Voronov had a good view of the street from his study and he saw Trubetskoi strolling jauntily down it from a long way off. He was twirling that stupid stick of his and looking very pleased with himself. Voronov didn’t know why he was looking so self-satisfied, but no doubt he would soon find out. Misha Trubetskoi and he went back a long time and they had been through many things together. They had saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion. In the Polish campaign of 1921, Trubetskoi had thrown a grenade at a couple of Polish officers who were about to put a bullet through Voronov’s forehead. Years later, when Stalin’s Poisonous Dwarf, Yezhov, had taken a liking to Trubetskoi’s then wife and wanted her husband out of the way, Voronov had interceded with Stalin and saved his partner. And there had been other times. They were like brothers now. That being said, there was no avoiding it, brave and adventurous as Trubetskoi might be, he was not the sharpest pin in the box. He thought he was, but there was a great gulf between illusion and reality.
“Ah, Misha, there you are. Did you have a good evening?”
Trubetskoi threw his coat and stick onto the chaise-longue by the door and sat down heavily on one of the two leather armchairs in the room. Above him a large portrait of a younger-looking Kyril jovially surveyed the room. “Excellent, my dear Kyril. Excellent. Despite the firework display laid on by our German friends, I found two brave young ladies of the night who were prepared to return chéz Misha. One was a blonde – natural mind – and the other a rather striking brunette. A most agreeable evening.”
Voronov tugged at his beard. “Good. I’m sure you could do with a strong coffee. Maksim!” The servant had anticipated his master and appeared promptly with two Turkish coffees.
“Some toast perhaps, Misha, an egg maybe?”
Trubetskoi shook his head and Maksim departed at the flick of a Voronov finger. “And so, my friend. How did your meeting go yesterday afternoon?”
Trubetskoi raised his legs onto a footstool and, removing a silver toothpick from somewhere in his jacket, dug violently at his teeth. “I had some beef last night. This lousy English meat always gets stuck in my teeth. Ah. That’s better.” He spat a small remnant of meat into the fire on his left. “Yes. The meeting. It went well, I think.” He smiled complacently across at his partner.
“And?”
“Well. This chap who Blunt recommended. Didn’t really take to him. Asking questions. Superior sort of fellow. However, he certainly knew his stuff. Valued everything at around a thousand pounds2.”
Voronov laughed. “So, Misha. Knowing you, the real figure was what, say three thousand? Come on. Don’t try your luck with me. I always find out, don’t I?”
Trubetskoi stiffened and assumed a hurt expression. “Kyril, please. How can you think that I would—”
“Shall I call Mr Evans then? Maksim!”
The servant appeared instantly.
Trubetskoi’s features relaxed. “No. No. Kyril. Just my little joke. Just testing your observational skills are all there. Clear off, Maksim.”
With a nod from his master, Maksim disappeared.
“It was around two thousand. I swear on my mother’s grave. Not a bad sum.”
Voronov pulled a cigar from a box on a shelf behind him before offering one to Trubetskoi. “So, Misha, if two grand is the real figure, I assume you didn’t give that number to our two cockney friends?”
Trubetskoi drew vigorously on the cigar to get it going. Satisfied that this task had been accomplished, he sat back in his chair, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. “Kyril, my friend. Please. What do you take me for? When this Evans creature had finished, I drew him aside. They did not hear the figure from him. Once I had the details, I got rid of him and gave the men a figure of five hundred.”