Despite the Falling Snow (36 page)

The sound of talking attracts her attention. There are two men in the lobby now, and she looks up as she savours the warmth of the cup in her hands. An old man is making his way past the doorman. He has been stopped because he is not well-dressed; or rather, his clothes look old and unwashed. But he is inside now, and making his way to the desk clerk. With a jolt, Melissa recognises Misha. Putting down her cup, she goes out to the lobby, where she watches from a discreet distance. Misha is carrying a small, battered brown suitcase. He puts this down on the counter before the disconcerted concierge, and the two men have a voluble discussion. The concierge appears reluctant to take the case, and makes Misha open it. He does so, finally, and she can make out nothing more than a small pile of clothes and an envelope. The case is examined and snapped shut again. She hears Lauren’s surname being mentioned, and the concierge scribbles a note. Before he has even finished writing, Misha is turning and walking back out through the lobby.

He has a slight limp from his hip that makes him walk slowly, and Melissa watches him, computing, deciding. It takes only a second for her to hurry across the room and cut him off before he reaches the front entrance. He stares at her, then rolls his eyes as though he cannot believe his bad luck and tries to sidestep her. She is asking him to wait, saying that she must speak with him, and the doorman steps in to halt the old man. Misha stops with a frustrated gesture, and looks furiously at Melissa, then barks something at her. She looks at the doorman.

“He wants to know what you want with him?” the doorman obliges.

“I just want to talk to him. Will you ask him if he will have a cup of coffee with me?”

The request is forwarded, and Misha shakes his head vigorously.

“He says he must go. He is tired and old. You must please leave him alone.”

“I can’t. Tell him I will follow him until he agrees to speak with me.”

Misha lets out a stream of bad-tempered invective that the doorman does not care to translate, and he takes a further step away from them, but Melissa has already slipped a fifty dollar bill into the doorman’s hand. With a quick, belligerent movement, he blocks off the door and all but pushes Misha back inside. Melissa reaches for Misha’s arm. It is thin and frail under his grimy, grey jacket.

“Please,” she says. “Just a few minutes.”

Misha pulls his arm away, and sizes up the fit, young doorman.

“How much did she give you, bastard?” he asks him. The doorman smiles and moves his large frame more squarely in front of the door.

With an irritated sigh, he turns suddenly and walks towards the restaurant, and Melissa follows, stopping to ask the concierge if he will translate for them. The man seems reluctant, but comes out from behind his desk.

“Oh, and bring that suitcase with you,” Melissa says, pointing to the brown case that waits on the counter.

“It is for Miss Grinkov,” says the concierge, by way of asserting himself.

Melissa picks up the hotel phone and dials their room.

“I need you down in the restaurant. Quickly,” she says, and she hangs up, anxious to ensure that Misha does not get away. But he is sitting sullenly at the first table, just inside the restaurant doors. She sits down beside him, with the concierge across from them. The suitcase has been left behind, she notes, but there will be time to deal with that later.

“Would you like coffee?” Melissa asks.

Misha glances at his watch, as though hoping he might be able to request a real drink. He waves a hand impatiently, and shakes his head.

“What do you want?” the concierge asks Melissa on his behalf.

“I want to know why you came here. What did you leave for Lauren?”

“It’s there. Go and see if you want to.”

“Why didn’t you ask to see Lauren?”

Misha’s anger seems to seep away slightly, and his eyes hold a suggestion of sorrow, even fear.

“I just wanted to leave the case for her. That’s all. I am a dying man, I have one last thing to do, and now I have done it. Okay?”

His aggression has no effect whatsoever on Melissa’s composure.

“Why didn’t you ask to see Lauren?” she says again.

Misha looks at her, irritated, but his voice when he replies is lower this time.

“I don’t want to see her face again.”

“Because she looks like Katya?”

Misha does not bother to reply. The concierge repeats the question, and he looks away.

“Why does that upset you so much? Why do you feel so badly when you remember Katya?”

Still, Misha looks away, at the floor, but now the fierceness of his gaze is replaced with something deeper – again that mixture of sadness and fear, Melissa feels. Behind the old man, Lauren has come into the restaurant. She has washed up, and the hair around her face is damp, but her eyes still hold a haze of sleepiness. She looks at Misha in surprise.

“Mr Ardonov?”

Misha jumps in his chair. Lauren’s hand goes to his back, soothing, reassuring, but her touch and her anxious gaze only seem to upset him more.

“Look at her,” Melissa says. She nods at the concierge, who is watching in confusion, and has forgotten to translate.

Misha disregards the request. “Tell him again,” instructs Melissa. “Look at her. Look!”

He looks up. Lauren’s face is just above his, her hand still on his shoulder, and he looks into her eyes, takes in her nose and mouth and chin. His hand comes up and clutches at her arm. The pain and horror in his own face appals the women as they watch.

“What is it?” Lauren asks, quietly. “What is it?”

Melissa is looking from Lauren to Misha, gauging. They are near a breakthrough of some kind, that much she can sense, but how not to let it slip away?

“You know something about her death, don’t you?”

The concierge looks shocked, but she repeats the question and instructs him to translate it. Misha hears it and at last his eyes pull away from Lauren. His eyes are watery; though whether these are tears, or the familiar rheumy moistness of age and alcohol, Melissa cannot tell.

“You know something.”

“Melissa…?”

“Trust me on this one,” Melissa says brusquely, and her eyes never leave Misha. “She’s Alexander’s niece. Your best friend’s niece. Don’t you owe him and Katya that much?” She pauses. In the quiet of the vast room, they can hear only the clinking of plates being laid out.

