Heads You Win

“No, I’m afraid you didn’t,” replied Sasha in perfect Russian. “But do come back again at seven thirty, because I forgot to ask the front desk to give me a wake-up call.” He gave her a warm smile, said, “Good night, darling,” and quietly closed the door.

He climbed back into bed, thinking the KGB’s research left a little to be desired. Someone should have told them he’d never cared for redheads. Although they were right about the vodka.

* * *

Sasha was among the first to be seated on the bus the following morning, and to his surprise, when Fiona climbed on board, she deserted her minders and sat down next to him.

“Good morning, comrade minister,” he teased. “I hope you had a good night’s sleep.”

“I had rather a bad night, in fact,” whispered Fiona. “I met a charming young man in the lounge called Gerald, who told me he worked at the embassy. He came up to my room just after midnight and I should have slammed the door in his face. But I’m afraid I’d drunk a little too much champagne.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Sasha. “You’re an attractive single woman, so why shouldn’t you enjoy the company of a colleague outside working hours? I can’t imagine it would excite much interest beyond a few perverts in the Kremlin recording center.”

“It’s not the sex I’m worried about,” said Fiona, “it’s what I might have said après sex.”

“Like what?” asked Sasha, enjoying every moment.

Fiona buried her head in her hands and whispered, “Thatcher is a dictator with no sense of humor. Geoffrey Howe is so wet you could wring him out, and I may have told him the names of two or three members of the Cabinet who are having affairs with their secretaries.”

“How unlike you, Fiona, to be quite so indiscreet. But I’d hardly describ

e any of that as front-page news.”

“It is when you’re lying in the arms of a KGB officer.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I do know there’s no one called Gerald working at the British Embassy. If the story was to get into the hands of the press, I’d be finished.”

“Perhaps not finished,” said Sasha, “although it might put off the much-heralded promotion that the press keep hinting at. But only until the Blessed Margaret is finally deposed, which I confess doesn’t look too imminent. But why tell me all this?”

“Oh, come on, Sasha. Everyone knows you have excellent contacts in the Soviet Union. Do you imagine for one moment that your meeting last night went unnoticed? You must have some influential friends in the KGB.”

“Sadly not. You may not have noticed, Fiona, but they’re the bad guys.”

“Minister?” said the voice of a civil servant, hovering over them.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Gus,” said Fiona. Turning back to Sasha, she whispered, “If you could do anything to help, I’d be eternally grateful.”

And we all know what your idea of eternity is, thought Sasha as the bus came to a halt in Red Square.

Fiona led her little troop out to be greeted by her opposite number, who would never have guessed from the minister’s demeanor that anything was troubling her. Impressive, thought Sasha as he followed in her wake.

The delegation was accompanied through a set of vast iron doors sculpted with images of the Siege of Moscow. Two uniformed guards sprang to attention as they passed. The delegation was then led up a wide red-carpeted staircase to the second floor, where they were ushered into a huge, ornately decorated room that was dominated by a long oak table surrounded by high-backed red leather chairs that would have graced a palace, and probably once had. They were invited to take their places along one side of the table, where Sasha found his name card three from the far end. Once the British delegation were seated, they were kept waiting for some time before the Russians made their entrance, taking their places on the opposite side of the table.

Their host made a long and predictable speech, which didn’t need translating. Sasha felt that Fiona’s reply was not up to her usual standard. Not that it mattered much. The final communiqués had already been drafted by the mandarins, and would be released on the last afternoon of the conference, whatever anyone said during the next couple of days.

For the morning session they broke up into smaller groups to discuss student exchanges, visa restrictions, and the loan of the Walpole Collection from the Hermitage that was to be exhibited at Houghton Hall. The Russians only seemed to be worried about whether they’d get their paintings back.

It was during the lunch break that Sasha spotted him standing alone on the other side of the room. He was dressed in a bottle-green uniform that boasted a row of campaign medals, while his gold epaulets suggested that he had risen swiftly through the ranks. Sasha would have known those calculating cold blue eyes anywhere. Vladimir smiled and walked purposefully across to join him. When he was a couple of feet away he came to a halt, not unlike a boxer facing his opponent in the middle of the ring, waiting to see which one of them would throw the first punch.

Sasha had already prepared his opening gambit, although he suspected Vladimir had been working on his for some time, as the meeting clearly wasn’t taking place by chance.

“I must say, Vladimir,” he said in Russian, “I’m surprised you found the time to attend such an unimportant gathering.”

“I wouldn’t normally bother,” said Vladimir, “but I’ve been looking forward to seeing you for some time, Sasha.”

“I’m touched that Ares found time to come down from Olympus.”