East of the Sun (2 page)

They reached the National Hotel in only an hour, a small miracle given the nightmarish reality of Moscow traffic. At the reception desk a number of guests were waiting to check in and Amelia took a moment to look out across the street onto Manezh Square. Just beyond the square lay the Kremlin’s red walls. Unexpectedly there was a lump in her throat. Robert had shared her excitement when they’d first glimpsed those imposing walls. They’d walked as far as they could along the perimeter, gazing up at the towers built onto the thick walls, thrilled about the new adventure and many challenges that lay ahead. They had been so ready to take it on, so sure of their own abilities to make a success of it.

With sudden panic, she felt tears burning behind her eyes. She knew immediately, with the certainty of one who’d cried too many tears in the recent past, that they were barely under control. Desperately she fished in her coat’s pockets for a tissue. While she tried to stop the dreaded tears from spilling over, she kept her head down and pretended to search for something in her bag.

When she looked up after several minutes, the queue had disappeared. Acutely aware of her red eyes, she had no choice but to step forward to check in and commit to her plan.

It took only a few moments. The desk clerk was discreet enough to pretend not to notice Amelia’s blotchy skin. She took her passport, made a copy and checked the booking on the computer in front of her. When she looked up, there was something different in her expression.

‘Mrs Preston. Welcome back to Moscow. We’ve been expecting you.’ She smiled faintly and looked up from her computer screen. ‘We’ve been asked to ensure that your stay is . . . without problem.’

Stunned, Amelia stared at the desk clerk.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked before she could stop the words.

‘If you need anything, please let us know,’ the clerk said, not quite answering Amelia’s question.

The hotel had been alerted of her arrival. How could that be? No one in Moscow knew she was returning. Absolutely no one. She’d made a point of not contacting anyone.

Speechlessly she reached for the key the clerk had placed on the counter. She could read nothing in the young woman’s eyes. Had she been careless? But when? And where? Had it been in London – had she inadvertently said something to someone? Maybe when she’d stepped off the plane? Or was this due to the situation at Passport Control?

It didn’t seem possible.

She knew she’d been scrupulous about divulging nothing. But it was clear that someone already knew she was here and no veteran visitor to Russia could fail to hear the ominous overtones in those words of welcome.

2

‘Z
des?
’ the taxi driver asked, a little impatiently.

She caught his eyes on her, the cool appraisal in them unmistakable. Had she been staring into space without realising that they’d reached the place she’d asked for? This wasn’t good. Already Moscow was getting to her. She really needed to get a grip.

‘Here good?’ he asked again, switching to heavily accented English, perhaps taking her silence for a lack of understanding.

‘
Da, spasiba.
’ She nodded her thanks and handed him the agreed upon money. With another nod she got out and watched as he drove off with a spinning of wheels.

In front of her lay the Old Arbat, popular with both locals and tourists. A quick glance told her that it was already late enough in the day for the pedestrian traffic to have thickened along the cobbled street and she decided not to join the masses. It had never been a street she’d liked, mainly due to the over-supply of tacky souvenirs and garish signboards that detracted from the beauty of the old buildings on both sides of the closed-off pedestrian street.

Despite the cold, many people were out. Although she was no stranger to cold, perpetually damp English winters, her body was no longer used to the penetrating freeze of the Russian winter and she huddled deeper into her thick coat. Instead of turning onto Old Arbat, she took the street that lay perpendicular to it – Denezhniy Pereulok – because she knew it provided a quieter route to the embassy. But there was another reason for wanting to follow this route. This was the last known place Robert had been, the last connection she had with him.

On her right loomed one of Stalin’s seven sisters, one of a series of skyscrapers built in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s that still towered over Moscow like gloomy guards of the past. The building housed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and consequently the area around it was littered with embassies and consulates. Her destination, the Canadian embassy, lay four blocks to the east of it on Starokonyushenny Pereulok.

