Part 43 (1/2)
”You'll be staying in town another night then?”
”Yes. More if necessary.” The little man smiled. ”What I would like is a month in one place; the same bed, the same view, the same newspaper every morning.”
”I could never do it,” Orwell said. ”Travel all the time.”
”I don't mind. Most of the time. But I've been away for eight months now and I miss my wife. On this trip I have been in a dozen cities, interviewing hundreds of people about a thousand missing artworks, artifacts and relics. These are approximate numbers, Chief Brennan, it could be more.”
”Well, any help I can give. Who else is on your list?”
”It was always a long shot. Have you had a visit from any other representative of my ministry?”
”You mean recently?”
”It could have been any time in the past few years I suppose.”
”You're the first.”
”In the years before me there were three perhaps four other people a.s.signed to this case. Two of them have since retired and are home.” He sighed. ”Well, they did their duty, they earned their rest. As some day so will I.”
”And the others?”
”One married and is living in Saskatchewan, I believe. And the other, well, we are not certain.”
They stopped in the middle of the bridge and watched the water moving by underneath. Mikhael took a deep breath. ”It is good to see another spring, is it not?”
Orwell nodded with enthusiasm. ”Oh yes.”
”It is the same in all northern countries, I'm sure. The winters are long. To see green things returning gives hope to people who have been cold for so many months.”
The two men enjoyed the fresh air for a few moments, their eyes scanning the open land of the far side of the bridge for signs of green things emerging. At the same instant both men looked up at the sounds of honking and watched a ragged V of Canada Geese heading northwest.
”That must be one of the signs,” said Mikhael. ”We have them too, in Russia. Perhaps a different kind, but high-flying geese. It always cheers me.”
Orwell gave a delighted laugh. ”Me too,” he said. ”Brightens my whole day to hear those honkers heading north.”
They shared the moment of connection with eyes lifted to the sky and simple smiles on their faces. After a while, Orwell broke the silence. ”I haven't been chief here all that long. I could check our records. About who you're looking for.”
”That won't be necessary, Chief. It would have been in the last three years or so. She wouldn't have come by until after Ms. Zubrovskaya arrived.”
”She?”
There was a time when Anya would have attended an event such as this in the company of a suitable escort, someone who would perhaps have given her a flower, opened a door, taken her arm as she climbed the steps, held her chair, leaned close to tell her how lovely she was, how brilliant she had been. Tonight was a pas seul, a solo turn. Not that there was dancing, or a dance floor. The music was recorded chamberbabble, schmaltzy fiddlepop, the room was too bright, the flowers inappropriate, the conversation was gossip about bureaucrats she was unlikely to meet. She had attended anarchist gatherings in bas.e.m.e.nt flats boasting more hospitality. And better wine.
She reminded herself that this was about Ludi. And Va.s.sili. Yes, and even Viktor. Our little gypsy band paid a big price. Someone must be held accountable. It falls to me. I am the lucky one. I am alive. I survived. Three of my friends did not. Someone must collect what is owed.
And there he was, entering the room with the texting woman and the vigilant man. He looked refreshed, showered, shaved, fresh s.h.i.+rt, power tie, moving through the gathering, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, very smooth, every inch the rising political star. But no matter how tough he is, or was once, no matter how ruthless, surely he knew this day must come, that someday, someone would call on him for a reckoning.
”I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave.” It was the watchful man with the jug ears, her dance partner of the afternoon. His nametag read, ”Cam Gidrick.” He took her arm. ”Please don't make a scene,” he said.
”I am registered,” Anya said. ”I paid seventy-five dollars for my ticket.”
”I'll get you a refund,” he said.
”But why must I leave?”
”The candidate believes that you are here to disrupt the reception.”
”Nonsense,” she said. ”I have been most supportive, all afternoon. This is quite outrageous. When exactly did this become a fascist state?”
”Just leave quietly and I won't have to call for a police escort.”
That made her laugh. ”Oh, I do not think you want that just now, do you?” This last comment caused the man to sneeze violently for some reason.
Odd how things work out. Here she was getting thrown out of the reception mere moments after walking in, when who should be entering but her new best friend, Mrs. Andrew Lytton, in the company of none other than the candidate's wife, Keasha Asange-O'Grady, looking tall and lovely in a silk dress the same shade of blue as the ring on her finger. Where are you going? asked Mrs. Lytton. Why, I have been denied admission, Anya answered. Whatever for? No reason was given. Who asked you to leave? Mrs. O'Grady wanted to know. This man. Nonsense, said the candidate's wife. I've been looking forward to hearing all about the Bolshoi. It was the Kirov, actually, said Mrs. Lytton. Oh, of course, said Mrs. O'Grady, that's even better, isn't it? Many would agree, Anya said. And the three of them walked inside together, much to the discomfiture of the candidate's a.s.sistant, who was forced to stand aside and endure Anya's entirely smug smile as she pa.s.sed.
”I swear,” said the candidate's wife, ”these campaigns get more paranoid every year. Last week Cam evicted someone who was wearing a 'Save the Whales' b.u.t.ton. Come on, I'll introduce you to my husband. He's not as fierce as he likes to think.” She led the way straight toward the man himself, who watched their approach with a wary grin. ”We have a celebrity with us tonight,” she told her husband.
”Really? I hope you vote in this riding,” said the candidate.
”No, I will not be able to vote for you, but I am sure you will do well. They tell me this is a safe seat.”
”That's what they told me, too. I should have got it in writing.”
”Yes. Nothing is certain, is it? Except perhaps Judgement Day.”
His laugh was hollow. ”Ha ha, yes, oh, and taxes, of course.”
”Still, it is brave of you to seek such a public verdict. I myself have kept a low profile for many years.”
”But that's soon to change,” offered Mrs. Lytton.
He was already looking for a way to disengage. ”It is?”
”Your lovely wife and I are determined to involve Anya in the arts centre.” Mrs. Lytton had decided this would be a good moment to press her case. ”She is, after all, one of the ballet world's great artists.”
”Perhaps Mrs. Lytton exaggerates my reputation,” Anya said. ”My career was somewhat brief.”
”But incandescent, my dear. Besides, you represent what is great about the Russian ballet tradition, training, technique.”
”Pain, loss.” Anya smiled to take the sting out of the words.
”We won't lose you this time,” Mrs. Lytton said. She turned to the candidate. ”I do hope you'll find the time to look over the plans I sent you,” she said. ”Our list of supporters is growing every day.”
”I'll have to get back to you on that. After election day.” He was already tugging his wife's elbow and stepping back. ”Nice to have met you, Ms. Daniel,” he said as he turned away.
”Zubrovskaya,” she said to his retreating back. She turned to Mrs. Lytton. ”Daniel was my alias, for a time. I wonder where he might have heard that.”
This night was becoming a trial for Cam Gidrick. Not only was the annoying little blonde woman still hanging around, schmoozing with the old doll in the flowered hat and making nice-nice with his candidate's wife, the man himself was getting increasingly nervous about something, snapping at him about nothing. Barb was no help; she was thumbing her d.a.m.n iPhone off in a corner somewhere, probably blogging or tweeting - that's all she did these days. And now these people? Three new arrivals who obviously didn't belong: some gawky beanpole in a trenchcoat for Christ's sake, another one who looked like a biker chick in a leather jacket and paratrooper boots and an obvious pansy filling his face at the buffet table. Whoever they were, they had to leave, even if it meant calling out the storm troopers.
The tall one was heading his way. Where the h.e.l.l were the rent-a-cops when you needed them? He took a deep breath. ”Something I can do for you?”