could surely be put down to laugh lines but she was loathe to cake on the makeup, as it tended to put them off.

Golden-haired, blue-eyed, never had to work too hard on the slimming – nature had been kind so far but thirty was not so many years away and as age encroached, her usefulness as an operative steadily diminished. She knew that full well. She bit her lip and thought of the useless affairs that one job after another had turned into – the snappily dressed Shaidullin had been the last of them in Nizhny, he’d tricked her – anyway, he was married to a lovely woman who seemed to have no idea whatever.

Zhenya and his maverick attitude were more of a problem – she could always disown her brother but better he was technically ‘in’ where she could exert at least some influence.

Valerievna had more power over him but in the end, no one did. There really was a screw loose with Zhenya, personable though he was.

She’d shut out her childhood memories well enough but some of it kept coming back at times and it was better nobody got close enough to uncover her past, her weakness. Looking down at her light blue jeans and the white and pink trainers, she thought she looked clean and good.

Well, clean and good on the outside anyway.


Back in Shadzhara, they found the cassette in the pack, sat down on the sofa and listened. It was basically just songs about Tibetan dames, except at the end where someone had recited random numbers. He shrugged and asked for an envelope.

‘First we write it, just in case,’ said Anya.

‘Write it?’

‘Make another cassette.’



They posted the packet and it was Anya who mentioned it first. ‘How did she know my grandfather’s mobile?’

He’d like to have known that himself. ‘No idea, seriously. She couldn’t have got it from me.’

‘I don’t think I like that.’


It was too stifling in the flat, so they went for a walk. At the back of the housing block was a brook with a log across it and beyond that, a field where people took their dogs, plus some half finished, elongated, concrete structure to one side. Not a bad place for a stroll.

The air was decidedly better here and they spoke of this and that, sitting on the grass, she plucked some camomile flowers, wrapping then round and round with three long lengths of grass and placed one behind his ear.


They got back about midday, the sky already darkening, a storm was on the way and when it finally hit, the air instantly filled with torrential rain of such intensity that nothing could be seen further than five metres.

‘Come, come,’ she urged, stepping onto the glassed-in balcony, staring down through the opened panel. The paved roads below could be seen now in the first abatement of the rain, they were full to the top of the kerbs with swirling water, people were protecting themselves as best they could, either leaning into the gale or else turning their backs to it and crouching down.

Lightning flashed and now a second wave came, this time with hailstones. Hail – in the middle of summer, in the middle of the day!

By now, they were leaning out through one double window together, her hair whipped across his face, she turned and there was the question.

And behind them was that empty flat for two hours.


Dilyara found the address without too many problems but there seemed no one about inside the hotel foyer, so she went over to one of the functional armchairs, plonked herself down, adjusted her skirt and waited.


It must have been a good twenty minutes before Marc emerged from the little room behind reception and indicated, with a nod, a door at the far end of the foyer. Once they were through, he pulled her back against the wall and indicated that they were to remain silent. This wood-panelled room had a fire exit at the other end, it wasn’t a storeroom, it wasn’t for hotel guests, it just seemed to fill the space and nobody could think what to do with it.

His body tensed up beside her, he could feel her sensuality as well, which was the last thing required at this moment.


About seven minutes later, footsteps approached and two figures, male, came through the door, Marc beckoned her, they slipped back into the foyer, he locked the door behind him, pocketed the key and nonchalantly slipped out of the double doors onto the street, straight into the back of a cream Zhigoulie, the driver pulling out from the kerb and setting a good pace down the prospekt, Marc handing him the key to return to reception, with apologies, later in the day.

Still they didn’t speak until they reached a side road leading down beside the forest.

Pulling up outside what looked like a hostel, they went inside, paid the dyezhournaya a substantial sum, went up to the second floor and took a position in an alcove, overlooking the street where they’d pulled up.

He now allowed himself a smile. ‘You see, Dilya, it was never going to be fun for you, was it, running here, running there, unable to relax?’

By way of answer, she came uncomfortably close, looking him straight in the eye. The tension in his frame did not drop away, even though he kissed her with a semblance of affection. He felt he needed to explain his reticence but she touched his lips with her forefinger and whispered, ‘This is your show here, Marc, your work. I’ll do as you say, don’t send me away.’

That one tore through his defences.


