going to start carving chunks from Lucille and Peter.’
‘Do you honestly think I don’t know all that?’
‘And,’ she continued as if he had said nothing, ‘if you leave my sight for just a second before the speech begins then I’ll be calling it in before you can be out of the building. Even if you had a helicopter waiting for you outside, you couldn’t get to the mill in time.’
‘Again, I know. You’ve done a very good job of orchestrating this.’
‘I think you’ll find we’ve done an exceptional job. The plan, even if I do say so myself, is perfect.’
‘It’s interesting you say that, because in my experience no plan is perfect. Everything goes wrong as soon as the bullets start flying.’
‘Quite the pessimist, aren’t you?’ She looked at her glass. ‘They certainly know how to make it strong in Russia. Let’s go for a little wander, shall we?’ She offered him her hand. He didn’t take it.
The other two rooms designated for the reception were obvious from their open doors and the guests inside. More ropes and signs made those rooms which were off limits just as obvious. Across the hallway was a study and library. One half of the room contained an antique bureau and swivel chair. On the wall behind the desk hung framed photographs of previous Russian ambassadors, all serious-faced men with grey hair. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with Russian and Italian texts occupied the other wall. Biographies of important Russians were turned face out on eye-level shelves. Guests perused the titles.
Francesca picked a random book from a shelf. ‘Are you a big reader?’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘I’m trying to get to know you.’
‘What’s the point?’
She shrugged. ‘I want to remember you accurately.’
He didn’t respond and she flicked through the book, frowning at pages of indecipherable Cyrillic script. ‘I’ve never seen the point in books.’
‘They say you get out of reading what you put in.’
She nodded as if in agreement, but also absently. She struggled to slide the book back into the gap it had left.
‘Let’s take a look at the terrace,’ Victor said. ‘I want to see where it’s going to happen.’
The last room holding the reception was bathed in a soft glow from gilded brass fixtures on the walls and ceiling that coloured the marble columns and arches in warm hues of yellow and pink. A conference table and chairs dominated one half of the room. The table and chairs were neoclassical antiques, as were the rest of the room’s furnishings. A fireplace stood on the wall behind the head of the table, with a neat pile of logs in the hearth, but only for appearances. The chimney would have been blocked up long ago. Above the fireplace hung a snowy cityscape by Boris Kustodiev. Victor recognised the style and signature from the many hours he’d spent in Moscow galleries, performing counter-surveillance while he enjoyed the artwork. He also recognised a painting by Ivan Aivazovsky on the opposite wall, that depicted naval battleships duelling during the Battle of Navarino. Beneath it stood a Mockba grand piano, white, polished to a mirror sheen. Victor felt the urge to play.
Guests stood in small groups around the table and piano. Three sets of French doors spaced along the opposite west wall were open. Cool night air seeped in from the terrace outside, where more guests drank and laughed and where the ambassador would make his speech in less than an hour’s time.
Francesca put her glass down on the conference table. The glass was about forty per cent full.
‘Had enough?’ Victor asked, a certain tone to his voice.
‘Oh, you’d like me drunk and pliable, wouldn’t you?’
‘You’re looking a little the worse for wear.’
‘After one and a half glasses of fake champagne? Keep dreaming, Felix. I know my limits.’
‘Then why are you holding onto that chair?’
She followed his gaze and snapped her hand away from where it had been gripping the chair’s back.
‘Let’s get you some air,’ Victor said.
He guided her outside onto the terrace, pausing before the closest set of French doors to let her pass through first. The terrace ran the width of the building’s west wall and overlooked the embassy’s small but perfectly maintained garden. Lights mounted in the ground illuminated the rows of plants and flowers. A waist-high stone wall surrounded the terrace. Guests leaned against it and rested their glasses on top. Francesca found a spot at the south wall and leaned against it herself. Victor stood in front of her.