Galina Valisova laughed. ‘You can undress now. It does not matter.’ As she spoke, the door opened again and a porter struggled in with two large white leather suitcases and a wicker basket covered with a napkin. He was followed by Charles Pol, who was only just able to squeeze through the open door, swathed in soft heavy vicuna. ‘Je m’excuse,’ he muttered, and glanced up at the bunk above Cayle’s. ‘Ah merde!’
‘Can I help you?’ Cayle said in French.
‘Thank you. It is only that I am not, as you see, very athletic.’ Pol grinned and began to haul off his vicuna coat, while Cayle stood up to let the porter stow the two suitcases under the bunk.
Reluctantly, because it would place him out of easy reach of Miss Galina Valisova, Cayle surrendered his lower bunk to the Frenchman, who bowed with a creak of silk and thrust out a fat pink hand with fingers like fresh-peeled shrimps. ‘Merci, monsieur! Je suis Charles Pol. Enchanté.’
‘I am Barry Cayle,’ Cayle replied, still in French; then added, po-faced: ‘I do not think that you require my passport details?’
Pol moved his hands in a gesture of Gallic delicacy. ‘No, it is not necessary, Monsieur Cayle. In Moscow one has so few secrets.’ He winked and took Cayle’s arm in a surprisingly firm grip. ‘I regret the inconvenience,’ he murmured.
‘It is no matter. I expect I would have slept badly anyway.’
Pol lifted an eyebrow. ‘You always sleep badly on trains? You should have gone by air, my friend.’
Cayle smiled: ‘Yes, I should have gone by air. But as you know, Monsieur Pol, it is so much easier to become acquainted on a train than an aeroplane.’
Pol patted his elbow and said, ‘We will talk later. There will be plenty of time before we reach —’ he chuckled — ‘St Petersburg.’
Someone came down the corridor clanking a hand-bell. Galina Valisova jumped up and cried, ‘That is the samovar lady! You would like samovar?’ she asked Cayle.
‘You have samovar,’ he said, ‘I prefer something stronger.’ He saw her frown disapprovingly, as he unplugged the cotton wool from the vodka bottle and took a swift drink. At the same moment, Passmore’s pale face peered down from the top bunk and he called: ‘Could someone get me a glass of water, please? I feel kinda tired after climbing up here.’
Galina Valisova nodded and skipped out into the corridor. Cayle offered the Osoboya to Pol who stayed his hand. ‘I have something rather more special, my friend.’ He leant down, almost splitting the back of his jacket, and lifted the napkin off the basket on the floor. Underneath was the slim neck of a magnum of Dom Perignon standing in a vacuumed ice-bucket, with four tulip glasses tucked into the corners.
Galina Valisova had returned with a steaming glass of tea in a silver filigree holder, and a paper cup of water which she handed up to Passmore. He thanked her with a weary nod and lay back on his pillow. Galina Valisova now saw the champagne and gave a squeak of excitement. ‘It is real champagne? French champagne?’ she cried, and touched both hands together as though in prayer.
Pol said, ‘It is the only champagne,’ and began easing out the cork.
Galina Valisova left her tea on the floor, and began jumping up and down in her little seal-skin boots, her plain black dress discreetly concealing her plump calves. Pol popped the cork and caught the froth skilfully in her glass, when there was a jolt and they began to move.
They touched glasses and drank to the journey ahead. Cayle was watching Galina Valisova carefully, unable to make out whether she spoke French or not. She drank her champagne as though it were lemonade, and Pol gave a little clucking noise like a hen each time he refilled her glass. ‘I should have brought a whole crate!’ he cried. Galina Valisova smiled and drank.
By the time the overhead light was turned off, the magnum was empty. Galina Valisova was stretched out fully clothed on her bunk, with her face lit up in a circle of pink light from the red-shaded reading lamp. Above her, Passmore was taking advantage of the dark to get undressed. Cayle nodded to Pol, with a glance at the girl, and they both moved out into the corridor.
‘Very chic,’ said Cayle.
‘You mean the little one?’
‘I mean the whole operation. Chic and competent,’ Cayle said, still in French.
Pol wedged his toes and shoulders against the swaying sides of the corridor. ‘I am pleased that you appreciate it, my friend.’
‘Can we speak English?’ said Cayle.
‘My English is not good,’ Pol said.
‘That’s fine. It’ll give me the advantage.’
Pol nodded slowly, watching the squares of light rippling across the snow outside. ‘You have many advantages in this country, Monsieur Cayle,’ he said, in English.
‘Only I seem to be depending too much on too many people. And none of them are my employers in London.’
Pol shunted his colossal buttocks down the mahogany wall and gave a noisy belch. ‘Ah, merde! Champagne and whisky — it never agrees with me. One of the great tragedies of life, I find, is that the older one gets, the greater become one’s appetites.’
‘When I first got to Moscow,’ said Cayle, ‘someone told me you were a Marxist.’
Pol giggled: ‘Not a Russian, I hope? No, the Russian authorities have a deep and sensible distrust of Western businessmen with Utopian ideals.’
‘It was an Englishman,’ said Cayle; he was watching closely
