Blood Stones (10 page)

He finished his sandwiches and enjoyed his wine. He had set the pieces on the board. Andrews to Moscow. Reece was right, he was a good man, a valuable ally for Arthur who would be detached if he succeeded, and retired if he failed. Hastings to Paris.
There
was a ruthless operator; he had a jungle smell about him that Julius recognized. The wife was a lovely girl; he wasn't impressed by British titles, but he admired her for refusing to trade on hers. He liked her; he thought she was too good for Hastings, but that was not his business. She'd be a great asset in Paris. Karakov loved beautiful women and was a snob.

He employed a Romanian prince as one of his salesmen; he also used a well-endowed Argentinian to bring in the older rich women as clients. He was tough as steel and crafty as a fox. Julius wondered how James Hastings would measure up against such an opponent.

He was surprised by Reece suggesting that Hastings take Kruger's secretary as his personal assistant. He had met her briefly, summed her up as a common little sexpot with ambition to better herself, and pointedly ignored her. But she was clever; she had a very good business brain which was under-used, according to Reece, who knew everything about everyone. Nauseating little creep, his wife Sylvia said whenever Reece was mentioned. Julius agreed, but oh how valuable when you had the second biggest operation of your business run in London by an enemy … Reece had smelt out more in his yearly stint in Blackfriars Road than Julius could have discovered from a dozen other sources. He said Ruth Fraser had potential, and that she would be better employed helping Hastings than bailing out Kruger when he made mistakes. He had quoted several instances. So Julius said she was to go. As predicted, she accepted on the spot. Interesting, he thought. Puppets on strings, all of them, and he was the puppet master, pulling this one, jerking another. He didn't enjoy manipulating people. But he had to protect Diamond Enterprises, and the whole diamond industry, from the mines down to the cheap high street jewellers who depended upon him and his power to fight off market forces and recessionary swings. They stood or fell together; only a megalomaniac like Karakov would put so much at risk. But he would learn. The hard way.

4

‘Darling,' James said, ‘I've got a list of apartments, take a look and see what you think … Here,' he handed the brochures to her, flipped some pages and pointed, ‘that sounds rather nice. The rue Constantine is a very smart address.'

Elizabeth smiled. She couldn't resist teasing him for being what she called a postal district snob. ‘Do we have to be smart? I'd like to live on the Left Bank …'

‘Maybe, but that wouldn't impress Karakov. And that's what we're about. He's got to see the youngest member of the D.E. Board lighting up the Paris social scene with his beautiful titled wife. He'll love the Lady Elizabeth bit.'

‘Balls to that,' Liz said rudely. ‘I never use it, and I'm not going to start now. So you can forget
that
. I mean it!'

‘All right, I was just getting a rise. For a change. Seriously, look through these and if you see one you like, maybe you could take a day and fly over and view. I'm too busy, and I'll like what you like. I always do. Get yourself some clothes while you're there. Givenchy?'

‘That wouldn't be a bribe, would it?'

‘It might,' he agreed.

‘Then make it Christian Lacroix and I'll go.'

He looked at her and smiled with sheer pride and happiness. What lucky star had led him to that night-club where he saw her first, and knew by the end of their first dance that this was the girl? She had a naturally gay temperament, in the real sense of that purloined word. She was always finding something ridiculous to laugh at, usually at her own expense. She was devoid of sham or conceit; he thought she was the most natural person he had ever met. Generous to a fault, she'd give anything to anyone who told her a sad story. She had little or no physical fear.

Those dreadful nags she used to ride down in darkest Somerset. He'd weaned her away from the clodhopper set, thank God. Her parents still hadn't really forgiven him. She was going down for her father's birthday; she hadn't pressed him to come. He grinned, remembering how he'd tried bullshitting about being so sorry to miss it, but with the move to Paris … Typically Liz had cut him off short with her devastating frankness. ‘You're not sorry, darling, you'd hate every minute of it – all Pop's cronies from the Army and the Hunt Committee.'

And, because he found it impossible to put on an act with her, he'd said simply, ‘An absolute nightmare, sweetheart. You go and get an extra nice present from me. And have fun.'

