“Diplomat,” he said.
The Russian nodded, slightly embarrassed. He had an instruction from the FSB in Moscow, an all-crossing-point alert, to watch for a name and a face or both.
“The old man,” he said, gesturing at the second passport.
“He’s up there,” said the young diplomat. “Actually, as you see he’s very old. He’s not feeling well. Do you have to disturb him?”
“Who is he?”
“Well, actually he’s the father of our ambassador in Moscow. That’s why I’m escorting him there. To see his son.’’
The Ukrainian pointed up to the recumbent figure in the bunk.
“Father of ambassador,” he said.
“Thank you, I can understand Russian,” said the Russian. He was perplexed. The round-faced, bald man in the passport bore no relationship to the description he had been given. Nor did the name. No Trubshaw, no Irvine. Just Lord Asquith.
“It must be cold in the corridor,” said Vincent. “Cold to the bones. Please. For friendship. From our Kiev embassy’s special stock.”
The liter of vodka was of exceptional quality, the sort no money could buy. The Ukrainian nodded, smiled and nudged his Russian counterpart. The Russian grunted, stamped both passports and passed on.
“Couldn’t hear much under all those blankets, but it sounded good,” said Sir Nigel when the door was closed. He swung down from the upper bunk.
“Let’s just say, the fewer of those the better,” Vincent said, and set about destroying the two phony passports in the sink. The fragments would go down the lavatory hole and be scattered in the snows of southern Russia. One to get in, and one to get out. The exit passports, with their beautifully created entry stamps, were locked away.
Vincent looked at Sir Nigel with curiosity. At thirty-three he was aware the older man could not only be his father, but biologically his grandfather. As a former special forces soldier he had been in some tough places, not excluding lying in the desert of Western Iraq waiting to cream a passing Scud missile. But always there had been mates, a gun, grenades, a way of fighting back.
The world into which Sir Nigel Irvine had inducted him, albeit for a very large fee, a world of deception and disinformation, of endless smoke and mirrors, left him feeling in need of a double vodka. Fortunately there was a second bottle of the special stuff in his bag. He helped himself.
“Would you like one, Sir Nigel?”
“Not for me,” said Irvine. “Upsets the tummy, burns the throat. But I will join you with something else.”
He unscrewed a silver hip flask from his attaché case, and tipped a measure into the silver cup attached. He raised it toward Vincent and took an appreciative sip. It was Mr. Trubshaw’s vintage port from St. James’s.
“I actually think you’re enjoying all this,” said ex-Sergeant Vincent.
“My dear boy, I haven’t had such fun in years.”
The train deposited them at the Moscow terminus just after dawn. The temperature was fifteen below zero. However bleak a railway station in winter may appear to those hurrying home to a blazing hearth, they are still a lot warmer than the streets. When Sir Nigel and Vincent stepped down from the Kiev overnight express, the concourse of the Kursk Station was awash with the cold and hungry poor of the city.
They huddled as close as they could to the warm engines, sought to catch the occasional wave of heat emerging from a café, or simply lay on the concrete trying to survive another night.
“Stay very close to me, sir,” muttered Vincent as they moved toward the ticket barrier, beyond which was the open concourse. As they were heading to the taxi stand, a swarm of the derelicts approached, hands out, heads muffled in scarves, faces unshaven, eyes sunken.
“Dear God, this is awful,” muttered Sir Nigel.
“Don’t reach for your money, you’ll start a riot,” snapped his bodyguard. Despite his age, Sir Nigel was carrying his own grip and attaché case, leaving Vincent with one free hand. The former special forces soldier had it lodged under his left armpit, indicating that he had a gun and would use it if he had to.
In this manner he shepherded the older man ahead of him through the crowd, toward the outside pavement where a few taxis waited hopefully. As he brushed aside a supplicant hand Sir Nigel heard the voice of its owner shouting at his back:
“Foreigner! Damned foreigner!”
“It’s because they think we’re rich,” said Vincent in his ear. “We’re foreign so we’re rich.”
The cries followed them to the pavement. “Fucking foreigner. Wait for Komarov.”
When they were safely seated in the clattering taxi, Irvine leaned back.