The Avenue of the Dead (49 page)

Twice Walden asked her to take a note of something, and she managed to scribble on the back of her diary. She wondered whether the Arab noticed that she was hardly equipped for secretarial duty that morning. It was a new and alien world to her, and she saw for the first time what had made Tony Walden the boss of the biggest advertising agency in Europe. He was deferential without being servile; he put forward his opinions tactfully and clearly, and withdrew them gracefully if they weren't well received. Above all he listened. No fast-talking sales promotion; the prince talked about his country and its needs and told Walden what he wanted.

And then, without preamble, the conversation veered into a discussion of the prince's racing interests. Walden knew the names of his horses and the races they had won. She was sure he knew when they had failed to win too, but this was never mentioned.

He himself changed the subject to ask about the progress of the prince's new palace outside the capital. A wonderful building, he enthused, with every conceivable modern amenity, and the beauty of a desert setting – how much he had enjoyed seeing the royal falcons being trained! Casually, he asked by name after the prince's two favourite birds. Not once did he include Davina, or acknowledge her existence, apart from the two brief instructions to take notes.

At last the prince stood up; he shook hands and Walden gave a slight bow. Davina was granted another impersonal nod. They left the house and walked down the steps into the sunny forecourt.

Walden didn't open the car door for her. He got into the driver's seat, and said, ‘I'm sorry about the bad manners. I'd lose face if I let you in first.'

‘I don't mind.' Davina was looking at the house. She saw a curtain on the ground floor move as if someone had let it drop back. ‘I think there was someone watching.'

‘Oh, there would be,' he replied, starting the engine. ‘There are bodyguards all over the place. The ones who let us in and brought us tea were armed to the teeth under those robes. The prince wasn't alone with us either; there's always a guard close by wherever he is.'

‘I didn't see anybody.'

‘You didn't look behind that handsome Chinese screen, did you? You'd have found two men with loaded pistols. He doesn't like to go round with an escort like some of the other rulers' sons. He likes to seem Western, but he's about as Western as you're an Arab lady of the harem.'

‘You couldn't have made a better comparison,' she said shortly. ‘Anyway you've made the deal.'

‘My dear.' She saw his annoying grin appear again. ‘I said to throw your Western European notions out of the window. We haven't agreed to anything except to go on talking. He knows it is a massive account. He isn't going to hurry because he doesn't like doing anything until the moment Allah wills. And Allah usually wills when he is in the mood. That mood may last for a few minutes, rarely longer than an hour or so. Arabs get quickly bored; if you let that happen they are beautifully polite, and you never hear from them again. I want this account, and I can give the prince what he wants. But I have to judge the right moment to ask for a signature on a contract and, above all, I can't have anything else to do at the time. Except be there and be prepared to wait.'

‘How much will it mean to the agency?' Davina asked.

‘About two and a half million, spread over a period of a year and three months. Do you realize it's nearly half past twelve? I could do with a drink.'

‘You can drop me,' Davina said. ‘I can take a taxi back to Arlington Place.'

‘Why?' He pulled up at a red light with unnecessary abruptness and she jerked in her seat. ‘What pressing work is waiting for you, that you can't even join me for half an hour? I spend the whole morning treading on a lot of bloody eggshells and you expect me to go and drink by myself?'

Davina protested. ‘Wait a minute, I'm not expecting you to do anything. You're expecting
me
to keep you company.'

‘And you don't want to. You've had enough, you're bored. You want to go and gossip with Frieda Armstrong?'

‘I'm meeting someone for lunch,' she said at last, unwilling to explain herself to him.

‘I see. Your hard-faced major friend?'

‘My hard-faced major friend. He doesn't like me being late.'

‘Doesn't he trust you?'

She didn't answer; she had arranged to meet Colin at one o'clock at a pub close to Arlington Place. ‘I'm going to the Connaught and buy you a glass of champagne. He can wait five minutes for you.'

‘I don't like champagne,' Davina said gently. ‘Thanks all the same.'

‘Then you can watch me drink mine,' Tony Walden answered and put the car into top gear. Ten minutes later he steered her by the arm into the Connaught Bar to a table by the window.

‘You're the only man I've ever met who manages to get me into a corner, one way or another,' Davina said suddenly. ‘I didn't want to come; I'm going to be late, but goddamn it, here I am!'

