She was filled with a joy, an ecstasy almost, played as she had never played in her life before with a new, vibrant energy as if something which had been locked up in her for years was now released. The orchestra responded as if trying to match her so that at the end, in the dramatic finale to Rach-maninov’s superb concerto, they fused into a whole that created an experience to be forgotten by few people who were there that night.
The cry from the audience was different from anything she had experienced in her life before. She stood facing them, the orchestra standing behind her, all clapping and someone threw a flower on the stage, and more followed as women unpinned their corsages.
She went off to the side and Natasha, waiting, tears streaming down her cheeks, flung her arms around her. ‘Babushka, you were wonderful. The best I ever heard.’
Tanya hugged her fiercely. ‘I know. My night, Natasha, the one night I can take on the whole world if need be and come out ahead of the game,’ and she turned and went back on stage to an audience that refused to stop applauding.
Francois Mitterand, President of the Republic of France, took both her hands and kissed them warmly. ‘Mademoiselle, I salute you. An extraordinary performance.’
‘You are more than kind,Monsieur le President,’ she answered in his own language.
The crowd pressed close as champagne was offered and cameras flashed as the President toasted her and then introduced her to the Minister of Culture and others. She was aware of Shepilov and Turkin by the door, Nikolai Belov talking to them, handsome in velvet evening jacket and ruffled shirt. He raised his glass in a toast and moved towards her. She glanced at her watch. It was just after ten. If she was to go, it must be soon.
Belov reached for her right hand and kissed it. ‘Tremendous stuff. You should get angry more often.’
‘A point of view.’ She took another glass of champagne from a waiter. ‘Everyone who is anyone in the diplomatic corps seems to be here. You must be pleased. Quite a triumph.’
‘Yes, but then, we Russians have always had a soul for music lacking in certain other peoples.’
She glanced around. ‘Where’s Natasha?’
‘Over there with the Press. Shall I get her?’
‘Not necessary. I need to go to the dressing room for a moment, but I can manage perfectly well on my own.’
‘Of course.’ He nodded to Turkin who came across. ‘See Comrade Voroninova to her dressing room, Turkin. Wait for her and escort her back.’ He smiled at Tanya. ‘We don’t want you to get hurt in the crush.’
The crowd opened for her, people smiling, raising their glasses, and Turkin followed her along the narrow corridor until they came to the dressing room.
She opened the door. ‘I presume I’m permitted to go to the toilet?’
He smiled mockingly. ‘If you insist, Comrade.’
He took out a cigarette and was lighting it as she closed the door. She didn’t lock it, simply kicked off her shoes, pulled off the jacket and unzipped that lovely dress, allowing it to fall to the floor. She had the jumpsuit out of her case in
a moment, was into it within seconds, zipping it up and pulling on the suede boots. She picked up the trenchcoat and handbag, moved into the toilet, closed the door and locked it.
She had checked the window earlier. It was large enough to get out of and opened into a small yard on the ground floor of the Conservatoire. She climbed up on the seat and wriggled through. It was raining hard now. She pulled on her trenchcoat, picked up her shoulderbag and ran to the gate. It was bolted on the inside and opened easily. A moment later, she was hurrying along the Rue de Madrid looking for a taxi.
DEVLIN WAS WATCHING a late night movie on television when the phone rang. The line was surprisingly clear, so much so that at first he thought it must be local.
‘Professor Devlin?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Tanya – Tanya Voroninova.’
‘Where are you?’ Devlin demanded.