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ORLOV CLIMBED THE STEPS from the street to the Port Royal Hotel and showed his invitation. The doorman took him inside and directed him to the right, where the lifts were cordoned off and three expensively dressed couples discussed flight-times to Saint Lucia. The hotel’s regular guests came and went, regarding the newcomers with a mixture of contempt and envy, as if they weren’t sure whether they or the guests were trespassers in the new order Tebloev’s party had temporarily ushered in. Outside, long cars pulled up.
The lift took Orlov and three couples to the top floor and opened to reveal a group of professional greeters waiting to pounce on them with trays of drinks and offers of introductions to other guests. There was a jazz band in the left hand corner, a buffet to the right and a dance floor in the centre, on which no one was moving. The light was strong enough to disclose a face across a crowded room yet soft enough to conceal its defects. It was clearly a networking, rather than a real party.
Orlov’s greeter – a tall, slim girl of university age: they had obviously been selected on the basis of looks - took his invitation and read it as if it was a wonderful surprise. “Colonel Orlov, I’m so pleased you could make it tonight. My name’s Tanya. Mr Tebloev’s circulating at the moment, but he’s eager to make your acquaintance. Is there anything I can get you to eat or drink?”
He smiled. “I’d like an orange juice, please.”
She summoned a waiter and passed the instruction along. “I’ll be looking after you tonight,” she told Orlov, “so if you need anything at all, at any time, just ask. Meanwhile, Mr Tebloev’s left me a list of people he thinks you’ll enjoy meeting. Just follow me.”
She threaded her way through the crowds, smiling back every two seconds to check he was still there, and pulled up before a triumvirate of late middle-aged men, each attached at the elbow to a woman who looked like his daughter but probably wasn’t. One of the men detached himself from his friends as if he’d been expecting this.
“Colonel Orlov,” Tanya said, “may I present Lionel Edgeware, the Labour MP for Hayes and Harlington. Mr Edgeware, this is Colonel Sergei Orlov, the well-known Russian dissident. Colonel Orlov, Mr Edgeware has a particular interest in the case of the Khimki journalist, Mikhail Beketov. Could I get either of you anything?”
“I’ll have another Scotch,” Edgeware said. “Colonel Orlov, I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking his hand. “This is my wife, Sylvia.”
“I’ve heard of Mr Beketov,” Orlov said, genuinely interested, as the greeter left them. “But I’ve been in prison for a year, so I have some catching up to do.”
“Beaten up outside his own house and left bleeding in the snow. Brain damaged, his fingers had to be amputated, sodding police aren’t bothered. All because he wrote about a few dodgy land deals. I’ve spoken to the ambassador in London three times now. Might as well have saved myself the bother, for all the good it did.”
“We’re fairly convinced Vera Gruchov will be vastly different,” his wife said.
“She’s certainly making the right noises,” Edgeware said. “She won’t get very far without a war-chest, though. Why we’re all here, of course.”
Sylvia interlaced her fingers. “Have you ever met her, Colonel?”
Orlov cupped his orange juice in both hands. “Not in the flesh. From what I do know, I can’t help thinking tonight might be in vain. She’s quite particular about accepting money from overseas organisations, especially regime-changing ones. And on his own admission, Valentin Tebloev’s hardly a saint. If you were her, would you want him as a public benefactor?”
“We can but try,” Edgeware said.
“Why are you here,” Sylvia said touchily, “if you think it’s a waste of time?”
“I didn’t mean to sound negative. I’m simply advising caution.”
“It’s a bit late for that,” Edgeware said. “We’ve paid now. Anyway, if she doesn’t want it, I’m sure Mr Tebloev can be persuaded to find some other worthy cause.”
A middle-aged woman with red hair who had been standing nearby, came over with her husband. “Excuse me. I’m Henrietta Clowes, and this is my husband, Tom. Did I just hear you criticise Mr Tebloev? Because we heard something to the effect that he wasn’t quite the paragon he presents himself as, last week, but Tom said not to follow it up, didn’t you, Tom?”
Sylvia raised her index finger. “Colonel Orlov says he’s ‘hardly a saint’.”
“Can I take it you think the money we’re raising might not be for Miss Gruchov’s campaign?” Tom said. “Because that would be fraud.”
“I wasn’t suggesting anything of that sort,” Orlov replied. Although now he thought about it he couldn’t understand why it hadn’t occurred to him before.
“The cat’s out of the bag now,” Henrietta said.
Edgeware accepted his Scotch from the greeter. “You must have known, Tom, that he’s being investigated for extortion. Everyone knows that.”
“I didn’t,” Tom said.
