“Surprised, that’s all.”
“Meant it, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose you did. You usually do.”
“He’s an arsewipe, boy.”
“If you say so, Uncle. Looks like he’s going to win, though. Perhaps you should have kept your mouth shut.”
“Too old for that. Speak as I find.”
The old man seemed lost in thought for a while, staring up at the “Romanov princess” singing in the gallery above. Foreign diners thought they recognized “Those Were the Days, My Friend,” which is not a Western song at all but an old Russian ballad. Then the general reached across and gripped his nephew’s forearm.
“Look, lad, if anything ever happens to me …”
“Don’t be daft, you’ll outlive the lot of us.”
“Listen, if anything happens,
I want you to plant me in Novodevichi. All right? I don’t want a miserable civil affair, I want a bishop and all the trimmings, the whole deal. Understand?”
“You, a bishop? I didn’t think you believed in all that.”
“Don’t be a fool. No man who’s had a German eighty-eight land six feet away and not explode doesn’t believe there must be Somebody up there. Of course I had to pretend, we all did. Party membership, indoctrination lectures, it all went with the job, and it was all crap. So that’s what I want. Now let’s toss back the coffee and go. Got a staff car?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because we’re both plastered. You can run me home.”
¯
THE overnight sleeper train from Kiev, capital of the independent republic of the Ukraine, rumbled through the freezing darkness toward Moscow.
In the sixth carriage, compartment 2B, the two Englishmen sat and played gin rummy. Brian Vincent checked his watch.
“Half an hour to the border, Sir Nigel. Better get ready for bed.”
“I suppose so,” said Nigel Irvine. Still fully dressed he clambered to the top bunk and drew the blankets to his chin.
“Look the part?” he asked. The ex-soldier nodded.
“Leave the rest to me, sir.”
There was a brief halt at the border. The Ukrainian officials on the train had already checked the two passports. The Russians boarded at the halt.
Ten minutes later there was a tap on the door of the sleeper compartment. Vincent opened up.
“Da?”
“Pazport, pozhaluysta.”
There was only a dim blue light inside the compartment and though the light in the corridor was yellow and brighter, the Russian inspector had to peer.
“No visa,” he said.
“Of course not. These are diplomatic passports. Require no visa.”
The Ukrainian pointed to the word in English on the cover of each passport.