GRAVE MATTER

TEN

A limousine collected us about seven o'clock that evening, and we sped down the Komsomolsky Prospect, and I looked two or more three-times out of the window. A black car followed us faithfully, but we were on the main road where that would happen anyway.

We arrived outside a restaurant ten minutes late because of more snow falling, clogging the public transport and taxis almost to a standstill. There was a short queue outside, shivering, but the chauffeur led us past the row and opened the firmly shut door.

The place was packed, and somewhere there was some music. Led to the one empty table, a bottle of vodka materialized within five seconds.

"Of the two decent restaurants in Moscow," a voice said behind us, "I like this the better."

We turned to find Ozdoyev, standing there accompanied by a tall, slim, and beautiful young woman, wearing a deep-blue velvet jumpsuit and high heels, which made her taller than me, and I am over six-foot.

"This is my friend, Elmira," Ozdoyev said, and we explained pleasantries before they joined us.

"What would you like to eat?" Ozdoyev peered into the extensive menu.

The menu was exclusively in Russian, and while the other three chose from it, I used my eyes instead on the customers. There were three men at the following table, and beyond them, sitting with their backs to the wall, two more. Very few women, apart from Amber and Ozdoyev's companion for the night.

The faces appeared livelier and varied. For instance, the two men over by the wall were not locals. Instead, they concentrated entirely on the food in front of them.

At the table next to ours, three men were intent solely on their drink. No tablecloth showed between full and empty bottles, full and empty glasses. The men, one large, one medium, one small, were diving into the vast tulip-shaped glasses of champagne.

Ozdoyev looked up from the menu and followed my gaze. "Georgians," he said. "Born with hollow legs." I watched with fascination while the champagne disappeared like beer. The eyes of the smallest were glazed. The big man looked as sober as his grey flannel suit, and there were three empty vodka bottles on the table.

The other three all ordered expertly, and I told Amber to call the same for me. The food when it came was spicy and light-years away from the grey chunks down the road. The huge man at the following table roared at the waiter, who hurried to bring a second bottle of champagne.

"Well, how has your day been so far?" Ozdoyev said, forking some chicken in bean sauce into his mouth.

"Informative," I said.

"Oh?"

I removed my glasses, squinted at them, and polished some non-existent smears with my shirt.

"I don't think there is any need to have your foot-soldiers follow us everywhere," I said.

"How bad are your eyes?" Ozdoyev said, interrupting. "Let's look through your glasses."

Short of breaking the frames, I couldn't stop him. He took the glasses swiftly out of my hand and put them on.

To me, all the faces became distorted blurs. Colours told me where hair, eyes, and clothes were, but outlines had vanished.

"You have bad eyesight," Ozdoyev said. "You could not have been wearing them while you were on the metro last night and just thought you saw my men."

They all had a go trying my glasses and then handed them back. Everything came nicely sharp again.

"Well, Deputy Prosecutor General Ozdoyev," I said, "your hearing must be almost as bad as my eyesight."

Ozdoyev puffed out his chest like an offended pigeon. "There is nothing wrong with my hearing."

"Oh, I disagree," I said, "I never mentioned we had been on the metro last night."

A stony silence followed, and I looked away at the small man at the following table, his head propped up by his glass and seemingly going to sleep. His friends kept up a steady intake and ignored him. Then, finally, the big man shouted at the waiter again and held up three fingers. I waited and watched three more bottles of vodka arrive at the table.

The waiter brought the coffee for us, but I remained mesmerized by the three men. The small man's head, still balanced on his glass, sank lower and lower. Then, finally, the drink came to their table, and the little man slept through it all.

"Georgians," said Ozdoyev.

The huge man settled the bill and then stood up, rising to about seven feet tall. He tucked the three bottles of vodka under one arm and the sleeping friend under the other, and made the stateliest of exits.

"Bloody marvellous," I say.

The waiter who had served them spoke to Ozdoyev, watching the departure with respect.

Ozdoyev said, "The waiter told me they had started with a whole bottle of vodka each. Then another two bottles of vodka between them—five in all. Then the two bottles of champagne. But, of course, no one but Georgians could do that."

While watching the goings-on close to us, I hadn't noticed that the two women had gone to the ladies' room to freshen up. On their return, Amber looked livid, and Elmira chastised. She leaned forward in my direction and said, "Time to leave."

I looked at her and saw flaming anger in her eyes.

I stood up as Elmira sat down, and she, in turn, leaned towards Ozdoyev, whose amiable expression froze.

"What's wrong?" Ozdoyev asks.

"While we were in the ladies room, Elmira told me that the FSB had a strong interest in Robbie and said the security agency had important files on him. When I asked her, what was on the files, she said that I would have to hand over the hard drive first. I refused, and she tried to take my bag off me, so I slapped her around the face."

Elmira regarded Amber with slightly narrowed eyes, and Ozdoyev called for the bill.

The sallow man by the wall went in the wake of the Georgians, and the place was emptying fast.

We collected our coats and left Ozdoyev and his muse standing there looking dumbfounded.

There was no limousine outside waiting for us, so we caught a taxi and luckily picked up a driver who spoke a smattering of English.

We motored a good way northwards through the vast, primarily well-lit, empty streets. When the roads became narrower, I said, "Ask the driver to stop for a moment."

"What now?" Amber said.

"See if we have got a tail."

However, no car stopped behind us, and when we went on, we found no stationary vehicle waiting outside the Majestic. I asked Amber to get the driver to circle a reasonably large block. The driver, thoroughly pissed off by these junkettings, began muttering under his breath.

He dropped us right outside the hotel, and a large tip on top of the fare silenced most of the driver's moaning but wouldn't, I guess, keep him quiet. He drove off back to the bright lights of the city, as if glad to see the back of us.

But no black cars, or any others, paused or stopped. So, as far as we could tell, we were on our own.