“Doesn’t mean he’s guilty.”
Orlov saw Tebloev at a distance. Slightly smaller than average, bald and stout, with a trimmed black beard, velvet jacket and lots of rings. He was flanked by three minders with headphones – one Kramski; who were the others? - and introducing himself to a group of dowagers with ingratiating charm. They looked ecstatic. At this party, everyone seemed ecstatic to see everyone.
Except Tom and Edgeware, who were arguing. Orlov caught Tanya’s eye as she passed by. She smiled. “How can I help you, Colonel?”
“I wonder if you could tell me who else is on Mr Tebloev’s list of people for me to meet?” he said discreetly.
“Absolutely,” she whispered. “Follow me.”
He excused himself to Mr and Mrs Edgeware and Tanya took him on another winding journey through Chanel-smelling torsos. They came to a stop before an old woman with feather boa. She stood alone, clutching a glass of champagne and looking as if she was on the wrong side of her limit. She was thin and erect, with a black sequin dress that reached to her pointy shoes.
“Mrs Felicity Sykes,” Tanya said. “Colonel Sergei Orlov, the well-known Russian dissident. Colonel, Mrs Sykes is the widow of Robert Sykes, the British ambassador in Moscow during the Gorbachev years.”
“And for a few years afterwards,” she said. “I come to these things because I’m always invited. But I hate them.”
“Is there anything I can get you, Mrs Sykes?” Tanya said.
She drained her glass and handed it over. “Another glass of bubbly, please, sweetie. And a chair.”
Tanya turned up thirty seconds later with the champagne and an armchair on casters.
“Mr Tebloev said to make you as comfortable as possible,” Tanya said.
“Tell Mr Tebloev, Ya tseloval nogi,” she replied, sitting down. “Is that right? I’m a little rusty. I kiss his feet. If I start snoring, Colonel Orlov, give me a good shake. What’s your name, by the way?” she asked Tanya. “A commendation’s coming your way.”
Tanya flushed with pleasure. “Tanya, Mrs Sykes.”
“Run along then. Keep an eye out for me, though. I might need a prod.”
Tanya almost curtsied. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I can get anyone in this entire hotel to do anything for me,” Mrs Sykes said, when Tanya had left. “Because, of course, Mr Tebloev has to have me here. I’m the centrepiece in a sense. Old establishment. Added to which, I might have contacts in the right places. Is this your first time, Colonel? I don’t recall seeing you at one of his fundraisers before.”
“I’ve only recently arrived in the country.”
“Are you enjoying yourself tonight?”
“I’m being well looked after.”
“I was in Moscow for ten years when Robert was alive,” she said. “Nicest people in the world, but they’re their own worst enemies. The whole place is riddled with gangsters now, sad to say, right from the very top. You never get rid of that sort of thing except by amputation. Another 1917, that’s what the country needs.”
“Does our host know you think that?”
“Valentin? Oh, yes. He’s all in favour providing he doesn’t have to suffer in person.”
“Maybe that’s what this evening’s really for.”
She laughed. “To raise money for a revolution? I wouldn’t put it past him, the rascal. I doubt whether Vera Gruchov’s going to want it. With friends like Valentin Tebloev, she doesn’t need enemies, that’s for sure.”
Orlov looked across the hall. Sylvia Edgeware was standing next to Tebloev, whispering something into his ear. Tebloev frowned and looked directly at Orlov. Sylvia looked at him too, then apparently registered that he was looking back. She flushed and flapped away into the crowd. Tebloev began to make his way over, pointedly ignoring those guests who were trying to catch his eye.
“Take my word for it,” Mrs Sykes said, “Vera Gruchov is another Benazir Bhutto, all glitter and no depth. You don’t know what it is to deal with corruption until you’re really and truly in office. Only when you have to physically confront the fact that everyone – I mean everyone, from the tea-boy upwards - ”
Tebloev stopped before them. “Felicity, good evening. Excuse me, Colonel. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Orlov felt the three minders’ eyes digging into him. Tebloev wasn’t offering a handshake.
“Sergei Orlov,” Orlov said.
“You seem to have been upsetting my guests. Of course, any suggestion that their money isn’t going to end up where they think it is is likely to cause them considerable anxiety, as it would me in similar circumstances. On what do you base such claims?”
“Does Vera Gruchov know about tonight?”
“I – I believe so, yes.”
“Why isn’t she here?”
“Why would she be? She doesn’t like to leave the country, we both know that.”
“Has she sent a representative?”
“No ...”
“Why not?”
