GRAVE MATTER

SEVEN

After breakfast, the receptionist summoned us, where two large men stood with impassive faces, flat uniformed caps, and long grey coats.

One of them handed Amber a stuck-down envelope addressed to her. Inside there was a brief hand-written note, saying simply. "Please, accompany my officers," and below that, "Deputy Prosecutor General Ozdoyev."

During our progress through the foyer, there were several frightened glances. The bulk and intent of our two escorts were unmistakable. No one wanted to be involved in our situation.

They had arrived in a large black official car with a uniformed driver. They gestured to us to sit together in the back, and I gave Amber a reassuring squeeze of her hand as the vehicle set off and made unerringly for Dzerzhinsky Square.

The long façade of the Lubyanka loomed to one side, looking like a friendly insurance-company building if one didn't know better. Finally, however, the car swept past its large sides and stopped in front of the big building next door, which was pale blue and white painted scrolls and would on any other day have looked rather pretty.

Our escorts opened the car door for us to get out and walked beside us into the building. Inside, Lubyanka or not, it was no jolly children's home. We marched at a sturdy pace down wide corridors and came to a halt outside an unmarked door.

One of our escorts knocked, opened the door, and stood aside.

I reached for Amber's hand with a dry mouth and galloping pulse, and we went in.

It was a comfortable, old-fashioned office, with a lot of dark polished wood and glass-fronted cupboards.

A desk. A table. Three or four chairs.

And by the window, holding back a dark curtain to look out at the snowy street, Deputy Prosecutor General Ozdoyev.

He turned and walked towards us and held out his hand. I was so relieved that I automatically gave him my right one in return and tried not to wince when he grasped it. Then, with Amber, he bent forward and gently kissed the back of her hand.

"Come," he said. "Please, sit."

He was of about my height—solid of body. About fifty, immensely well-groomed, his dark hair sprinkled with grey, smoothly brushed back. He wore understated spectacles and an elegantly cut business suit. The impression of power was instant and lasting.

He waved us to the chairs and sat down again himself.

"Now," Ozdoyev began, "my team of prosecutors have information concerning your ex-husband."

He spoke perfect English with only the ghost of an accent, and his voice was markedly urbane.

"May I see this information?" Amber asked, a slight tremble noticeable in her voice.

Ozdoyev gave Amber a placid stare from uninformative grey eyes.

"I'm afraid there has been a slight hitch," he said courteously.

"What sort of hitch?" Amber pressed.

"The man who has the files is not very well in hospital, so you won't be able to see him today."

"How convenient," I said.

His reaction to this unwise comment was an ominous stiffening of the spine and raising the chin.

"Nothing serious, I hope?" Amber says calmly, trying to save the situation.

I took off my glasses, and squinted at them, wiped the lenses with my shirt and then put them on again.

"No," Ozdoyev replies, showing no emotion at all. "I'm sure he will be fine, but I won't prevent you from turning over the hard drives that you have brought with you."

For a moment, I held my breath. Then, I looked at Amber and could see her considering his suggestion.

She declined.