‘It's my charm,' he said, and beckoned the waiter.

‘It's your persistence,' she countered.

‘Two glasses of champagne,' he ordered and added, ‘The first time I met you, you said it was your favourite drink. In your flat with Humphrey and your major. So I didn't take any notice of that nonsense in the car. Have an olive, they're very good.'

‘I can't pretend I don't like those,' Davina admitted. ‘You know, Mr Walden, you look tired. I'm beginning to think you're human after all.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' he said. ‘That's why I needed this, and you to share it with me. You do make me struggle for very little, don't you?'

He did look tired: there were rings under his eyes that hadn't been there when she got into the car.

‘There's often a feeling of deflation when something's gone well,' he said. ‘The day I come away with that contract in my pocket I shall fall into the depths of depression. I always do when the battle is won. Have you ever felt that?'

‘No,' Davina answered. ‘When I've succeeded I'm quite the opposite. I get euphoric, excited. Failure is what depresses me.'

‘And had you failed when I saw you this morning?' He asked the question quietly.

She looked at him and said, ‘I don't know. But I think you'll be getting a call from Humphrey Grant.'

The look was quick and shrewd, and he put his glass down without drinking. ‘What to say?'

‘That you don't have to go on fronting for me,' Davina answered. ‘I wasn't going to mention it, but I think I should. You've been very good and it's been a tremendous help. I'd like to thank you, for myself.'

‘I see. So whatever Humphrey Grant wanted hasn't come off, is that it? So I am not needed any more. I can give you the sack tomorrow morning.'

‘This afternoon, if you like,' she said.

‘You wouldn't like to go on working for me, I suppose?'

‘I'm not working for you,' she said. ‘There was never any job.'

‘There could be,' he countered. ‘Unless you hate the agency. Or me. I have annoyed you quite a lot, haven't I?'

She faced him and said suddenly, ‘Yes, you have. You've muddled me, and I don't like that. But the truth is, I've rather enjoyed it too.'

‘Then I shall tell my friend Humphrey to take a running jump,' Walden said. He didn't actually give her time to reply because he looked at his watch and said theatrically, ‘My God! It's long after one! You'd better go or your major will be coming after me with a gun. The doorman will get you a taxi. I've seen someone come in I want to talk to – Ah, Jack! How are you, my dear boy? Looking great –'

She heard his voice full of warmth and good humour, and thought, Christ, he has to act the whole time – it must be the most awful strain. Colin will be furious if he knows I was here with him. And in the taxi, she shrugged as if she were arguing with Lomax. Why should he mind? There was no harm. Walden was lonely and drained and needed somebody to talk to. Of course she'd leave the agency. There was no reason they should ever meet again once she had gone.

It was Thursday morning. The sky above Moscow was grey and a thin rain fell, making the streets greasy. The eight golden cupolas of St Basil's Cathedral gleamed under the coating of rain. The bells chimed as always on the hour. In the big room on the first floor of the modern block built inside the Kremlin walls, the Politburo were in session. There were nine men seated round the heavy table; between them they were responsible for every aspect of life in the Soviet Union. Transport, Communications, Finance, External Affairs, the Army, Navy and Air Force combined, the Foreign Ministry, Internal Security and the huge network of Russian Intelligence throughout the world. The Chairman and General Secretary of the Party sat at the centre of the oval table. Zerkhov was built like a peasant: heavy-shouldered, clumsy in movement, with a large head and deep-set eyes that had no expression in them. On his right sat his protégé, the all-powerful Igor Borisov, young by Politburo standards, disliked and resented by many of the old men sitting round the table. On the left of Zerkhov two places down, the Foreign Minister, Yuri Rudzenko, sketched a face on the pad in front of him. He was a thin, tall man with a drooping moustache and dark hair that was only flecked with grey in spite of his sixty-eight years. Albanian blood was evident in the dark skin and the thin features; his eyes were hooded under heavy lids, but they were black and fierce. He was an admirer of Stalin and dedicated to the ideology of prewar Communism. He regarded detente with the West as a betrayal; his views on dissidents and Jews and the human-rights activists reminded Zerkhov of the worst days of Stalinist terror, when as a young, ambitious man, he had entered the dangerous area of Soviet political life.

