“So!” demanded Anne. She’d chosen the Italian restaurant in Wilton Street because it had memories. Charlie hadn’t asked. She hadn’t offered.
“The British-which seems to come down to me-are being blamed for the leak. The ambassador or Brooking- probably both-have made it political. My people here don’t see things the way I do: there’s one trying to dig my burial pit. The scientists and professional experts can’t break away from other things to do what I’ve asked. The psychiatrists or psychologists-Christ knows which or who-are demanding I stay, to answer their questions. Which means I can’t get back to Moscow, where I need to be …” He couldn’t tell her about George Bendall’s collapse. There was no way he could officially know.
“That all?”
“That’s all that comes instantly to mind,” said Charlie, allowing the cynicism.
“So you’re pissed off?”
“Thoroughly fucked off.” He sipped the Barolo he’d ordered in preference to her Chianti suggestion, glad she’d conceded. “But curious.” It had taken a long time coming, too long. But now the feet were throbbing and he was sifting the wind-strewn intrusions.
The lawyer sipped her own wine. “Curious about what?”
“The cleverness of it all,” offered Charlie. “It never was about a mentally unstable man with a gun. We were
Anne frowned at him. “I’m not sure what you’re telling me?”
Charlie’s reply was delayed by the arrival of their food, guinea fowl for Anne, wine-cooked veal escalope for him. As the waiter left, Charlie said, “You ever personally experienced a sandstorm?”
Anne’s frown remained. “No.”
“You can’t see where to put your feet, the direction in which to go.”
“In which direction should we be going?”
“If I knew I’d take it.” This wasn’t any better than it had been at Millbank, earlier. At least Anne appeared to be taking him seriously.
“In which direction should I be going?”
“Which way have you been told to go?” asked Charlie.
“Mental instability, up to and including unfit to plead. I’m being kept back, too, for consultation with psychiatrists. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
“Or you with me.”
“I’m not complaining.”
In which direction was
“Two years, four months and three days.”
“Very specific?”
“Prison counting: scratching off the sentence on the cell wall.”
Not his business-or his interest-Charlie decided, remaining silent.
“He wouldn’t compromise his career-he was a lawyer, like me-and I wouldn’t compromise mine. We met at week-ends but there were others in between that didn’t really mean anything. After two years, four months and three days we realized that we didn’t mean anything, either.”
Almost precisely the time he’d been permanently in Moscow with Natalia, thought Charlie. At once he stopped the reflection, irritation burning through him, making him physically hot. There wasn’t the slightest comparison! It was ridiculous even attempting-imagining-to make it. He and Natalia had to do something, though, to resolve their problems-real or otherwise-before they got any worse: before they ceased to mean anything to each other too, inconceivable though that was. Perhaps it was personally a good thing the London visit was being extended, giving them both time and space to realize what it was like to be without each other, even for a short period. Straw-clutching, Charlie recognized, objectively. There’d been other short breaks since they’d been together-intervals longer than this one would probably be-so nothing was likely to be different when he got back. Weren’t both of them allowing a self-deceit-an hypocrisy invoking Sasha as a bond-in prolonging their staying together?
“Have I said something awkward?”
“I’m sorry,” apologized Charlie. “My mind went off at a tangent.”
“I could practically see the cogs moving. Want to talk about it?”
“No!”
“Sorry!”
“No, I am,” said Charlie. “That was rude.”
“You’re quite a mystery man at the embassy, you know?”
Charlie felt a stir of concern. “That’s what I’m supposed to be.”
“Story is that you’ve got an apartment in what used to be a royal palace?”
“A minor grand duke was supposed to have lived there before the revolution.” He had to stop this: divert it.
“Is there such a thing as a
“It’s diplomatically better for me to be physically separate from the embassy.”
“Morrison doesn’t live outside the compound.”
“I’m officially recognized by the Russian government, like Kayley and the FBI. Morrison’s accreditation is as a diplomat.” It was getting threadbare.
Anne frowned. “You lost me on the logic of that. There doesn’t seem to be any.”
Charlie gestured for the waiter to clear their plates, needing the interruption. She shook her head against anything more and so did Charlie. He said, “Is this the Anne Abbott courtroom technique?”
“You offended?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Curious, at the interest.” With luck the joking flirtation of the previous evening might just be the diversion.
She smiled. “I like to get to know as much as I can about people I work with, particularly when it’s as close as we seem to be thrown together.
“What you see is what you get,” said Charlie, inwardly cringing at the B-movie dialogue.
“Now I’m curious. It’ll be interesting to find out.”
They walked back towards the Brompton Road along Beauchamp Place, pausing to window shop after Anne said she could use the extra time in London to restock her wardrobe, reminding Charlie he’d have a longer opportunity to buy Sasha’s promised present. And something for Natalia, too, despite her insistence that she didn’t want anything. Anne walked easily, familiarly, with her arm looped through his, pleasantly close. Natalia wasn’t tactile like that: too long by herself, caring for herself, he guessed. Charlie halted determinedly at the main road, demanding a taxi. It was Anne who suggested the brandy nightcap, which became several. There were only stools at the bar, which brought them close together again. Charlie didn’t try to move away. Neither did Anne.
She said, “I ever tell you my philosphy about sex?”
“No.”
“It’s the obvious-logical-progression of friendship.”
“What about love?”
“That’s different. That’s letting things go too far.”
“Very free spirited,” said Charlie. With whom had she philosophied in Moscow? he wondered.
“I don’t want any more brandy.”
“OK.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Time to go to bed then?”
They stayed close together walking to the elevators and got a car to themselves and kissed and Charlie
