The man laughed. ‘Bread? No, this.’ He held up his mobile phone and chuckled to himself.
‘The Russian Apple store, clearly,’ said Elliot.
As they got closer to the Mianovitch Building, they could see that it was in a similar state of disrepair. The mouldings were cracked and a colony of pigeons evidently lived in the gutters, if the stains on the once white walls were anything to go by. But it still had a sheen of bygone glamour, with fluted columns and tall windows.
‘Was it some sort of mansion, before communism, I mean?’
Elliot turned a page in the guidebook open on his lap.
‘Built in 1897, apparently, as the country residence of one of Tsar Nicholas’s relatives,’ he read. ‘At one time the gardens stretched for miles, but the city grew up around it, and after the revolution it became a possession of the Politburo, used for parties and visiting dignitaries. Sort of like the Russian equivalent of Chequers, I suppose. Or at least it was at one time.’
The driver pulled up outside the grand arched entrance.
‘You wan’ here?’ he asked, gesturing to the building doubtfully. ‘No tourist no come. Just old men.’
Elliot raised his eyebrows at Abby.
‘I think what he’s trying to say is that this place has seen better days.’
The driver nodded towards Elliot’s laptop bag, then over to the nearest tower block.
‘Bad men steal this. Bad men here.’
‘We’ll be careful,’ Elliot said, handing the man a fistful of currency.
He touched Abby’s arm reassuringly. The gesture made her feel safe as she followed him through the high doors and into a huge lobby.
‘Wow,’ she said, looking up at the domed ceiling. Sunlight was pushing in through dirty windows, winking off the dust motes in the air. ‘I bet this was amazing.’
‘Still is, in a faded sort of way,’ said Elliot, heading for the wide marble stairs that curved away on either side of the hall. ‘Second floor, room thirty,’ he said over his shoulder.
At the top of the stairs, they turned into a dingy corridor. There was a sme
ll of overcooked vegetables and floor cleaner, although Abby was fairly sure it hadn’t been used for a while. She looked at the doors as they passed: all heavy oak, all tightly closed. It was intimidating, like a hotel shut up for the winter.
‘How are we supposed to know which room it is?’ she whispered as they turned a corner. ‘It’s all in Russian.’
‘Don’t think it matters,’ murmured Elliot, nodding towards the end of the passageway.
A man was standing there watching them.
‘Mr Hall, I presume?’ he said with a faint accent. He was tall, with a slight hunch to his shoulders and white hair combed straight back from his temples. ‘And Miss Gordon too, I believe?’
‘That’s right,’ said Elliot, putting his hand out. ‘And you are Mr Gorshkov?’
The man did not reply; instead he gestured to the open doorway to their left. ‘Please, step inside. It is best if we do not talk out here.’
He gave Abby a slight smile, then stepped through into a large apartment. Like the rest of the building, there were echoes here of its previous use – thick carpets and heavy polished furniture. Perhaps it had been a reception room or a suite for guests. But the thing that struck Abby was the amount of books: in tall bookcases, in piles on the floor, stacked on tables; there was even a tower of them in the stone fireplace.
‘Please, excuse the disarray,’ said the Russian. ‘I’m afraid history is one of my hobbies and there never seem to be enough books about any one subject.’
He moved an armful of volumes, clearing space for them to sit in two large velvet armchairs.
‘This building is amazing,’ said Abby, still looking around.
‘Yes, but it was once magnificent. A venue for important affairs and people, everything polished and gleaming. There was a string quartet permanently employed to play in the drawing room, did you know that? Imagine!’ He shook his head sadly. ‘And look at it now. Reduced to the status of a boarding house for retired servants of the state.’
He perched on a wing-backed armchair and bent over a tray of tea things.