‘Right,’ Harry Cussane told him. ‘You lay the table and I’ll scramble the eggs.’
‘You’re a good friend, Harry,’ Devlin said.
Cussane paused in the door. ‘And why not, Liam. It’s been a long time,’ and he smiled and went into the kitchen.
Tanya had a hot bath, hoping it would relax her. There was a knock at the door and Natasha Rubenova entered. ‘Coffee?’
‘Thank you.’ Tanya lay back in the warm, foamy water and sipped the coffee gratefully.
Natasha pulled a small stool forward and sat down. ‘You must be very careful, my love. You understand me?’
‘Strange,’ Tanya said. ‘No one has ever told me to be careful before.’
It occurred to her then that she had always been sheltered from the cold, ever since the nightmare of Drumore that surfaced only in her dreams. Maslovsky and his wife had been good parents. She had wanted for nothing.-In a Marxist society that had been envisaged in the great days of Lenin and the revolution as giving power to the people, power had quickly become the prerogative of the few.
Soviet Russia had become an elitist society in which who you were was more important than what you were and she, to all intents and purposes, was Ivan Maslovsky’s daughter. The best housing, the superior schools, her talent carefully nurtured. When she drove through Moscow to their country house, it was in a chauffeured limousine, travelling in the traffic-free lane kept open for the use of the important people in the hierarchy. The delicacies that graced their table, the clothes she wore, all bought on a special card at GUM.
All this she had ignored, just as she had ignored the realities
in
of the state trials of the Gulag. Just as she had turned from the even harsher reality of Drumore, her father dead on the street and Maslovsky in charge.
Natasha said, ‘You are all right?’
‘Of course. Pass me a towel,’ Tanya wrapped it around herself. ‘Did you notice the lighter that Turkin used when he lit my cigarette?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘It was by Cartier. Solid gold. What was it Orwell said in that book of his? All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others?’
‘Please, darling,’ Natasha Rubenova was obviously agitated. ‘You mustn’t say things like that.’
‘You’re right.’ Tanya smiled. ‘I’m angry, that’s all. Now I think I would like to sleep. I must be fresh for tonight’s concert.’ They went into the other room and she got into the bed, the towel around her. They’re still out there?’
‘Yes.’
Til sleep now.’
Natasha closed the curtains and went out. Tanya lay there in the darkness thinking about things. The events of the past few hours had been a shock in themselves, but strangely enough, the most significant thing had been the way in which she had been treated. Tanya Voroninova, internationally acclaimed artist, who had received the Medal of Culture from Brezhnev himself, had felt the full weight of the State’s hand. The truth was that for most of her life she had been somebody, thanks to Maslovsky. Now it had been made plain that, when the chips were down, she was just another cypher.
It was enough. She switched on the bedside lamp, reached for her handbag and took out the packet which Devlin had given her. The British passport was excellent; issued, according to the date, three years before. There was an American visa. She had entered that country twice, also Germany, Italy, Spain and France one week previously. A nice touch. Her name was Joanna Frank, born in London, professional journalist. The photo, as Devlin had said, was an excellent likeness. There were even one or two personal letters with
nz
her London address in Chelsea, an American Express credit card and a British driver’s licence. They’d thought of everything.
The alternative routes were clearly outlined. There was the direct plane flight from Paris to London, but that wasn’t on. Surprising how cool and calculating she was now. She would have only the slimmest of chances of getting away, if an opportunity presented itself at all, and she would be missed almost at once. They would have the airports covered instantly.