It was a wonderful marriage. They understood each other, each gave way about things that didn't matter and talked their way through things that did. She had brought a new dimension into his life: honesty and trust. Into his private life. The business world was not made up of people like Elizabeth. He judged this the moment to tell her about Ruth Fraser. Immediately Liz forgot about going to Paris. She dropped the glossy estate agent's brochure on the floor and stared at him.

‘You're taking her with you? I don't believe it! Whatever for?'

‘Confidential secretary-cum-personal assistant. That little rat Reece was adamant. Fraser was Julius's choice. Not even preference – choice! I made it absolutely plain I didn't like the idea or see the necessity, but he insisted. I even suggested that Palmer girl – you don't know her, darling, she's in the finance department – but Reece had already asked Fraser, and she'd said yes. I don't know what Kruger felt about it. Pissed off, I should think—'

‘Not as pissed off as I am,' Elizabeth said. ‘She's awful. God, I'm not having her round my neck, I promise you—'

‘You won't have any contact at all,' he protested. ‘She's strictly office hours. We don't have to mix with her socially. Look, you don't think I like the idea, do you? Kruger's bimbo stuck under my nose, watching everything and running back to him with details. Why Julius picked her I'll never know.'

But he did know. Because she was the most competent, business-orientated woman in the London office, and also, without her at his elbow, Dick Kruger would be less effective. He decided not to labour the point with Elizabeth. She had few faults in his eyes, but one of them was a difficult temper when it was roused. And strong prejudices, which ruled out women who broke up thirty-year marriages. He sighed, ‘Don't make an issue, Liz, please. I've told you, you don't have to see her … I had to take her. It was an order, not a suggestion.'

‘All right.' Elizabeth shrugged. ‘I don't mean to be difficult … it's none of my business who acts as your secretary. Sorry, darling. It's just that I saw Valerie Kruger when I was lunching with Mum. Now, let's have a look at this palace you've picked out for us to live in …'

All was harmony again between them.

Ray Andrews had booked into the hotel in Moscow. He had an appointment to see the British Ambassador at eleven that morning. He had slept badly, he had indigestion from the heavy and over-spiced Russian food he'd eaten the night before, and he'd rid his comb of yet more of his thinning hair. Susan was always going on at him, saying not to wear a hat because he was going bald. He had told her very calmly that, for that very reason, he preferred to cover his head with a trilby or a cap. She hadn't listened, because she still said the same thing afterwards. In her mind hats and hair loss were synonymous. They'd spoken on the telephone when he arrived. She'd sounded cheerful, which relieved him, and there was nothing gone wrong in the few hours since he'd left home. He loved her, and he knew she hated being on her own. He wondered sometimes what she'd do if he died, then put the thought away. He was sick of travelling himself, now. He'd spent such a large part of his working life on planes. He knew every major airport and a lot of minor ones. He'd travelled dusty pot-holed roads in Africa and twelve-lane highways in the States, stayed at luxury hotels and rat holes where there wasn't enough water to wash in, and malarial mosquitoes buzzed round the room all night. He had enjoyed it then, he was young and filled with a sense of adventure; he didn't enjoy it any more. He had come to a career stop, and his home and family life were more important now, perhaps because of that. He was honest enough to admit the likelihood. Moscow held no charms for him. Five years ago he'd done the tourist bit and walked through the riches of the Kremlin – day after day of them – when he was waiting for an appointment with the senior trade official in the Russian Nuclear Energy Ministry, the ministry responsible for all mining development.

The negotiations had ended in disaster, casualties of the upheaval in Russian political affairs; now he was expected to resurrect them. He felt a lack of confidence in his own ability to deal with people in a bureaucracy like the one that was strangling Russia. It had been hard enough in the days of Gorbachov; now conditions were chaotic in the new Russia under Yeltsin. They already had their guaranteed outlet into Europe and the Middle East through Ivan Karakov.

Why the hell should they listen to him? He made an effort, telling himself that just because he was upset about losing so much hair, he mustn't anticipate failure. Failure carried its own aura. He had to walk into the Ambassador's office, and impress him with his confidence and self-belief. He had the power and influence of Diamond Enterprises behind him. In the early years, he had seen them topple governments … He twitched at his tie, jammed a brown trilby on his head, and set off for the Embassy.