September, 1996

By the 29th, Anya’s birthday, Hugh was settled in at the new flat, the possibilities of the area had been explored and he’d started the new job.

Today they were visiting Pizzeria Giuseppe, formerly Hotel France, high up on Shadzhara’s most stately tree lined promenade, closer to Spassky Tower, with the Kremlin to the north, the street then running south along the ridge to the heritage listed National Library, University and gymnasium, about half a kilometre away.

In places, looking west, the street commanded grand views of the city waterways.

Giuseppe’s was regarded by most as a place you went for special occasions. Divided into two main rooms, the smaller closer to the door and the larger inner room where orders were placed, the white cement-rendered walls hung with Italian prints, the white café furniture and the window ‘boxes’ running the entire length with plants and foliage, looking out over Kryemlyovskaya – these created an ambience unusual outside Moscow cafes.

A bevy of girls dressed in dark green frocks trimmed with dark maroon set off the scene. It was a case of going up to the counter, ordering and paying, then waiting for the food to arrive. Sometimes they’d bring it to the table, sometimes you’d have to go up to the counter, especially during busy periods. Anya quite enjoyed the mind-boggling varieties of ice-cream and the champagne, he liked the pizza at this place, especially pizza s’myasom [bolognese].

They ordered and took a table near the window, just inside the main room, noting all the comings and goings, which was the main purpose of the exercise, truth be told. Anya mentioned a birthday call from Dilyara.

‘Any news?’

‘She has a new boyfriend, you know him she says – Marc Lacour.’

Hugh grinned. ‘Ah, so she activated the visitni.’


‘He was on the train with me when I first arrived, he gave me his card and I gave it to her at the camp the day before you arrived.’

‘You directed her to another man?’ She could scarcely contain her smile. ‘Oh, Dilya would really like that … not.’

‘Well, it seems to have worked out all right.’

She glanced across at a neighbouring table and he followed the glance, his eyes resting on an auburn haired siren, maybe twenty seven, long hair held in place in a bun by a wooden clip in the shape of two hearts, completed by hooped golden earrings and black leather, stilettoed shoes.

‘So?’ asked Anya, ‘Whose is she?’

‘Who cares?’

‘Keep watching.’

The snazzily dressed boyfriend, about forty, came back with the pizzas and wine and they were clearly in that terminal state of two people with countless unresolved petty grievances, adjacent to each other, saying not a word.

‘The Odd Couple,’ she laughed, a trifle too loudly.


And yet there was still something easy in that relationship, a sort of rapport born of long proximity.


They went for a wander through the whitewalled Kremlin as far as the tower leaning like Pisa in seven tiers of brown brick. The legend was that the last Mongol princess, seeing the approach of Ivan Grozny [the Terrible] and knowing he wanted to marry her, had thrown herself off the uppermost tier of the tower, rather than suffer such humiliation.

Like most legends, there were anachronisms and contradictions but who cared?


October, 1996

Russian dinner table conversation now was largely about Operation Desert Strike in Iraq and Lukanov’s assassination in Bulgaria. Clinton was also making big noises in America and here, in Shadzhara, it was the first holiday of the academic year – ‘Dyen Uchitilya’, or ‘Teachers’ Day’, when the staff usually packed into a bus and made the 100km trek to a resort in the Republic of Mariel.


And so the Friday afternoon found Hugh on their bus for Klyenovaya Gora, Maple Leaf Mountain.

She went with him to the school to see him off and cast a critical eye over the assembled staff for any potential problems – there was one, but sources said she was married, although Anya had not detected a wedding ring. The thought drifted across her mind that this one might be out to make a play, concealing the ring but as there was nothing she could do to alter the situation, it was best put out of mind and instead, it brought a smile to think how he was going to cope once those cognac-fuelled women launched into song.

Everyone but Hugh knew this was one of the few chances in the year for the married women to let their hair down and not to have to cook and clean – things were bound to get quite festive.

The ex-Soviet bus rollicked away from the school and she went home to prepare herself for Dasha’s child’s first birthday, she was scheduled to be collected at 19:00.


The usual suspects were at the party, those who always cracked jokes did crack jokes, those who always made loud noises and shrieked did make loud noises and shriek, and by the middle of the evening, she could feel a headache coming on.

