East of the Sun (29 page)

‘Yes.’

‘I think I do too.’

‘I’m sorry, Amelia.’

She shrugged. ‘Well, I guess I should be grateful. In truth, I never quite believed I would get this far. At least my suspicions haven’t been entirely unfounded.’

Nick nodded, but didn’t say anything. He got up to get a glass of water and sat down again without touching it.

‘I was surprised by Sudakov,’ Amelia continued.

‘Why?’

‘He really had no obligation to tell us anything, did he? Even though he operates in such a shadowy, criminal world, he seems to act according to a strange code of honour.’

‘Robert must have been quite the man to elicit that kind of response from a guy like Sudakov.’

‘He was.’

She didn’t know for quite how long they sat at the kitchen table, but after a while Nick started to get up.

‘Stay,’ she heard herself say.

His eyes showed surprise, but in a second the expression was gone again. She stood up too, feeling foolish.

‘Would you stay here tonight, please? It’s so late and I . . . I don’t think . . . I mean, I . . .’ She didn’t know how to complete the thought.

‘Of course I’ll stay,’ he said.

When, at last, she returned from the bathroom, Nick was sitting on the side of the bed, still fully clothed. For a second she wondered how on earth she could have asked him to stay with her. The alternative, however – being alone – was unbearable.

Quickly she got into bed, not knowing what to feel or how to behave. She lay down, closed her eyes and listened as he took off his shirt.

‘How’s your head?’ he asked as he got into bed next to her.

‘Not too bad.’

For a few breathless moments they lay side by side in silence and then, instinctively, exhaustion having stripped away any remaining discomfort they might have felt about sharing a bed, they moved close together. Neither spoke. Nick put his arm around her waist and she pressed her back into the comforting heat of his body.

She listened as his breathing slowed down. When she could feel his body relax completely and descend into sleep, she too breathed out and it felt like something she hadn’t done in a long while. The chaste intimacy between them was comforting beyond what she thought possible. For another moment she savoured it before she surrendered control and granted her tired mind and body escape for a few hours.

Quietly Amelia left the apartment, allowing herself a brief look back into the bedroom where Nick still lay asleep, his solid body sprawled across the bed. She was aware of an urge to linger, to wait for him to wake up, to share a cup of coffee, to look into his eyes after all that had happened the previous night, but much as she wanted to stay, she knew she had to go.

As she made her way through the deserted streets, she touched her head gingerly. A dull headache was a painful reminder of the attack of the night before. And also of everything she’d learnt.

The harsh truth was that Robert had been betrayed by his own people, people like Bruce Jennings, who’d used him until they no longer needed him. His support had been crucial until his discovery of one fact had made him disposable.

The previous night had finally brought about an irreversible transition from what she’d sensed and dreaded all along to what she now knew. She was certain now that Robert was dead. Her only hope was that the method had been swift and painless, but she couldn’t bring herself to dwell on the troubling thought.

With the morning had also come the cold realisation that she was increasingly vulnerable the longer she remained in Moscow. If Sibraz and Prism could have worked together with such mercenary intent; if Prism could have taken Robert so callously, she was small change, extremely expendable, as the attack on her had proven. If they felt she was close to exposing them, she would have to remain vigilant if she wanted to stay alive. Instinctively she looked around, but as always on a Saturday morning, especially on a cold winter morning, the streets were empty. Seasoned Muscovites would only start appearing at around midday.

By the time she reached Nikitsky Bulvar, a few people were out and a weak sun had shown itself from behind thin grey clouds. It was going to be one of those bone-chillingly cold days in Moscow, when everyone hurried from one heated building to the next. Nevertheless she sat down on one of the benches lining the pedestrian path that separated the two sides of the boulevard and contemplated the day ahead: end-of-year celebrations at the Canadian embassy. Could she bear it? Did she have to?

Perhaps Sudakov’s revelations had given her enough knowledge to somehow find a way to put Moscow behind her once and for all. Perhaps it was time to call it a day and return to London where the safety and familiarity of her life waited. And yet, while she was able to acknowledge how far she’d come and how very appealing the thought of leaving was, why was there still no complete sense of closure?

Still without answer and aware only of overwhelmingly conflicting emotions, the cold drove her up from the bench. Uncertain of where to go, she wandered the last few hundred metres to the end of the boulevard. To the left lay a metro station that would eventually take her back to the apartment where a suitcase would have to be packed and a flight back to normality would have to be booked. To her right lay the other choice: the maze of streets that would lead her to her old home, the Canadian ambassador’s residence, where a party was to start shortly. Which way would mean the true end of this road for her? Which was the way she ought to go?

In the corner of one of the residence’s several reception rooms stood a very large Christmas tree. It was already attracting the attention of most of the families who’d arrived with small children. Bright eyes were ogling the beautifully wrapped presents under the tree.

Amelia stepped away, across a connecting passage into another room. Here the chatter was less excited and she found a spot near the tall windows that overlooked the street and the entrance to the residence below. A glass of mulled wine in hand, she still felt restless, unsure of the wisdom of her decision to attend the party after all. In the end she’d told herself that it would at least serve as an occasion to say goodbye to everyone.

