The two men restored the case to exactly the way it had been before, with the letter back in its envelope and the envelope in the hidden compartment beneath the base of the case. The case itself, relocked with the numbers on the rollers in exactly the same sequence as found, was pushed back beneath the bed. When the room looked as if no one had entere
d it since Sir Nigel Irvine left, the two men departed.
¯
THE door of the Silver Age opened and closed with a soft hiss. Grishin and four men crossed the small lobby and pushed aside the heavy drapes that led to the dining area. The headwaiter trotted over.
“I am so sorry, gentlemen …”
“Get out of my way,” said Grishin without even looking at him.
The waiter was jolted, looked at the four men behind the tall man in the black coat, and backed away. He knew enough to recognize serious trouble when he saw it. The four bodyguards might be in civilian clothes, but they were all heavily built, with faces that had been in a few brawls. Even without their uniforms, the elderly waiter recognized them for Black Guards. He had seen them in their uniforms, on television, strutting battalions flashing their arms up to the leader on the podium, and was wise enough to know that waiters did not tangle with the Black Guards.
The man in charge of them swept the room until his gaze fell on the two foreigners dining in the banquette against the rear wall. He nodded to one of his men to accompany him and the other three to give support from the door. Not, he knew, that he needed any. The younger of the two Englishmen might try to give trouble, but he would last a few seconds.
“Friends of yours?” asked Vincent quietly. He felt nakedly unarmed, and wondered how far the serrated steak knife by his plate might get him. Not very far, was his mental answer.
“I think they are the gentlemen whose printing presses you dented a few weeks ago,” said Irvine. He wiped his mouth. The duck had been delicious. The man in the black coat walked over, stopped, and looked down at them. The Black Guard stood behind him.
“Sir Irvine?” Grishin spoke only Russian. Vincent translated.
“It’s Sir Nigel, actually. And to whom do I have the pleasure?”
“Do not play games. How did you get into the country?”
“Through the airport.”
“Lies.”
“I assure you, Colonel—it is Colonel Grishin, is it not?—my papers are in perfect order. Of course, they are with the hotel reception, or I could show you.”
Grishin experienced a flicker of indecision. When he gave orders to most of the organs of state, with the necessary bribes to back them up, those orders were obeyed. But there could have been a failure. Someone would pay.
“You are interfering in the internal affairs of Russia, Anglichanin. And I do not like it. Your American puppy, Monk, will soon be caught and I shall personally settle accounts with him.”
“Have you finished, Colonel? Because if you have, and since we are in the mood to be frank, let me be equally candid with you.”
Vincent translated rapidly. Grishin stared in disbelief. No one talked to him like that, least of all a helpless old man. Nigel Irvine raised his eyes from staring at his glass of wine and looked straight at Grishin.
“You are a deeply loathsome individual, and the man you serve is, if possible, even more repugnant.”
Vincent opened his mouth, shut it again, then muttered in English: “Boss, is this wise?”
“Just translate, there’s a good chap.”
Vincent did so. There was a vein tapping rhythmically in Grishin’s forehead. The thug behind him looked as if his collar would soon cease to contain his throat.
“The Russian people,” resumed Irvine in a conversational tone of voice, “may have made many mistakes, but they do not deserve, nor indeed does any nation deserve, scum like you.”
Vincent paused at the word scum, swallowed, and used the Russian word pizdyuk. The tapping vein increased tempo.
“In summary, Colonel Grishin, the chances are even that you and your whoremaster will never rule this great land. Slowly the people are beginning to see through the facade and in thirty days’ time you may find that they will change their minds. So, what are you going to do about it?”
“I think,” said Grishin carefully, “that I shall begin by killing you. Certainly you will not leave Russia alive.”
Vincent translated and then added in English: “I think he will, too.”
The room had fallen silent and the diners at tables on either side had heard via Vincent the Russian interchange between Grishin and Irvine. Grishin was not worried. Muscovites out for an evening dinner were neither going to interfere nor recall what they had seen. The Homicide Division was still aimlessly looking for the killers of the London journalist.