Business had been concluded for the morning. Zerkhov sat on for a time, listening and saying little, while his colleagues relaxed. There was a burst of laughter at one moment, from the iron old Soviet General Gagarin, who loved a dirty story. Rudzenko looked at him and scowled. Nobody would have laughed had he been General Secretary. Zerkhov nudged Igor Borisov with his elbow. ‘Gagarin has heard the one about the engine driver from Kharkov,' he remarked, and his heavy face split in a brief smile. ‘Have dinner with me tonight, Igor. Come at nine o'clock.' He pushed his chair back to end the meeting and the company broke up.

Rudzenko swept up his memoranda and stalked out, followed by two of his supporters. Both were men of rigid ideas, dedicated to oppression in the cause of a pure ideology. Rudzenko was their leader, now that the guardian of Marxist principles, Anatoly Braminsky, had died. There was no secret about their alliance or their opinions. But one thing even Rudzenko dared not do was arouse the suspicions of his General Secretary. He did not plot; he fought openly for his policies and his beliefs.

Zerkhov had accepted an invitation to visit West Germany. Rudzenko and his allies had opposed it. It would appear, they argued, that Russia was courting favour with the Germans because of the reaction to military rule in Poland. Borisov had made a clear and devastating rebuttal of all Rudzenko's points, taking them one by one. He reminded the Minister that his insistence on direct Russian intervention had been proved wrong. Poland was solving her difficulties in the way that Russia wanted, but without a single Red Army soldier being involved. The rest of the world could accuse and condemn, but they had no proof and their cries were hollow. Poland would be left to her fate. Order would be maintained and Soviet interests protected without the extreme measures the Minister favoured. The wisdom of Comrade Zerkhov's policy had been proved again and an essential part of that policy was to divide West Germany from the Western alliance as deeply as possible. The visit to the West German Chancellor was part of that plan, and nobody would mistake anything the President did for weakness. Rudzenko and his colleagues were overruled, and the members of the Politburo endorsed Zerkhov's decision. The invitation to a private dinner was Borisov's reward. In the privacy of his apartments in the Kremlin, the President would express his thanks and things could be said that nobody else must hear.

Borisov went home to his family early that evening. He told his wife he had an important meeting; she showed on her face what she thought that meeting to be, and he said, in a burst of irritation and guilt, that he was going to dinner with Zerkhov.

She was excited, and tried to talk to him about it, but he brushed her aside saying he must bathe and change and had no time. Did she want him to be late? She was a fool, he couldn't discuss anything with her. He had Natalia to confide in; she understood his world. He got into his Zim and the driver took him back to the Kremlin.

Unlike his predecessor, Zerkhov did not use the old palace building for his private apartment; he had the top floor of the modern offices. He had been born on a farm in the Ukraine and had grown up in conditions of sparse food and grinding labour. Now, seventy-two years later, he lived with a private collection of Impressionists among magnificent modern furniture, and his wife swathed her plump old body in very expensive Paris dresses. They had no children; they lived the private part of their lives in the superb penthouse overlooking the great city, and indulged in the perquisites of his enormous power. Borisov knew that he was not only privileged, but wholly trusted, to be allowed into that sanctum.

The food was simple. Madame Zerkhova presided over the table, helped by an impassive member of the Presidential Guard in mess orderly's uniform. Watching him serve them, Borisov was reminded of the old Preobrazhensky Guard, the troops who guarded the Tsar since the days of Peter the Great. Times changed, he thought, but Russia remained the same. He was a scholar of Russian history; unlike the arch-Puritan Rudzenko, Borisov saw much that was glorious in his country's pre-Lenin past. They drank vodka with the cold hors d'œuvres and the borsch. Zerkhov drank heartily, pushing the bottle towards his guest, anticipating the guardsman as he moved to help them. Unlike Stalin, who toasted his rivals in plain water while they succumbed to 90 per cent pure alcohol, the present ruler of Russia enjoyed drinking and eating. He liked the fresh Crimean wines which went with a homely mutton stew, heavily spiced. The talk was general; his genial wife had little to say but trivialities; she had a motherly smile and showed her fondness for her husband, quoting little anecdotes of their early life. There was a close bond between them, Borisov decided. They had shared the hard years and the dangers that followed when Zerkhov was ambitious and climbing towards power. She might indulge herself in Paris-made dresses in private, but nothing the cleverest dressmaker could do disguised the strong mother image of the Russian peasant woman. He thought of his own wife, and envied Zerkhov his marriage.