December. James Steel

irresistible once his anger against Harrington had died down and he was also galvanised by the huge sum of money that he stood to earn. This could be the restoration of the Devereux family’s fortunes that he had always dreamed of. Plans of how he could repair Akerly had already begun to circle in his mind.

      He wasn’t sure what to expect at the party. A Fixed Great Feast of the Russian Orthodox Church didn’t sound like a bundle of laughs.

      He was nearing the address now and thought he could hear a faint sound against the backdrop of the silent city. He walked cautiously on and detected a muffled beat coming through the night; there was also a faint glow from round the corner up ahead.

      As he rounded it he saw a huge house lit up with strings of white fairy lights twisted around the bare branches of a pair of old beech trees, spreading a canopy of twirling lights over the driveway. A large mobile generator unit hummed under one of them. The place was lit up like a cruise liner gliding through a dark sea. Arc lights on the walls poured out a wasteful excess of light—almost obscene in the midst of all the darkness.

      On the road outside stretched a line of cars with chauffeurs: huge, long-bonneted Rolls-Royces, Range Rovers and pumped-up 4x4s. A line of chattering guests filed up to the double gates of the drive; they looked like Eurotrash: twentysomethings in expensively ripped jeans and blazers, and middle-aged businessmen in casual suits with trophy wives all wrapped up in expensive furs.

      Alex walked up and stood awkwardly in line. He had been preparing to talk small-scale military operations rather than small talk. The house gates were open but blocked by two huge security men in black bomber jackets and a very attractive tall, slim girl from somewhere he couldn’t place in central Asia—Mongolia? She wore high-heeled black boots and a long sable coat with a cowl-like hood. Standing in front of the two doormen, she was welcoming guests and checking them off on a clipboard.

      She flashed a dazzling, friendly smile as Alex stepped forward, and said cheerfully: ‘Dobry vecher!’

      Alex quickly replied: ‘Dobry deetche.’

      ‘Kak vasha familia?’ she continued, holding the pen poised over her clipboard.

      ‘Maya familia Grekov.’

      ‘Ah, Alexander!’ She seemed to be expecting him and smiled as if she had found a long-lost friend, then ticked his name off.

      She continued in Russian:‘Welcome to Sergey Shaposhnikov’s house. My name is Bayarmaa.’ She held out a delicate gloved hand. ‘Please, follow me.’ She handed the clipboard to one of the bouncers and led the way up the drive with a swirl of her long coat.

       Shaposhnikov.

      So that was who it was, thought Alex as he followed her. Sergey Shaposhnikov—he knew the name but couldn’t think in what context he had come across it.

      He followed Bayarmaa up the large front steps flanked by white columns and in through the open double doors. Heaters blew a curtain of warmth over them. There seemed to be no shortage of power here and the excess of heat felt luxurious after so many days of shivering.

      The heat was just as well, thought Alex, as he was confronted by the sight of a scantily clad pole-dancer writhing on a platform as they walked into the hall ahead of the huge room that took up most of the raised ground floor of the house.

      The Entry of the Ever-Virgin Mary, he thought wryly to himself as they walked past. Clearly Shaposhnikov didn’t take his orthodoxy that seriously.

      They handed their coats to a smartly dressed woman by the door and then a waitress with a tray of vodka shot glasses walked up to them. Bayarmaa handed Alex one with a smile that brooked no refusal. He nodded his thanks, threw the drink back and followed her through, savouring the burst of warmth in his stomach.

      Beyond the pole-dancer, the high-ceilinged room was noisy and packed with a couple of hundred guests. A bar stretched all the way down one side with ten uniformed barmen running around frantically trying to supply the crowd of people.

      A band at the far end of the room were enthusiastically belting out a Russian cover of a Stones song. After a few bars Alex worked it out as ‘Brown Sugar’.

      They looked an odd group, dressed in nylon imitation Russian peasant garb and fronted by a plump fifty-year-old woman with peroxide-blonde hair and heavy framed glasses in a long pink medieval robe and traditional Russian headdress. Behind her stood a tall, lugubrious-looking, bearded man in a green smock, tasselled cord belt, baggy Cossack pants and boots. He was playing bass on an enormous balalaika. The guests were too busy drinking and talking to listen to the band, though. No one was dancing yet.

      Alex followed Bayarmaa’s silky black hair as they pushed their way through the crowd to the bar.

      A loud squawk of alarm came from the lead singer on the stage and the music crashed to a halt mid-song. Looking out over the press of heads Alex could see that a drunken businessman had clambered on stage and grabbed the microphone from her. Everyone turned to the stage and a chorus of angry shouts and boos broke out. The man with the microphone began shouting back at them in Russian: ‘Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!’

      He was middle-aged, a bit above average height and well built, with a mop of straw-blond hair that shone in the stage lights and hung down over his eyes. He was wearing a crumpled suit and tie and had a large diamond stud that glittered in one ear. He stood at the front of the stage swaying and pointing at the crowd.

      ‘You want to party, eh? I’ll show you how to party! I am the Party Commissar!’ He said this in English to get the double meaning and burst into a high-pitched giggle at his own joke. ‘Yes, you’re all miserable Russian fuckers! Your heads are full of dark forests with wolves running around in them and the Party Commissar has detected these anti-revolutionary sentiments, which have led to erroneous political judgements. You’re not dancing!’

      The crowd seemed to know that the man was just a good-natured buffoon and began laughing at his parody of Soviet political rhetoric.

      ‘So as a good agent of the workers’ state I will take all steps necessary to ensure the re-education of the proletariat. Unless you become party-Stakhanovites, I will have you all shot! I want over-fulfilment of your party quotas!’

      The crowd had caught on and cheered loudly now.

      Bayarmaa nudged Alex and said, her eyes sparkling with adoration, ‘That’s Sergey.’

      Alex frowned. He was not at all what Alex had expected.

      Sergey lurched round to look at the lead singer, who had recovered her composure.

      ‘Lyuda, come on, enough of this Western shit. Let’s have some proper dancing!’

      The band hastily rearranged themselves and the lead balalaika player stepped forward.

      Sergey spotted some friends in the audience. ‘Grigory! Katya! Vera! Come on!’ He jumped down into the crowd, who made a ring, whilst the four formed themselves into a quadrille and, when the music started, began a fast Russian dance. Sergey grinned and clapped along as the men waited for the women to complete their delicate shimmying moves—hands on hips and heads thrown back with narrowed eyes and pouting mouths.

      However, when it came to Sergey’s turn for a solo, his expression became deadly serious as he threw himself into the jumps and kicks—now squatting down, now springing up and whirling round.

      The crowd roared in appreciation at his bravado and even more when his partner, Grigory, fell over. The dance ended with a storm of applause and much back-slapping.

      Sergey blundered away through the crowd, saw Bayarmaa next to the bar and headed towards them.

      ‘Hey, my little Artic fox!’

      He embraced her with a huge bear hug, swinging her off her feet and around. She squealed with delight before kissing him on the lips when he dumped her back down again.

      She collected herself and remembered Alex, standing next to her.

      ‘Sergey,