Wilderness let Momo pick the film. Momo chose Doctor in the House. Twenty-five Joeerämaaans laughed themselves silly at a hospital romp in which English actors ten and twenty years too old for the roles played medical students—beer, bottom jokes, nurses and stethoscopes. In the war of words, the battle for the soul of Finland, Marx-Engels-Leninism took yet another pasting. One more point to Mr. Farr.
Early the next morning Momo and Bruce, although somewhat hungover, shuffled out to their Bedouin camp by the lake and grunted their continued assent.
“Just don’t get us shot, right?”
Walking back to the Mog, Pastorius said, “I managed to put a tail on your man. He ate alone at the hotel. Took a stroll around town. That takes all of ten minutes. Looked at his watch a lot, as though willing time to pass more quickly. Picked a couple of English language magazines off the rack in the lobby and went to bed early. He spoke to no one except waitresses and the concierge. Made no phone calls.”
Less than two hours later Wilderness was back in Persereiikkä. The dot of nine. An impatient Kostya, sitting in the booth they’d occupied yesterday.
“What kept you? I’ve been sitting here half an hour. I’m beginning to think Siberia is more fun than Finland.”
“And you might be right,” Wilderness replied. “I’m here because the British are punishing me. Why are you here?”
“You mean in Rayakoski?”
Wilderness said nothing. He meant whatever Kostya took it to mean.
“I’m not being punished. There’s no stick. Just a carrot.”
“And what’s the carrot?”
“Promotion to major with my next posting. All I have to do is stick it out at Rayakoski till next winter.”
“I don’t suppose you remember Frank asking you if everyone in the KGB is a major?”
“I try not to remember Frank at all.”
“Well, good luck with that. Eddie’s been trying for twenty years.”
Then the all-too-furtive glance around the room. Wilderness supposed Kostya might make major. But it was a miracle he’d ever made captain.
“Joe? Do we have deal?”
“I think we do.”
“And the price?”
At last. First things saved till last.
Wilderness gilded the lily. Named a price he hoped was too high. It was.
“That’s … that’s … what’s the word … steep.”
“It’s what it goes for in Helsinki.”
“But this isn’t Helsinki. It’s ten miles across the lake. Easier for you by far.”
“I could offer a discount. But there’d be a quid pro quo.”
“I’m listening.”
“When you take delivery of the vodka, I want your men to load something else onto the plane.”
“We’ve nothing you could possibly want.”
“Bring me the sacks of bog paper.”
Kostya looked dumbstruck. He said nothing for the best part of a minute.
“You know. I was about to order breakfast. I don’t think I’ll bother. Joe, what in God’s name do you want with bog paper?”
“You said it yourself, yesterday. Before it encountered Soviet arse-holes, it was Classified or Secret or Top Secret.”
“But it’s covered in—”
“I know.”
“And it’s secret.”
“But it’s covered in—”
“Stop, stop, stop!”
“It’s because it’s covered in shit that you can give it to me. Unless my people can find a way of cleaning it up without losing the print, it’s worthless, therefore it can’t be secret anymore, can it?”
“That’s very specious reasoning, Joe.”
“Specious? It’s pure sophistry. But let it salve your conscience. You’d be giving me something worthless.”
“Might your people clean it up?”
“I’ve no idea. I don’t care. I just want the pleasure of mailing them sacks of Russian shit in the diplomatic bag.”
Another pause for thought. The waitress approached with her notepad. Kostya just shook his head, and with it seemed to shake off all doubt about the deal.
“How much of a discount?”
“Ten percent.”
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen.”
“Done.”
“You are your mother’s son after all.”
What, Wilderness wondered, brought the blush to his cheeks? The mention of Volga Vasilievna Zolotukhina or the mistaken assumption that he’d just negotiated well with the enemy and scored a few points?