Angels in the Snow. Derek Lambert

was short and fat and damp.

      ‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ Randall said. ‘Hold on to your money.’

      ‘You speak with some authority, friend. Do you do a lot of business in Moscow?’

      ‘Quite a bit,’ Randall said.

      ‘Then perhaps you can help me.’

      The KGB man eased himself along the bar.

      Randall said: ‘I will if I can. What part of the States are you from? And what brings you here at this time of the year?’

      ‘I’m from Chicago,’ said the fat man. ‘We came in the fall, Flora and me, because it was cheaper. We’d promised ourselves a really big vacation for years. We always reckoned on going to England, but some of those Limeys are so Goddam stuck-up. Then we saw this movie, Doctor Zhivago, and Flora said to me, “Why not Russia? Why don’t we go to Russia?” At first I thought it was a crazy idea. Then I thought, why not? After all we hear so much crap about the Iron Curtain. And, boy, would I have something to talk about back at the club. I mean it’s not everyone who goes to Russia, is it?’

      ‘No,’ Randall said. ‘It isn’t. How can I help you?’

      His companion looked around furtively and the KGB man edged down the bar another foot. ‘I can see you’re a broad-minded man,’ he said.

      ‘Yes.’

      The fat man sniggered. ‘Broad-minded about broads, I mean.’

      ‘You could say that,’ Randall said.

      ‘Then what’s the best way to go about laying a Russian doll?’

      ‘The usual way, I suppose.’

      ‘But where do I find ’em? And what’s the best approach?’

      ‘This place is as good as any,’ Randall said. ‘You’ve just picked a bad night.’

      ‘I came in last night and the joint was empty.’

      ‘It must have been an even worse night.’ Randall finished his whisky; it was 2 a.m. ‘What about Flora?’ he asked. ‘Does she have any firm views on the subject?’

      ‘Jesus, don’t talk about her,’ the fat man said as if she were on the point of returning to the bar. ‘She’s a great little wife. It’s just that I had a bet with a few of the boys back home that I would lay a Russian broad. I guess I don’t want to lose my dough.’ He shuddered. ‘But don’t talk about Flora in the same breath. It ain’t respectful.’

      ‘Can’t you just kid them along that you won the bet?’

      The fat man looked reproachfully at Randall. ‘That wouldn’t be honourable,’ he said. And added slyly: ‘Have you had any experience with these Russki broads?’

      ‘No,’ Randall said. ‘It’s not advisable when you’re in business.’

      ‘No, I guess not.’ He pondered, then brightened. ‘But it must be okay for a tourist. And to tell you the truth I fancy them.’ He pointed at the girls hugging the unresisting Swedes. ‘Look at those asses. I’d sure like to get my hands round those.’

      Randall said: ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

      ‘Will you? Will you really?’

      ‘I’ll get one sent round to your room.’

      ‘Jesus, don’t do that,’ said the fat man. Then grinned shakily. ‘Don’t make jokes like that,’ he said. ‘I got a weak heart.’

      ‘Okay,’ Randall said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll fix it. Just one word of advice.’

      ‘I’m always willing to listen to advice.’

      Make sure you don’t catch Russian pox. It’s worse than any other kind.’

      Randall stood up and the envelope fell out of his pocket. The KGB man picked it up and handed it to him.

      ‘Spaseeba,’ said Randall, feeling his stomach contract.

      The KGB man smiled pleasantly. ‘Pazhahlsta,’ he said.

      ‘Hey,’ said the tourist as Randall headed for the door. ‘What do you mean? How would I know if I caught it?’

      Randall turned. ‘It has the same effect as frostbite,’ he said.

      In the foyer downstairs Swedes argued with the cloakroom attendant. On the pavement outside Swedes argued with cab drivers and the girls they had picked up.

      As Randall climbed into his Chevrolet a girl came over to him and said: ‘You a Swede?’

      ‘No,’ Randall said. ‘American.’

      ‘Okay,’ said the girl, ‘let’s go. I like Americans. Swedes … Poof.’

      ‘Sorry,’ Randall said. ‘Not tonight.’

      ‘I like you. Let’s go.’

      All he needed, he thought, was a currency spiv buying dollars and the evening would be complete.

      ‘Go back to your Swede. They’re nice guys really.’

      Stiff blonde hairs stuck out from under her fur hat and she smelled of whisky. Silent men stood watching in the snow.

      ‘You have twenty dollars?’

      ‘No,’ Randall said.

      ‘Fifteen?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘You give me ten dollars. Okay let’s go.’

      ‘Goodnight,’ Randall said. He let the clutch out gently so that she didn’t lose her footing. He sensed the disappointment of the watchful men. Police, ponces, blackmailers. Whoever they were they would have liked to see Randall take the girl away. As he drove away she walked unsteadily back to the gesticulating Swedes.

      The night looked soft and blurred but the air was sharp. Randall breathed deeply and felt it catch in his lungs. It felt clean, as if it had travelled far over frozen seas and white resinous forests.

      Back in the apartment he decoded the letter. It was a message reminding him that, as a CIA agent in Moscow, he should not confine himself to seeking the secrets of the Kremlin. The United States was also interested in the intentions of other powers in their dealings with the Soviet Union; in particular those of France who was openly flirting with Russia and, of course, Britain whose policies, if not necessarily perfidious, were usually devious and often incomprehensible. The message pointed out that foreign diplomats, sharing the common bondage of life in Moscow, might talk more freely and indiscreetly than they would in friendlier capitals.

      The message reached the point in the last paragraph. It was Randall’s task to investigate and assess British policy and intentions.

      He burned the message over the toilet. It was, he thought, all so juvenile. A few officials, their bureaucratic inclinations given licence by the demands of secrecy, revelling in the dispatch of every mundane coded instruction. He considered his new orders and decided that there was little to them. If at any time he had been presented with an indiscretion by a British diplomat he would automatically have sent it to Washington.

      On the table stood two glasses, one with a lipstick imprint on the rim. He wiped it clean, undressed and went to the bed where three hours earlier he had made unimpassioned love to a lonely woman. He hoped that by now she was asleep in her room across the frozen city.

CHAPTER SIX

      Randall regarded his CIA duties as a titillation to the diplomatic routine. He did not treat them as seriously as the official spies among the Service attachés at the embassy; he regarded these attachés as entertainers and observed their efforts with the same quiet enjoyment that he imagined they afforded Soviet