Leonid’s Story (cont.)
London, England. July, 1938
Leonard jogged up the narrow staircase that led to his office. ‘Maria! Maria! Mr Hay is here! The opening ceremony is about to begin!’
As she entered her forties, his wife had begun using her given name once more, and although he’d never requested it, she called him Leonid when they were alone.
Out of breath, he paused midway up the flight. ‘He looks a lot younger than he does in his pictures. And he’s not as funny! Maybe you were right . . .’ He began walking up the final few steps. ‘We should have got Formby.’
He pushed open the door to his office, a large, warm area that felt like a meld of workspace and drawing room. Its decor was a busy blend of Russian and English chintz.
‘Maria?’ He heard someone cough. ‘Hello?’ He stepped forward.
‘Come in, come in . . .’ a male voice said to him. The unexpected guest sat behind Leonard’s desk, his face hidden by darkness. ‘It’s good to see you again, comrade.’
‘My God . . .’ Leonard began walking towards him. ‘Is it you?’
An art deco table lamp on the desk provided a pool of feeble, golden light. The visitor angled his body so his face moved into it. ‘You’re a lucky man,’ said Pasha.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for you.’
‘I mean . . . how have you been? It’s good to see you again!’
The contrast between the two was striking. Leonard was comfortably overweight. He wore an expensive suit and his greying hair was immaculately gelled into side-parting respectability. Pasha, slightly younger, looked older. His face was lean and lined. His dark hair unkempt. He wore rough clothes.
‘Is it?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Last time you saw me, I tried to kill you.’
‘That whole period was madness! I never held it against you, Pasha. We were good friends once.’
‘Before you fled with the diamond.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ Leonard sat at his desk in the chair normally taken by his assistant.
‘Your famous jewel stone? I read an interview you conducted with The Times. The Times! My God, Leonid. You now suggest it’s called the Red Diamond because it hails from Russia. I suppose that makes it easier for you.’
‘Do you want money, Pasha? Do you want—’
‘Easier than the truth. Insofar as it was red when you stole it because it was besmirched with the blood of Olga Romanova.’
‘I can give you money.’
‘I read you won some cash when you’d not long been over here. Used it to invest. Did very well for yourself and Maria. You’re a lucky man. Then you used the diamond as collateral for a new venture. This will be what? Your third cinema in London?’
‘Fourth.’
‘Fourth. The Red Diamond has been good to you . . . It’s given you all this!’ Pasha’s hand moved into the light and Leonard saw he was brandishing a Nagant M1895 revolver. Standard issue to soldiers serving in the Imperial Russian Army during the Great War. Pasha put on an exaggerated American accent, ‘Jeepers creepers, Mr Alexander. Ain’t you the cat’s meow?’
He aimed the revolver at Leonard’s head.