Chapter Twenty-Seven

They went back to the hotel to shower and when Anna disappeared down to the lobby — to file a report, Milton guessed — he spent a couple of hours with his book. When she returned he suggested that they go out to dinner. She smiled brightly at the suggestion; it was an innocent happiness that must have been inspired, he guessed, by the thought that she had finally broken through the hard carapace that he sheltered behind. It almost made him feel bad to see it. He knew then that he would be able to do what he needed to do.

She suggested that he choose where they eat and he picked Caprice, a favourite of his from years ago. They took a taxi and it was nearly eight when they arrived.

There was something very modern about the place, and yet something proper and solid. The lobby was crafted between two floor to ceiling displays of wine bottles — with some enviable vintages on show — and the maître d’ led them through a dining room that was encased with dark wood panelling and equipped with luxurious leather sofas and armchairs. The kitchen was open and situated in the middle of the dining area, with nothing to separate the diners from the delicious smells that were created or the quiet, determined communication between the chefs. All of the tables enjoyed a view of Victoria Harbour, and theirs was especially good. The room was busy, with local Hong Kong Chinese and expat diners enjoying their meals, filling the space with engaged conversation and the sound of expensive cutlery on expensive plates. Milton followed in Anna’s wake and watched the heads of the other diners turn to look at her. Her summer dress was creased and marked and her face was streaked with sweat and dust and yet she was still extraordinary to look at.

Milton looked out over the broad curve of the harbour. Lights were strung between the trees in the garden and then, out on the water, colourful junks rose and fell on the shallow swells. They looked through the elaborate, leather-bound menus. Milton beckoned to the sommelier and turned to his companion.

“What will you have?” he asked.

“Do you have a recommendation?”

“Not really,” he said. “I don’t drink.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I used to drink too much,” he said simply. “So I stopped.”

“Do you mind if I…”

He waved it off. “No, of course not. Have whatever you like.”

She replaced the wine list face down on the table and turned to the sommelier. “I would like a gin and tonic, please. Hendricks. Fill the glass with ice, all the way to the top, and a slice of cucumber.”

She returned to her study of the menu. “Do you know what you want?” she asked. “Please, don’t be frugal. The Kremlin is paying.” She smiled at her own joke, trying to encourage him, too, but it fell rather flat; it dragged Milton away from the potential pleasure of a meal in her company and back to the reality of why they were here together.

Milton summoned the waiter.

He turned to Anna. “Madam?”

“The langoustine lasagne and then the wagyu striploin, please.”

The waiter turned to Milton. “And sir?”

“The vegetable panache, please, and then suckling pig rack.”

The man complimented them on their choices and left the table.

“You must forgive me,” Anna said. “I am very particular about what I eat and drink. It comes from my background. There was very little luxury when I was a child. Times were difficult. And now, when I’m working, it’s usually on my own. It makes things more bearable if you can go to nice restaurants and know a little about what’s on the menu.”

“You were born in Russia?”

“Volgograd,” she said. “Have you been there?”

“Never.”

“I wouldn’t bother. It is not a pleasant place. My father worked for the KGB. We moved around a lot, depending on where he was posted. We spent time in Kenya, Somalia, Vietnam. I was a bit of an embassy brat.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“Just me.”

“Where did you study?”

“Moscow. We moved back when I was sixteen. The People’s Friendship University of Russia. Masters degree in economics. I could have had a job with a Russian bank, made a lot of money perhaps, but I was recruited by my tutor as soon as I graduated. They had different plans for me, I suppose. My father was proud. It wasn’t something I was able to turn down. I moved to London in 2003 and worked for a couple of banks. And I met my husband there.”

“You’re married?” he said. He pointed to her naked hand. “You don’t…”

“Divorced. He was American. It was for the passport.”

She reported it completely matter of factly, as if getting married was something that had needed to be checked off a list. “How long were you there for?”

“In London? I moved in 2006.”

“And after that?”

“New York, originally. I worked in international real estate.”

“That was the cover?”

“Of course. There was no business. There never was. It was a fantasy. Just a desk. It was a useful front and a good way to pass funds to me.”

“What were you doing there?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, Mr. Milton, that wouldn’t do. Some things will have to remain secret. You understand, I’m sure.”

“Alright. So why don’t you tell me why were you in Texas?”

“That was for you. I was given instructions that an asset was thought to be in the area. We didn’t know where, exactly, so several of us were moved to the south to wait.”

“Several? There are more of you?”

She smiled. “Many more. The CIA has been focussed on external threats for too long. It is easy to work in America if you know what you are doing.”

“So you just up and left? Do you live alone?”

She smiled mischievously. “Do I have a boyfriend, you mean?”

He knew that the conversation was pulling him in the direction she wanted but he didn’t feel like resisting her any more. “Do you?”

“There was someone, but it was for work. I doubt I’ll see him again.”

He left a pause and then allowed her a smile. “A little better,” he said.

“How do you mean?”

“I like to know the person I’m having dinner with,” he said. “I think I’m getting there.”

He raised his glass.

She touched hers to his. “Nasdrovje,” she said.

“Cheers.”

The waiter arrived with the lasagne and the panache and they ate for a time in silence. The food was as delicious as Milton remembered.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” she said.

“Depends what it is.”

“‘Some things will have to remain secret?’” Her eyes gleamed.

He smiled. “Something like that.”

“You had a bad dream on the flight…”

“I told you,” he said sharply. “It was just a bad pill.”

Her eyes clouded with concern.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t have to answer.”

“It’s alright,” he said. He gazed out into the darkness of the bay. “It’s something I saw a long time ago. It’s not a very good memory. Occasionally I dream about it.”

They were quiet again as they finished their starters. Milton watched her face: she looked deep in thought as if, he wondered, she was trying out conversational lines to be sure that she didn’t spoil the mood. She finished the lasagne, placed the cutlery on the plate and looked up, a bright smile on her face. “You know,” she said, “I was pleased that they asked me to go and get you in Texas. It was something of a coup. You are famous with Russian intelligence. Well, not you personally”—she corrected herself quickly, although he knew that she had meant him—“your Group. Group Fifteen. You are famous and feared.”

“I’m not a member of the Group any more.”

“Nevertheless…”

He frowned and, when he spoke, it was quietly. “It’s nothing to be proud of. What we did. What I did. I have a lot of blood on my hands, Anna. Some of them probably deserved what they got. The others, I don’t know. Maybe not.” He felt awkward talking about it; it made the prospect of a drink more difficult to ignore. He remembered the meeting and the sense of calmness he had felt. He needed to change the subject. “How did you like the lasagne?”