It was a relief to be able to go to the kitchen and help out with the preparations, resisting all calls to come back to the main room and get drunk. So what if they thought her high nosed – it helped get her through this party. She replayed her last words in her head: ‘helped get her through this party’.



About 23:00, Grisha and three henchmen crashed the dinner and turned it upside down.

Spying her in the kitchen, minus her minder, his bile rose, he swaggered over and delivered a few choice words, she promptly put the apron away, ordered a taxi, excused herself to her hostess and went home.

She and Hugh were going to tie the knot and to hell with them all. Or not. She was terrified. Well, they were going to talk it over anyway, once he returned.


Klyenovaya Gora, set at the foot of a mountain forest of densely packed maple trees, was famous for the spring water which could only be accessed by stepping down from a high, narrow wooden bridge crossing a gulch connecting the lakes.

The party arrived in the early evening, dusk having already fallen, they settled in, then went down for the supper and dancing. The younger set were more into dipping in the lake at midnight and Hugh made a mental note not to join them.

The tables had been formed into a large U in the dining area on the first floor, conducive to socializing and that’s where he saw the raven haired one again. A couple of mutual glances suggested that this might be a pleasant way to pass the hours but the company was building up to the raucous stage and he was caught in endless conversations with women trying out their English on him.

In the end, he got away, slipped over and suggested he and she go for a stroll, quickly collecting coats, hoods and gloves and heading for the outer door before they’d be missed, neither realizing they’d already been missed.

The approach road to the hotel was lined either side with floodlights, but beyond that was forest. Side by side, they strolled down the path towards the main road, talking about this and that, reaching the end disappointingly quickly, at which point he turned to look at her, her face framed by the furry hood, not unlike something out of Dr. Zhivago, only here and now in the middle of Russia, not half a metre from him, awaiting his next move.

An exceptionally beautiful face it was too and the turned-up nose was entrancing.

Taller than Anya, her hair was dark and he knew it to be waist-length, plaited behind into a single ponytail; she was slender to a fault, almost bony, her eyes complemented her hair, an altogether different article to his love. Calmer and more deliberate, the voice was light and her accent seductive.

Yet there was something curiously vulnerable about Alla – vulnerable but wilful. He was excited and she was flattered but his excitement had as much to do with what she was – a local in every way. Sure she’d learnt English but she’d never been out of Russia, unlike Anya – she was unfamiliar to him, a Russian type he’d not met before, a type he had no right to expect to now be face to face with on the edge of a forest on a late autumn evening.

His Anya was gorgeous, sensual, her voice was like honey with that slight accent, a petite bundle of joy, but essentially she was international – she knew the west and how things worked over there, she knew a lot of it from him.

This one now was pure Russian, from these parts, and now she was waiting.

He took her gloved hands and felt the long fingers grasp his; for some crazy reason, he leaned forward and kissed her upper lip, then asked if she wanted to go into the forest itself. It simply hadn’t occurred to him that she might not.

She shook her head. ‘I’m frightened of the forest.’

‘You – frightened? But you’re Russian!’

‘Why can’t Russians be frightened?’

‘Because they – well, they can’t. At least, I didn’t think so.’

‘There are wolves in that forest, Hugh.’

‘Really? I thought they’d killed them all or driven them away or something.’

She shook her head. ‘My grandmother told me about them.’

He looked at her sharply – this was a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, surely with some experience of life and here she was speaking of grandmothers and wolves.

‘Don’t worry, Alla, I can’t see them being near a populated hotel.’

What the hell was he saying, telling a Russian about her own backyard? He awaited the rebuff but she dropped her eyes instead, chuckling but still holding on to his hands. ‘Do you think we should walk back?’ she suggested, ‘The others might be waiting for us.’

‘Are you bored?’

‘I’m cold.’ Another surprise.

‘How can you be cold? You’re Russian.’

‘I’m human. You have some strange ideas about us.’

‘I’m learning, Alla, I’m learning. All right, let’s walk back.’

She snaked her arm through his, her long, thin, gloved fingers clutching his upper arm but then stopped short. ‘Hugh!’ she gripped his arm more tightly.


‘Over there, in the trees. Do you think -?’

‘Stay here. I’ll find out,’ he ordered.

He plunged into the forest, rambled about for a while, then came back. ‘Nope, no wolves this time.’

She visibly relaxed and as they walked back, she asked in turn what things frightened him.



‘Occult things, the enemy.’