The ambassador, Jean Legault, came over and welcomed her warmly, his eyes showing concern as he introduced her to his wife, a short, motherly woman, but before either of them could voice any of those concerns, they were pulled away by the demands of other, more eager guests. Savouring the quiet moment, she glanced out the window. Downstairs she could still see people arriving.

‘Mrs Preston?’ someone spoke tentatively next to her.

She turned to face a distinguished-looking man and nodded. ‘Yes, I am Mrs Preston. Amelia.’

He appeared to be in his early sixties and was very courteous, almost apologetic. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Donald Miles. We haven’t met before, and I’ve never had the opportunity to do this, but I wanted to tell you how very sorry I was about Robert.’

Amelia was somewhat surprised to be approached by a stranger a year after Robert’s disappearance, but his condolences seemed heartfelt. Would she ever get through this day? She looked into Donald Miles’ faded blue eyes and nodded as graciously as she could.

‘Thank you, it’s very kind of you.’ On impulse she offered him her hand. He took it and pressed it in both of his for a moment before he spoke again.

‘He was a great man. So young, so accomplished. I remember that last night at the Marriott hotel,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Now it seems so unreal.’ Amelia dreaded hearing him reminisce about the last night anyone had seen Robert alive, but she could hardly stop him.

Not sensing her distress, he continued. ‘I remember it very well. I was about to leave, because I had to be home by ten for a call to our son – it was his birthday, you see – and I bumped into Patrick O’Driscoll, who was also on his way home, and for some reason we both looked back. And Robert stood there, surrounded by eager listeners, holding court with such quiet confidence, but also such unusual sensitivity and intelligence.’

‘Is he bending your ear?’ a woman who had to be Donald Miles’ wife asked as she appeared next to him and took his arm gently.

‘Not at all,’ Amelia said, grateful for the woman’s tactful interruption. The couple exchanged a fond look.

‘I’m sorry,’ Donald Miles said again, ‘it’s just, the loss must be awful.’

‘Come on dear,’ his wife interrupted, ‘I’m sure Mrs Preston doesn’t want to hear it all again.’

‘No, it was nice talking to you. Thank you for your kind words.’

As they started moving away, it suddenly struck Amelia that Donald Miles had said something strange, something that didn’t match the official account of things.

‘Actually, Mr Miles,’ she called after them. ‘I’m sorry, did you say that you and Patrick left together?’

‘Not together, no, just at the same time. I remember it clearly. I offered him a lift, but he said that his car was parked just around the corner.’

Amelia nodded, perplexed. ‘Thank you, I was just confused.’ She said goodbye another time and turned away. Could Donald Miles be wrong? Or had she perhaps misunderstood? Yet she was sure Patrick had said in the official account that he and Robert had left just after ten thirty. And when she’d asked him about the conversation they’d had on the way to Patrick’s home in Pokrovsky Hills, he hadn’t corrected her. Was he trying to shield her again? Did he think she would find more comfort in knowing Robert was with a friend before he was taken? It didn’t make sense that Patrick would continue to tell her an untruth to protect her, because after she confronted him, he certainly seemed to understand how she felt about incomplete or withheld information.

Realising what she was doing, Amelia stopped and chastised herself for obsessing. Sudakov had as much as confirmed Prism’s guilt. She needed to stop fixating on trivial details. It really didn’t matter anymore.

In an effort to distract herself, she scanned the room, but saw no one familiar. Still vaguely bothered by Donald Miles’ story, she turned back to her spot at the window and looked down at the street below again. People were coming and going. She lifted her eyes and looked further up the street. It was then that she received the second surprise of the day.

Had it been a minute later, she might have missed the meeting that was taking place there. A driver was opening the back passenger door of a sleek, black Mercedes. A smartly dressed man stepped out. Amelia frowned. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t put a name to the face. He touched his bald head for a moment and leaned in to speak to the driver quietly, urgently, a certain tension evident between them. Then, abruptly, the bald man smiled and she instantly remembered where she’d seen him before: on Bruce Jennings’ office wall, smiling broadly in numerous photographs. Carl Riverton, Prism’s head of operations. Undoubtedly a man who would have been involved in Robert’s disappearance.

A lump of distaste formed in her mouth as she watched the brief interaction between the two men. Oh, she hoped he would be joining the party. She could think of quite a few things she would like to say to him. Watching Carl Riverton made her feel queasy, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him and his companion.

And then came the shock of another recognition.

When both men turned their faces towards the building’s entrance, Amelia realised that the second man was also known to her. There was no mistake. He was no ordinary driver, but a man she recognised from a different place altogether.

26

‘I
found the diary! It took a bit of digging, but I found it for you. Amelia?’

‘Yes?’ She swung around. Ratna was staring at her expectantly. She’d been so intent on the scene outside that she hadn’t realised Ratna had spoken to her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, what did you say?’

‘I said that I found the diary,’ Ratna repeated.

Still preoccupied by what she’d seen outside, Amelia was lost for a second.

‘Diary?’

‘Yes,’ Ratna said, a little more impatiently. ‘Remember? Robert’s appointment book? You asked about it.’

‘Oh, of course! That’s great, really good to hear. Thank you.’