Bruno thought that if he arrived at the restaurant about ten minutes late it would convey the right air of nonchalance. So he deliberately dawdled through Red Square, pausing to admire a bride being photographed in her wedding finery, and took his time ambling down the side street leading to the restaurant he had suggested for their lunch.
Nikita’s was not quite the hole in the wall that Bruno had described to Bebchuk, but it was very small, with no more than a dozen rough pine tables. It had the air of what in London or San Francisco would have been a pop-up restaurant, though Bruno knew from a previous conversation with the owner that it had been open more than a year.
Bruno found Bebchuk at the back at a table for two, stabbing at his phone and looking irritated. He stood to shake hands and Bruno said extravagantly, ‘A million apologies. My choice of restaurant but I’m the one who got lost.’
‘I was about to give up and order some food,’ said Bebchuk with a forced smile. The tone of his voice suggested he wasn’t given to listening to excuses.
They both sat down and Bruno added, ‘Actually, I would have been on time but I came via Red Square. Just my luck – there was about a battalion of soldiers trooping through and the police wouldn’t let us cross the square until they’d passed.’
‘In Russia, the military gets priority,’ said Bebchuk, smiling thinly.
‘Were you a military man?’
Bebchuk shook his head. ‘My father was an officer in the Red Army.’ His English was accented but very good.
‘Didn’t he want you to follow in his footsteps?’
‘Of course,’ said Bebchuk simply, ‘but it was OK – I persuaded my little brother to enlist instead.’ He gave a wolfish grin and Bruno laughed.
A waitress appeared. ‘This is my shout,’ Bruno declared, remembering the speciality of the place. ‘Pelmeni, don’t you think?’ he asked Bebchuk, and the Russian nodded. Bruno looked at Bebchuk’s glass and said, ‘Water for me too.’
Bebchuk said, ‘This is not water. And I’ll have another one.’
‘Make that two,’ said Bruno.
As the waitress departed, Bebchuk said, ‘And were you a soldier? One of the Queen’s Guardsmen perhaps.’
‘Not at all.’ Bruno gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’m a lousy shot and can’t read a map. I would have been continually lost on manoeuvres.’
Bebchuk smiled but he was watching Bruno closely. ‘Did you also have a brother who is a soldier?’
‘No brothers; just sisters – three, in fact. I was the only son.’
‘These sisters of yours, they spoiled you?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Bruno. Most of what he was saying was true, which was always best for a cover story.
‘Is this what they mean when they speak of a lady’s man?’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, though it gives one a head start, I suppose. With three sisters I had a pretty good idea of what girls look for in a chap.’
The pelmeni arrived: two large bowls full of sombrero-shaped dumplings, with little side dishes of sour cream. The filling was a spicy mix of beef and pork, and utterly delicious.
‘What do you think?’ he asked Bebchuk.
The Russian speared a dumpling and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Excellent. Not as good as my mother’s, but a close second. But speaking of the ladies, how long have you known Michelle?’
‘Oh, not long,’ said Bruno. ‘But I like her very much.’
‘She must like you too. She was most insistent that her friends come to meet you the other night.’
‘That was kind. I don’t know many people here yet.’
‘You like Moscow then?’
‘Yes. There’s so much energy here. Exciting times.’
‘Where else have you lived?’
Bruno had used cover stories for most of his professional life. He was quite capable of discussing the relative merits of life in Pakistan, North America, most of Western Europe and even, if pressed, the Outer Hebrides. Now he put into service his most recently concocted CV, much of it based on his own considerable travels. He told the mandatory story of having his pocket picked in Rio de Janeiro, related an amusing account of trying and failing to bribe a Customs inspector in what had then been Yugoslavia. But that was all when he was younger, he added. In his present job as an investment banker he had to be a model citizen; trust and probity, he said, were his USP.
‘USP?’ asked Bebchuk, frowning.
‘Unique selling point,’ explained Bruno. ‘In my business we distinguish ourselves from the competition by our reputation and our performance.’
‘So I understand that you are exploring opportunities for business here. Do you intend to stay here some time?’
‘Could be,’ said Bruno amiably.
‘Michelle told my wife you were planning to apply for permanent resident status.’
Experienced in concealing surprise, Bruno merely opened his eyes a little wider. ‘I don’t know if permanent is quite right. But I have no plans to leave unless something wonderful comes along that takes me back home.’ Seeing an opening, Bruno went on, ‘Would you ever want to live abroad?’
Bebchuk took his time replying. ‘Possibly,’ he said cautiously at last. ‘If the conditions were right.’ He was still staring at Bruno.
Bruno looked down at his bowl and scraped absentmindedly at it with his fork. ‘You know, as a state official, you have great value to people trying to do business in Russia.’ He lifted his eyes but let them rove idly around the room. ‘Russia remains a mystery to us in the West. People who understand the inner workings of this place are rare as gold.’
‘As gold? You exaggerate, my friend.’
‘Not at all.’ Bruno allowed himself at last to meet Boris’s gaze. ‘Though obviously it depends on how much the person knows about the inner workings of things.’
‘Obviously,’ said Bebchuk. It was hard to tell if he were amused, interested or simply bored.
Bruno sipped his vodka, trying to stay patient. ‘To some extent it would depend on what this person in the know wanted to get out of it. Financially, I mean,’ he added.
‘There is that,’ Bebchuk acknowledged. ‘There are also other issues, no?’
‘Are there?’
Bebchuk raised his hand at the waitress and signalled for another vodka. She looked at Bruno, and he decided he had better match Bebchuk, so he nodded, though he was going to drink it very slowly. He badly needed to keep his wits about him.
Bebchuk sighed. He said, ‘You know, in Moscow since the time of Yeltsin, many people have made lots of money. So much so that people forget that money does not always make you secure. What is the point of a billion roubles if the government can take it away? Just like that.’ He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
‘I suppose the wise ones have their money abroad,’ Bruno commented. ‘Somewhere safe, so that even if they become enemies of the government, they have their money out of harm’s way.’
‘“Harm’s way” – I like that,’ said Bebchuk. Then his voice hardened. ‘But what good is safe money if you are not safe yourself? Without that, there can be no security. Except perhaps for the widow of the man who thought a billion roubles made him safe.’
Bruno was silent for a moment, then, emboldened by the vodka, he said as soberly as he could, ‘I suppose there are always ways to keep people safe, as well as their money. Provided there is trust, that is.’
‘Trust. The magic word, is it not? But many of those who trusted your country are no longer alive.’
Bruno said nothing, and Bebchuk smiled enigmatically. Then he said, ‘I thank you for an excellent lunch. I would stay for coffee, but I need to get back to the department. Perhaps we can have another lunch sometime. I will choose the restaurant perhaps – if you trust me.’
The Russian left and Bruno called for the bill. He was in no doubt that his message had got through to Bebchuk. What he felt less confident about was how it had been received.