“You’re dying,” Melissa says softly and he looks at her, a wounded glance, as if she has taken too low a shot at him. But she remains unfazed. “You’re dying,” she repeats, her voice clear. “If you clear your conscience, what do you have to lose?”

Misha clears his throat, and lets go of Lauren’s arm. He mutters something to the concierge.

“He says he will have some coffee now.”

Melissa nods, and orders it from the waitress who is setting up tables at the other end of the room. Misha is speaking again.

“And he says that you should sit down.” The concierge indicates a chair for Lauren. “Because what he has to tell you may take a while, and now he is ready to talk.”

K
ATYA HAS BEEN LIVING ON HER NERVES
for the past two days, and she is feeling light-headed and a little fearful, now that Alexander has left, and his own anxiety is not there to balance her optimism. The café, at least, is warm and smoky and crowded, and the steam that collects on the windows to her right somehow gives her a feeling of reassurance, and safety, as though the vapour is wrapping her up and enclosing her.

He will have arrived in Washington. In her mind, she has followed him through each possible hour of his day. Right now, he should be at the opening banquet. It will be ending, or may already have ended, and this is when he will have made his move. A flicker of worry passes over her face, then she nods to herself. He will have already crossed over by now. He is safe and well, and waiting, that is all she must believe and remember. And so now it is up to her. Across the table, Misha watches her, clear-eyed, as though reading her thoughts, and he smiles, a grin of encouragement, when she glances back at him.

She pours him more tea, and he helps himself to another spoonful of jam. Then he takes another, with a wink at her, and she laughs and pushes the saucer nearer to him. He leans forward again.

“So. Do you miss him?”

“Yes.”

“Already?” Misha laughs.

“I know, but I can’t help it.”

The smile leaves his eyes and they look at each other, serious now. He is thinking about what she has told him, just now, here in this café, full of after-work drinkers. He had not seen any of it coming. That Sasha, of all people, has defected. Or is about to. That she is planning to join him, and needs help. And that this has been decided because someone has been caught, and does he know who it is? It has taken him some minutes to recover himself after the surprise of all this information, and to get his thoughts in order. He does not know quite what to do. He will have to take instructions, he will be forced to. She wants to leave now, needs to in fact, but he has explained to her that it is difficult to arrange things that quickly. And she has nodded, absently, almost without hearing him. She has that look of removal in her eyes now, as she watches him drink his tea. It is as though she has already gone, escaped. He can tell that there can be no pulling her back now – she is too far gone to be brought back by any means. There is a lightness to her, an excitement, that he has never seen previously, and that makes her look more beautiful than he has ever noticed before. He puts his glass down, gently, onto the tiny saucer, and reaches for her hand. It is an affectionate gesture, a touch between friends, and she will think nothing of it. He looks at the fingers lying in his palm, and he caresses them slightly with his thumb. If he holds on any longer, she will begin to be uneasy about his touch, will feel at first simply that it is not quite appropriate, and then she will begin to understand the depth of repressed emotion that lies behind it. And then she will pull away, embarrassed, confused, perhaps even repulsed by him. He lets go abruptly, and takes up his glass again, draining the dark amber liquid. He looks at her again, and now his gaze is cooler and more distant, which is good. For a moment, he is proud of himself. He has always been able to find the way to let go when he has needed to.

“I need to get things organised,” he says. “Give me a couple of hours.”

This alarms her. “No. The moment they know he’s gone, they’ll come and get me.”

“One hour, then. Meet me back here in an hour. You must prepare. You don’t know how long and hard this journey is going to be.”

From beneath the table, she slides out a small brown suitcase. “I am prepared. Here. This is everything I’m taking. I’ll wait here. I feel better waiting here. If I go home, anything could happen.”

He watches her for a few moments, considering possibilities, thinking through the best strategy.

“You’re right. Wait here then. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

She stands up with him, and kisses him on the cheek.

“You should do what I’m doing, Misha You should come with me.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“But you must be in danger too…”

“I know how to handle myself, don’t worry.”

She nods, sighs at his bravado. “An hour then?” she says.

He nods, and she waves as he leaves. She tries to look after him as he walks away, watching him through the window, but two men have left just after him and are blocking him off from view. Anyway, the steam has risen so high on the glass that she cannot see properly. After a moment, she rubs at the window with a finger, and leans down to peer through it, but he is long gone now, and besides, it is snowing again. The flakes are banging up against the window like demented moths, and even though she is inside she turns up her collar and shivers.

He is back in an hour, just as he promised. She stands up at once, in the smoky dankness of the café, and he offers her a drink, which she refuses, and so he holds open the door for her. Walking out onto the street, he takes her suitcase from her. Her eyes are flickering, nervous as she walks alongside him, watching him for a sign of where they are going.

“A safe house,” he mutters. “It will do for now.”

“And then?”

“Then, I’ll get you travel papers, and you can start off.”

She nods. She has a hundred other questions. Whose house is it? Which route will she take? When can she hope to make it out? But there will be time later for these questions to be asked. It is probable that Misha still needs time to find the answers anyway.

Their pace is brisk, fast even, and it is hard work for her to match his speed at first, especially through the damped down, slushy grey snow on the edges of the street. She aims her feet towards the centre of the pavements, where the snow is worn away entirely. He gives her a sideways glance of encouragement, then veers off down a side road. She hurries to follow him.

“What do you have in here?” he asks, hefting the suitcase from one hand to another.