referred to in the plural; his nose was a shining red beacon to any stout-hearted fellow boozer in search of
a good, miserable time getting to the bottom of another bottle, and as they peeped out from under his fur hat, it seemed to Troy that even his earlobes were fat. How could anyone have fat
earlobes?
Charlie crushed him in a bear hug.
‘Bugger the enigma,’ Troy said. ‘I want a coat like yours and I want it now.’
‘Trust me,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ve thought of everything.’
He usually did.
He stuck his own fur hat on Troy’s head. His blond mop had thinned at the crown, his forehead had creased into a hundred furrows, though the blue eyes twinkled still in the falling ruin of
what had been a beautiful, heart-shaped face.
‘Back of the car,’ he said. ‘Keeping warm for you.’
Charlie led Troy to his car. A Soviet-built, Soviet-issue, sixseater Zim saloon – defectors for the use of – looking like a poor man’s Studebaker from ten or twelve years ago,
with a front end like a set of mocking false teeth. An ugly car conforming precisely to the maxim of the late genius of capitalism, Henry Ford, in being available in ‘any colour you want so
long as it’s black.’
Charlie opened the back door, picked up a coat so dense it looked to Troy like a dead mammoth. He wrapped Troy in it as though he were a helpless child, grinning all the time as if they were
sharers of some silent, exclusive joke. The grin became a laugh. Troy felt huge arms embrace him once more, the bear’s paws clapping him on the back, then pushing him away to arm’s
length in a gesture that said ‘Let me look at you.’ He had not changed, he knew. Hardly a grey hair, not an extra pound of weight nor inch of girth since he was twenty-five. They were
the same age. They had matched each other step by step throughout their lives until a few years ago, big man and little man, twins of adversity. At forty-one they had parted, divided lives and
ideologies. Not that Troy knew for a moment what his own ideology was. It just wasn’t Charlie’s.
‘Can we go,’ he said. ‘I’m freezing.’
Charlie put the car into gear and lurched off. He was an even worse driver than Troy.
They tore down a tree-lined road, so thick with trees it struck Troy that they had entered some mythical Russian forest, been sucked effortlessly into the plot of Peter and the Wolf , not
the outer suburbs of a capital city.
‘Y’know,’ said Charlie, ‘I have one hell of job remembering which side of the road the Russkis drive on.’
Troy had noticed this.
‘We’re being followed, by the way.’
‘I keep forgetting you’re a detective. Yes, Freddie, of course we’re being followed. Give me half a chance and I’ll spot the bugger and we can lose him.’
Charlie peered into the rear-view mirror. Troy felt the car meander across the lanes, heard the honks of protest.
‘It’s not a him, it’s a her.’
‘How do you know? You’ve spotted her already?’
‘No, I heard them talking about her. Indiscreet because they don’t expect foreigners to speak the language. And I don’t think we should lose her. They’ll find us petty
damn quick anyway. Far better a tail you know about than one you don’t. Or am I teaching my spymaster to suck eggs?’
‘Touché, old chap, touché.’
§ 9
It was a truly dreadful place. A gin house from a Hogarth plate. A joyless hole in which to drink and smoke and smoke and drink. A place with but one purpose, to quench the
committed. A brown study of a brown room, a room of worn and peeling paintwork, of years of encrusted dirt, of woodwork shaped and worn with elbows, of floors patterned in spittle, with but a
single piece of decoration, a tiny touch of red and gold among the shades of brown – a cobwebbed, foxed portrait of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin on the wall behind the bar. Heroic of posture, caught
in a media moment at the Finland Station, making his first speech in many a year on Russian
a good, miserable time getting to the bottom of another bottle, and as they peeped out from under his fur hat, it seemed to Troy that even his earlobes were fat. How could anyone have fat
earlobes?
Charlie crushed him in a bear hug.
‘Bugger the enigma,’ Troy said. ‘I want a coat like yours and I want it now.’
‘Trust me,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ve thought of everything.’
He usually did.
He stuck his own fur hat on Troy’s head. His blond mop had thinned at the crown, his forehead had creased into a hundred furrows, though the blue eyes twinkled still in the falling ruin of
what had been a beautiful, heart-shaped face.
‘Back of the car,’ he said. ‘Keeping warm for you.’
Charlie led Troy to his car. A Soviet-built, Soviet-issue, sixseater Zim saloon – defectors for the use of – looking like a poor man’s Studebaker from ten or twelve years ago,
with a front end like a set of mocking false teeth. An ugly car conforming precisely to the maxim of the late genius of capitalism, Henry Ford, in being available in ‘any colour you want so
long as it’s black.’
Charlie opened the back door, picked up a coat so dense it looked to Troy like a dead mammoth. He wrapped Troy in it as though he were a helpless child, grinning all the time as if they were
sharers of some silent, exclusive joke. The grin became a laugh. Troy felt huge arms embrace him once more, the bear’s paws clapping him on the back, then pushing him away to arm’s
length in a gesture that said ‘Let me look at you.’ He had not changed, he knew. Hardly a grey hair, not an extra pound of weight nor inch of girth since he was twenty-five. They were
the same age. They had matched each other step by step throughout their lives until a few years ago, big man and little man, twins of adversity. At forty-one they had parted, divided lives and
ideologies. Not that Troy knew for a moment what his own ideology was. It just wasn’t Charlie’s.
‘Can we go,’ he said. ‘I’m freezing.’
Charlie put the car into gear and lurched off. He was an even worse driver than Troy.
They tore down a tree-lined road, so thick with trees it struck Troy that they had entered some mythical Russian forest, been sucked effortlessly into the plot of Peter and the Wolf , not
the outer suburbs of a capital city.
‘Y’know,’ said Charlie, ‘I have one hell of job remembering which side of the road the Russkis drive on.’
Troy had noticed this.
‘We’re being followed, by the way.’
‘I keep forgetting you’re a detective. Yes, Freddie, of course we’re being followed. Give me half a chance and I’ll spot the bugger and we can lose him.’
Charlie peered into the rear-view mirror. Troy felt the car meander across the lanes, heard the honks of protest.
‘It’s not a him, it’s a her.’
‘How do you know? You’ve spotted her already?’
‘No, I heard them talking about her. Indiscreet because they don’t expect foreigners to speak the language. And I don’t think we should lose her. They’ll find us petty
damn quick anyway. Far better a tail you know about than one you don’t. Or am I teaching my spymaster to suck eggs?’
‘Touché, old chap, touché.’
§ 9
It was a truly dreadful place. A gin house from a Hogarth plate. A joyless hole in which to drink and smoke and smoke and drink. A place with but one purpose, to quench the
committed. A brown study of a brown room, a room of worn and peeling paintwork, of years of encrusted dirt, of woodwork shaped and worn with elbows, of floors patterned in spittle, with but a
single piece of decoration, a tiny touch of red and gold among the shades of brown – a cobwebbed, foxed portrait of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin on the wall behind the bar. Heroic of posture, caught
in a media moment at the Finland Station, making his first speech in many a year on Russian
Similar Books