Back at the hotel, three of the women caught sight of them and ribbed them mercilessly, which confused Alla and she hurried up to her room, he following on some time later but not to his room.

Instead, he took a chair in the rectangular bay on their floor, this bay wedged between two rooms; some of the younger ones now came up with a cassette player and music, keeping the volume reasonably low but urging Hugh to get up and dance, which he was loathe to do but in the end he got up, made desultory moves and then Alla appeared from her room.

The slower numbers began and as the young people drifted away, she came into his arms and swayed with his rhythm, he adjusted to her rhythm but realized she wanted him to lead. Their lips inevitably met, by now they were alone, the last people having drifted off, the cassette had finished and the unstated question arose.

There were two rooms to choose from, weren’t there?

She used his moment of indecision to excuse herself and slipped into her own room, turning at the door to smile and say good night. Standing in the middle of the carpet, he wasn’t sure what had just happened, he shrugged and went off to bed, wondering whether there really were wolves in that forest.


In Nizhny Novgorod, Valentina Alexandrova was scrutinizing the top document in the file that Viktor Bukovsky, her Senior-Sergeant, had brought her. She stepped across to the light and put on her reading glasses, which Viktor considered made her even more attractive.

‘What do we have on this Deputatov?’ she asked, turning round to face Bukovsky. ‘Why would he be of any concern to us?’

‘He’s connected with a Ronald Seymour – dried goods fame – shady character in Velikobritannia.’

‘Why would he be of any concern to us though?’ she repeated.

‘They’re setting up in Nizhny.’

‘I see.’

‘And some members of the security services are being seconded to ease the way through the regulations.’

‘Surely that’s a matter for the tax police, not security.’

‘Da but the FSB are also useful for their intimidation value.’

‘Why are we involved? We’re only Militsia.’

‘If we get involved, no one’s toes get stepped on between sections –’

‘In other words, we get to be the patsies.’

‘That’s not the construction they’d put on it, Valentina Vitalyevna.’

‘No doubt, Viktor, no doubt.’


Next morning was idyllic at Klyenovaya Gora, there’d been light rain and the fallen autumn leaves glistened on the paths as the whole gang went for a hike towards the lake and then further on to see the wooden plaque to Pugachev who’d come this way some time in history.

It was de rigeur to attend and thus the Head of English, Tanya, found herself beside Hugh at one point.

‘Alla’s married, Hugh.’

That was that – Klyenovaya Gora had ended for him. The remainder of the stay, he was a gentleman to her, even assiduous to her needs but she knew by his excessive chivalry that they’d done for her. Plus, as Tanya now told him, Alla was a lady. This made his own actions, in his own eyes and probably theirs, a tad questionable.


Late on the Sunday, they took the bus back and he was dropped at the top of Chuikova, a short walk from Anya’s flat.

She undid all the locks, opened each of the doors, the padded wooden inner door and the metal outer, he stepped through and went to embrace her but she pulled away. Instead she asked about the trip.

‘Amazing place. Very beautiful.’

‘Just like Alla, da?’

He glanced at her. ‘Alla?’

‘Hugh, you’re hopeless, this is a village – everyone knows everyone. They told me how you went into your shell after you’d heard she was married, wasn’t very flattering for Alla.’

She indicated one of the armchairs for him to sit in and headed for the kitchen. He followed her to help but a restraining hand on his arm prevented his egress and she gave him the remote control to the TV instead.

Not being a TV person, he sat on the divan, at a loose end, heard the kettle boil and her steps returning. He watched her ritualistically laying out the salads, then she sat near him. ‘Tea’s still too hot. Listen, Hugh, we have to decide a few things.’


Viktor Igorovich, lecturer at Shadzhara State University and teacher of Business English, was always going to run into Hugh Jensen. They were introduced in the latter’s school staffroom, fell to talking and while Viktor went off to speak to the Director, Hugh asked his Head of English about the man.

‘Military background, spent some years with the tax police, completed a degree in business, taught himself English – you be the judge of how good it is.’

When Viktor returned, he invited Hugh back for lunch at his place, on the strength of their discussion about the Russian art of making real Bloody Mary.

Well why not?


Lessons over, they took two trams back to his apartment near the old airport and Hugh had a chance to observe the Russian on the other side of the aisle. Physically hard yet self-effacing in manner, yet also with calm self-assurance, most certainly in charge of his own life, this one.


