“May I come in?”
Mikhail’s heart skipped a beat as he thought about the two illegal aliens currently peeling vegetables in the kitchen.
“We run a good restaurant here, sir. No problems. No hanky panky. No trouble with the police.”
“Alright, alright, keep your hair on Mr…?”
“Mikhail. Just call me Mikhail. I am head waiter.” Mikhail led Bridges through an ornate vestibule, decorated in deepest red, and into the main restaurant where he indicated a table and pulled out two chairs. Apron-clad waiters bustled around them, setting tables and frequently shouting at each other in a language Bridges took to be Russian.
“I am here to ask you about a customer. Do you recall a Mr Kilinski dining here ever? Mr or rather Pilot Officer Kilinski, he was a Polish RAF officer.”
“Was?”
“Unfortunately, he is now dead.”
Mikhail blanched. Against the pallor of the waiter’s skin, Bridges noticed that Mikhail’s eyes were a little bloodshot. “Dead. You mean from food poisoning?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I just want to know if you recall him dining here and, if so, who he dined with.”
“No, no. I don’t remember such a person. No.”
Bridges watched Mikhail’s eyes shifting back and forth to the kitchen. “You’re quite sure about that? You can say that without looking at your reservation book?”
“No Polish flyers in here. Never. I am sure.”
“You must get plenty of servicemen customers in here. Are you so familiar with all the uniforms that you can rule Mr Kilinski out?”
Mikhail’s eyes moved towards a location near the main door where Bridges assumed the reservation book was kept. “I have look if you want, but…”
“I tell you what, Mikhail, why don’t you bring it over here? We can then have a look at it together.”
Mikhail shrugged, got up and, barging his way past a couple of the waiters, retrieved the book. He smirked as Bridges opened the thick volume to find all the entries written in Cyrillic script.
“Ah.” Bridges thought for a moment before slapping the covers of the book back together. “Perhaps the best thing is for me to take this with me. The Yard is bound to have access to someone who can read it. And you can come with me to look at a photograph we have of Kilinski back at the Yard.”
Mikhail’s smile disappeared. “You cannot do this. We need book!”
Bridges set the book down on the table and sighed. “Look, Mikhail. Why don’t you just help me out here? You are clearly holding out on me. I can make life very difficult for you and the people who own this place. You are foreigners, Russians. We are at war. Your people are on the same side as our enemies. I could probably get you closed down in a moment. So why not make your life easier and assist us?”
“Not Russian. We are Georgians!”
“Excuse me, but isn’t Stalin a Georgian?”
Mikhail squirmed in his seat, ran a hand through his hair and decided to break the habit of a lifetime and tell the truth. “The book won’t help you, but I remember a Polish flyer coming just a week or two ago and I remember his name being mentioned by the person he met here. I have very good memory for names. For head waiter is very important to remember names. Good memory for names often means good tips.”
“That’s good, Mikhail. And who did he have lunch with?”
“Very dangerous man. If he finds out I tell you, he could do much damage. That’s why I no like to answer you.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t mention you, Mikhail.”
Mikhail looked towards the kitchen. His boss was away for the week. The decision was his to make. “A man called Voronov. Kyril Voronov.”