Perhaps this train of thought made its way past her expression, because Rasnokov suggested again that she relax. “It’s the curse of our profession, to be always thinking around corners. But this is a party. There is good food, good drink. Life is returning to normal. You should learn to enjoy yourself. London is full of opportunities, as so many of my countrymen have discovered.”
“Largely because they’re frightened to go back home.”
“And still you cannot help yourself. I understand your hostility towards my government. But is this an appropriate occasion on which to indulge it?”
She nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m simply concerned for you, Vassily. All pretence aside, we both know you work for a psychopath. The closer he gets to the end of his reign, the more blood there’ll be in the gutters. I’d hate to think yours might run with it.”
“Thank you. When you come to approach your own retirement, I’m sure you’ll make necessary arrangements for your comfort and prosperity. Why think less of others?” He made a sudden bow. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to, what’s that expression? Make some rounds. But I hope we chat again before the evening’s over. It’s been most charming to meet you. A human face, after all this time.”
“It’s been good to meet you too.”
“And do relay to your Mr. Sparrow that I trust his association with Dr. de Greer is working out to his satisfaction. It was most interesting, our discussion about her work. I can see that, in the right hands, her talents would pay dividends.”
She had to hand it to him: his timing was immaculate. He’d made his bow again, was off across the room greeting others before she could make a reply.
The poets had finished with the caviar tray and had moved on to a young man bearing a salver of smoked salmon. Diana was reminded of seagulls she’d seen, ripping sandwiches from the hands of tourists. She deposited her glass on a passing tray, and didn’t look back to see if Rasnokov noticed her leaving, but would have put money on it.
Champagne and salmon, caviar and blinis, canapés stuffed with olives.
Or the last slice of pizza fished from a grease-drenched box, and garnished with extra cheese and onion, or at any rate, accompanied by crisps of that flavour.
Even with his face a scarred mask, it was possible to read Lech’s disgust as he watched Roddy Ho shovel this delicacy into his mouth. “I think you’ve just invented the Unhappy Meal.”
“All part of my five-a-day.”
Lech stared. “You’re aware that’s not just counting how many things you eat?”
Ashley said, “Lamb stole my lunch.”
“Yeah, if Slough House had a coat of arms, that’d be its motto.”
“Does anyone know if he ate it?”
“That would be his usual approach,” said Louisa. “Why? What was in it?”
“。 . . Nothing.”
They were in Roddy’s office, and on Roddy’s screens was the continuing coverage of the reception at the embassy, this consisting largely of the drivers of various limos moodily smoking. Moodily was how the slow horses read it, anyway, though it was possible this was a nuance bestowed by black-and-white footage. On Bayswater Avenue evening had fallen, as it had on Aldersgate Street. One of the office’s overhead bulbs had blown so the room was dimly lit, and a draught penetrated the cardboard shield covering the broken window. This stirred the dominant odours: the pizza Roddy was eating, the black tea in Lech’s mug, the whispers of long-smoked cigarettes that pervaded Slough House, a constant reminder of their onlie begetter, Jackson Lamb.
Who had had left ages ago. He might come back, of course—Louisa half-believed he slept in his office—but for the moment he was off the premises, having departed in Catherine’s wake. Louisa would have been home herself by now if not for the ever-recurrent fear-of-missing-out that all slow horses were prey to; well, all bar Roddy Ho, who was constantly at the centre of events, if only in his head. And it was possible, she told herself, that among these visitors to the Russian embassy—the liggers and lackeys, hungry for party food and propaganda—she might just spot one Alexa Chaikovskaya, absurd as that might sound. But was it? She’d be old now, seventies at least, but that was hardly a stretch for these former KGB types, some of whom seemed to undergo living mummification, still wheeled out on parades when slippers and a nice cup of cocoa would have been a kinder fate. Chaikovskaya had been a colonel in the eighties, and might have gone on to greater heights. Not that Louisa was up to speed on ranks in the Russian machine. River Cartwright would have known.