At the apartment, Viktor had a matter on his own mind he wanted to broach and broach it he did.

‘As a westerner, Hugh, you come to Russia rich by our standards but if you remain, then your spending power’s going to decrease to the point where certain things are going to happen. One moment.’

He concentrated hard on holding the hunting knife at the correct angle, tip just touching the inside of the glass above the meniscus of the tomato juice and letting the vodka slowly trickle down the blade, forming a one finger layer on top of the juice.

‘Vot! Krova’vaya Mary! Now you try it. Sorry, I was distracted – yes, things are going to happen. The first watershed is that you’ll find you can no longer return to the west. I don’t mean by law – I mean financially. No, no, more of an angle, not so fast with the vodka.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘That’s enough vodka. Now, it’s got to be drunk quickly. First, the burn and immediately after it, the smoothness of the juice. To your health!’ They knocked back the Bloody Marys which barely hit the sides on the way down.

‘I’m talking, my friend, about your Anya.’ Hugh nodded for him to continue. ‘Well, the question naturally arises with you and her.’

‘I’m serious about her.’

‘Then do you plan to stay here or go back to the west?’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘And don’t forget that Shadzhara is a city full of eligible ladies – I could name three straight away who’ve already indicated they’d like to meet you.’

‘I get the picture.’


Marc was back in Paris.

The mobile phone bill began to present some difficulties but Dilyara was preoccupying him more and more and the frustrating thing was the lack of opportunity to meet. He was constantly being sent to Germany, to Italy, to Britain but not to Russia – at least not for now.

She’d cry on the phone and he judged her not to have been the crying type. He promised he’d work out a way, either through business or else he’d take a break.

He’d speak with Geneviève, who actually knew the situation anyway. The Dion documents had to be dropped off at her apartment that evening and it was a good chance to have it out. Geneviève didn’t live any great distance from Marc but her street was nicer, abutting a park, with trees dotted along the edge of that park, the apartment block contained only four flats and each was largish. Geneviève had done well from her work.

In her living room now, she handed him a cognac. ‘L’amour, Marc?’

‘Ne sais pas. Possibly. I can’t think straight.’

‘How much leave do you need?’

He shot a glance at her. ‘Give me a week, no longer and I’ll bring her here – there’s too much danger in Shadzhara. She has qualms about coming to a man’s place, parents, family you know, so I’ll need her to stay with one of the girls. Claudette?’

‘I’ll speak with her.’ She poured more coffee and then got down to business. ‘Renata.’


‘When did you last see her?’

‘Mademoiselle, you know what happened there, it simply wouldn’t have worked. Why are you bringing it up now anyway – it was long before Marie-Ange.’

‘When did you last see her?’

Marc’s annoyance showed. ‘Who knows? Five months ago.’

‘Not after that? Not yesterday, after you returned?’

‘Why this fixation with my ex-girlfriend?’

‘She was found dead yesterday in a warehouse off Rue de Bercy. She’d been shot in the back of the head, bullet apparently not one of ours. I’m sorry, I had to know.’


November, 1996

The first flurries of snow now came to this part of Russia but were then washed away. Half the time Hugh and Anya were at his flat and half at hers and they’d set up a fairly workable routine by this stage.

On the world stage, Clinton had beaten Dole and on the local front, Yeltsin had had a major surgical operation. There was no news on Dolly, the cloned sheep.


Somehow, December came around and when the first dump of snow was followed by another and another, it was clear it was here to stay. The wind was also hard at work, causing large drifts and walling in doorways.


By the end of December, they were under a foot and a half of hard packed snow, with drifts here and there up to the waist. The temperature had dropped to an average minus 20 degrees but it was like a yoyo – one day minus 5, the next minus 30, everyone rapidly changing through a range of outer wear, each item costing about one year’s salary.


On the last Friday, in Baumana, watching his footing carefully, picking his way along the icy cobblestones, heading for the underpass and the Hotel Shadzhara on the other side where there was a sort of currency exchange, he saw her. Coming up the steps towards him was Miss Heathrow.

As simple as that.

For the most fleeting of moments, their eyes met, she turned on her stiletto heels and as fast as decorum and the necessity to be inconspicuous dictated, hurried away back down the underpass.

Chapter 1-1 hereChapter 1-3 here



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