“Look, Colonel - ”
“I wasn’t necessarily calling your intentions into question, simply stating a fact. You’re wanted in Russia for extortion. It’s not my business to prejudge your guilt or innocence, but is it credible she’ll risk exposing herself to charges of receiving funding from a fugitive?”
“And you think I haven’t thought of that?”
“What’s your solution?”
Mrs Sykes leaned forward and cackled. “I was just saying, Valentin, ‘With friends like Mr Tebloev, Vera Gruchov doesn’t need enemies’. Wasn’t I, Colonel?”
“I believe those were your words,” Orlov replied tetchily.
“We channel the funds through a series of accounts,” Tebloev said.
“I don’t believe you.”
Tebloev reared as if he’d been struck. He looked hard at his interlocutor. “I was actually looking forward to meeting you, Colonel. I thought I might supply you with a few contacts. You’ll find London can be a very lonely place for an exile without connections. You’ll have to excuse me now, however. You’ve done me an injustice and I have other guests to meet, men and women less cynical than yourself.”
He withdrew without turning his back on Orlov then turned a sharp left. The bodyguards snarled as if covering his retreat.
“Well, there aren’t many people talk to Valentin Tebloev like that,” Mrs Sykes said. “I hope you’ve come armed.”
Tebloev was clearly livid. He walked past his guests without acknowledging them again and left by the exit behind the band. A moment later, Tanya appeared, looking sheepish.
“I’m ever so sorry, sir. I – I’ve been asked to ask you to leave.”
“That’s okay,” Orlov replied.
Two of the bodyguards, neither of them Kramski, were coming over to enforce the request. They took up position either side of Orlov and escorted him through the crowds. He knew what was coming.
They were both about ten years younger than him, and you probably didn’t get to be Valentin Tebloev’s bodyguard unless you knew how to comport yourself, but he wasn’t worried. What worried him was that Kramski was probably already on his way home by another route.
The corridor was empty. He sensed the movement immediately and stepped to one side. A fist crashed into the wall, crunching plaster. He grabbed it and drew his knee up into the elbow, disengaging both forearm bones from their sockets. The other bodyguard was in the act of putting on a knuckle-duster when Orlov’s heel whipped his jawbone and splattered blood and teeth on the walls and carpet. He collapsed like a tossed blanket. Meanwhile, his friend was screaming. Orlov kicked his feet from under him and put his foot on his neck, suffocating him just enough to render him senseless.
The lift arrived with no one in and he pressed Ground. Two seconds later, he was out on the street, blowing steam. He saw two things at once. Kramski departing on foot at speed, and Ronnie’s presumably lifeless body, dressed as a jogger and propped up on a bench with its head at an odd angle.
Kramski rounded a corner three streets ahead, and Orlov broke into a sprint so he wouldn’t lose him. It looked as if he was heading for the quieter part of town.
Tailing him was no longer an option. Sooner or later he’d reach a taxi, and no matter how films usually told it, nine times out of ten that meant he was away. He’d killed a man, so he had to be stopped and brought in. He probably didn’t realise he was being followed.
Orlov rounded the corner and – nothing. Tenements with cast-iron balconies either side, cars parked both sides, a street light every fifty yards. It was too long for him to have cleared it already. He had to be hiding. Which meant he knew he was being followed. Orlov took out his mobile. If Kramski thought reinforcements were on the cards, he’d be forced to break cover.
Suddenly, Kramski lunged from behind a 4x4. Orlov barely had time to spring out of the way before he realised that was the idea. Kramski was double-backing, trying to get back to the hotel and Tebloev’s protection. He watched him go then set off after him again.
But then Kramski turned and hurled something. Orlov was still regaining his balance from the last evasion and it came so fast he was unable to compensate. A wheel trim. It hit him square on the temple and he buckled. Kramski suddenly had him where he wanted. He strode over to him and kicked him in the stomach.
“You didn’t really imagine I was running away, did you?” he said. He picked up Orlov’s mobile. “I wonder what this will tell me about what the great Colonel Orlov’s been up to since he arrived in England. But let’s not waste time on pleasantries, eh?”
He raised his foot to stamp on Orlov again and a shot cracked out of the silence and Kramski yelped and collapsed.
Mrs Sykes stood behind them in a fur coat with a clutch bag, holding a silver pistol. “I’d back off if I was you, young man. I’ve never killed anyone before but I’m seventy-seven. A life sentence holds no fears for me.”
The last thing Orlov was conscious of was Kramski dragging his leg as he fled into the darkness, and Mrs Sykes chortling before picking up his phone and calling an ambulance.
It suddenly occurred to him that he’d met her before tonight.