‘As you can appreciate, Mr Andrews, the situation here is so volatile, it's extremely difficult to get anyone to make a decision about anything.' The Ambassador was a distinguished career diplomat, a lifelong Russophile who was liked and trusted by the new men in power and many of the old ones trying to wrest it back.

‘I think', he said slowly, ‘your best bet is to see D. V. Borisov. He's not the nominal head of the Ministry, but he has the final yea or nay about what happens in that department. He's been up to Archangel to see the mines recently.'

‘Borisov …' Andrews frowned. ‘That name rings bells …' The Ambassador looked at him with respect. He wasn't just a businessman with a lot of international muscle. He had wider knowledge.

‘It should do,' he said. ‘Igor Borisov was head of the KGB under Brezhnev. This is the son. He's a scientist and an engineer. He's said to be a liberal in spite of the family background. Shall I put in an unofficial word for you? I've met him several times. He's a remarkable man.'

Andrews said, ‘I'd be most grateful, Sir Peter. I haven't got an easy job ahead of me.'

The Ambassador smiled. ‘Well, you'd be the judge of that. But one thing I can tell you: nothing is for ever in Russia at the moment. Anything can change, with or without reason from our point of view. Yeltsin or Rostopchine. Personally I put my money on the President. They don't come any tougher or more cunning. Perhaps I should have said clever.'

Andrews knew the interview was at an end. ‘One last thing,' he said. ‘Whose man is D. V. Borisov?'

The Ambassador got up. Andrews did the same. ‘No-one knows,' he answered. ‘That's what makes him so interesting. If you find out, please let me know.'

They shook hands. ‘Goodbye, Sir Peter, and thank you. I know my Chairman will be very grateful for your help.'

‘I only hope it can produce a meeting for you. We'll do our best. Good luck, and don't hesitate to call on us if you feel we can do anything more. We'll be in touch.'

Andrews waited for two days. He bought some presents for Susan and the child still at home; he wrote to their son in Canada, and sent postcards to the university student who he knew wouldn't have bothered to read a letter, but would love the view of Lenin's tomb. He was going through the Socialist Worker phase. And, late in the morning of the third fruitless day, when he was starting to despair and wondering whether to chase up the Embassy, he got an invitation to visit D. V. Borisov at the Nuclear Energy Ministry Mining Division on Upinsky Street. He had been given exactly twenty minutes' notice.

5

Paris was hot and empty in August. Elizabeth flew into Charles de Gaulle, and the estate agent met her with a car. He was a tall man, hair slightly greying, and he had a most attractive smile. ‘Madame Hastings? I am Jean Pierre Lasalle. How was your flight?'

‘Perfect,' Elizabeth said. ‘It took longer to go through all the hassle at the airport than to fly over. What a scorching day.' The sun was brassy overhead as they walked out to his car. He opened the door for her to sit in the rear. ‘Oh no,' she said. ‘I'd like to sit in the front.'

She saw him smile. ‘I'd like that, too. Do you know Paris well?'

‘Quite well; we've spent several weekends here … usually in the spring. It's such a beautiful city.'

‘It is,' he agreed. ‘I prefer it empty as it is now. All the world goes on holiday in August.'

‘Except you,' she remarked.

‘Except me. I have a house in Normandy and I go there at weekends and stay in the city during the week. Which is why I am having the pleasure of showing you the apartments. I suggest we go straight to rue Constantine, which is a very impressive apartment.'

‘And the most expensive,' Elizabeth added.

‘When you see the interior, you won't think so,' he assured her. ‘And then I will take you to lunch, and we can see the house in rue de la Perle and the other apartment on the Place de la Concorde. That has a wonderful situation, but is smaller than the other two.'

‘I'm booked back on the six o'clock flight. Will we have enough time?'

‘I'll make sure you're not late,' he said. They drove through empty streets, except for batches of foreign tourists, slung with cameras and dressed in the uniform of American travellers – track suits, or sweatshirts and jeans with trainers, guidebooks in hand. Elizabeth thought privately, No wonder the French exit
en masse
…