But no, cold cuts would be fine, thank you, for the lady. And she’d only eaten half a slice of ham as far as he could see. Every time he had looked at her, her dark eyes had been concentrated on her plate or the table. She drank only water and he could discern a faint tremble in the hand that raised her glass.
Well, she might stint her food, but he wouldn’t. He demolished the chilled soup in quick order and then, having been unable to choose between two dishes, he had them both – the Chanahi lamb stew and the Khachapuri savoury pie. Delicious! And he had talked, of course. Talk was one of his great specialities. He had talked about some of his Russian adventures, bowdlerised in deference to his gracious companion, about his friends, about the powerful men he knew all over Europe. He had talked about everything under the sun except what he had arranged the lunch for. She had said little, toying desultorily with her lettuce and occasionally allowing the hint of a smile to move her lips.
Why was she so dull today? At the party she had been an impressively lively hostess, laughing and chatting gaily with everyone. Ah, yes, but then – she was no fool. He had presumed on an old brief acquaintance with the Count and Countess in pre-war Warsaw to gatecrash the soirée his sources had told him about and had taken the opportunity to pass her a message. When he had caught sight of her reading the note he had given her when leaving the party, he had seen the shadow quickly fall over her face. She loved her family. That was why she was here – but she had no illusions.
Mikhail came to remove the plates.
“A dessert, Countess. You should try the butter cake. It is sublime!”
The Countess shook her head.
“Ah. Two coffees then. And I’ll have some of that Georgian brandy that your family keeps for best. A cigarette for you perhaps, my dear. Yes? No. Very well. I’ll have a cigar. My usual.”
After Mikhail disappeared the Countess finished her glass of water and looked directly at Voronov for the first time. “Your stories are all very interesting, Mr Voronov, but perhaps you could get to the point of our meeting. You said in your note that you knew of Karol’s situation and, what were the exact words again, that one favour might be returned with another. What exactly did you mean by that?”
Voronov swirled the remaining dregs of his wine in the glass before draining it. At the outset, he had insisted on deferring any discussion about his note till after they had eaten. Now it was time for business. “My dear, I apologise for not coming to the point a little earlier. I thought it would be nice if we could get to know each other a little better.”
“Very well. Now we know each other a little better, what do you have to say about Karol?”
Voronov stroked his beard and shook his head slowly. “Such a story. Such a story. A brave man, your Karol, but perhaps not such a sensible man, if I may say so.”
The Countess pursed her lips. “I would call him a brave man of principle myself. If it is not sensible to be a man of principle and to stand up for those principles, then, yes, perhaps he is as you say.”
“Ah, principle! Such a nice word. But principle is an expensive thing to have in such times, especially in a little country like Poland, at the mercy of two monsters, as it is.”
“Can we please dispense with the sophistry and get to the point? My brother Karol is in prison in Moscow. He made the mistake of placing Polish patriotism ahead of his personal well-being and refused to become a puppet administrator in the half of my country swallowed by your Mr Stalin. This was an annoying and unexpected affront, hence Karol’s removal in short order to the Lubianka. I assume he remains there, although for all I know he may already have been removed to Siberia or indeed may be dead.”
“He is alive, my dear.” Voronov saw the Countess’ beautiful, dark eyes water. She took a deep breath.
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure. You may trust me. I have very reliable sources.”
“And is he still in Moscow?”
“He is, although there is some talk of moving him back to Poland.”
Hope brought colour to her face for the first time that day. “You mean he is to be freed?”
“That rather depends.”
“Depends. Depends on what?”