A few hundred metres down Denezhniy Pereulok she paused to look down the length of it, knowing full well the futility of searching for a link to the past in this way, but still unable to stop herself. What she saw was nothing more than evidence of a normal day in Moscow. People were simply going about their business, hurrying along, competing for space on the busy sidewalks. Resisting the familiar tug of melancholy, she turned left onto Sivtsev Vrazhek, an even quieter side street that ran parallel to Old Arbat, and carefully started making her way down the sidewalk to avoid the many spots of frozen black ice.

Despite turbulent economic times, the pace of change had still not slowed down in Moscow. Restored buildings, new restaurants and shops could be seen everywhere. As her feet led her down the street, a strong sense of solitude took hold of Amelia. The ache in her chest reminded her that this was the last place where she and Robert had been together. Here, despite the pressures of life in the diplomatic service, they had discovered a fresh sense of adventure and also a reawakened passion for one another. This city that was so exciting and so intimidating had provided her with the most wonderful of times, but also the worst nightmare imaginable. On some level it felt wrong to be here without Robert. The thought of his absence was almost too much to bear and she quickened her pace to focus on reaching the Canadian embassy where she might find the first of so many answers she needed.

‘Meessis Preston?’ Surprised at the greeting, she looked up into the smiling face of a middle-aged man. She hadn’t really given thought to being recognised.

‘Yuri?’ She smiled back, happy to see the only friendly security guard she’d ever encountered in Russia.

‘Yes, it is me,’ he said in hesitant English.

‘It is good to see you, Yuri.’

He smiled for a moment longer, but then his face grew sombre. ‘And—’ He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe he had to ask her such an unreasonable question. ‘How are you, meessis Preston?’

The concern in his faded blue eyes was so touching that she almost reached out, both to thank him for his kindness and to reassure him, but refrained, knowing that the gesture would be a little too familiar and would only make him feel uncomfortable.

Instead, she nodded. ‘I’m all right, Yuri. I’m here to . . .’ Vaguely she waved in the direction of the building behind him.

‘Of course, yes, yes. Plees, plees, come in.’ He held the heavy door for her. Gingerly she stepped across the threshold into the embassy’s reception area.

‘To sign here, plees,’ he said and held the visitor’s log out to her. Quickly she entered the necessary information and with promises that she would see him again, went up to the first floor.

Like so many buildings in Moscow, the simple façade belied the beauty that lay within. She inhaled the familiar smells contained by the thick old walls and gently stroked the wooden banister of the staircase leading up to the offices. The atmosphere inside the building seemed unchanged. A quiet industriousness hung in the air, but underneath it she could feel the tremors of an embassy’s typically hectic schedule. Slowly she ventured down the familiar corridor.

She knew the new ambassador would most likely be busy, but there were a few other people she wanted to see first anyway. She’d come without appointment, preferring to have an element of surprise on her side, but for the most part she was confident they’d all be able and willing to see her.

Her first stop was at the end of the corridor on the first floor. She paused a few steps from the open door and glanced at the sign on it:
Senior Trade Commissioner
. She took a deep breath and stepped through the open door. Patrick O’Driscoll was bent over paperwork, a frown etched onto his forehead. He was entirely absorbed in the document in front of him and didn’t notice her hovering in the doorway. She tapped lightly on the open door. He looked up and for a second his face became motionless as he took in her unexpected presence. Then it broke into a smile.

‘Amelia? What a surprise!’ He was around his desk before she could speak and without hesitation he enveloped her in a hug. His spontaneous action immediately brought back the raw emotions that had tormented her on the walk to the embassy, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were moist.

‘I didn’t know you were coming to Moscow!’ he said, his hand still firmly on her arm.

‘I didn’t know I was coming either. It was kind of a last minute decision.’

He seemed to consider her words for a second and then motioned her to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

‘Are you here for long?’

‘To be honest, I don’t really know yet. Probably a week or so.’ Instinctively she kept her answer vague, not sure why she was doing so. For some reason she felt loath to reveal more.

Although he was third-generation Irish-Canadian, Patrick could still claim Irish genes as the source of his good looks: black hair and blue eyes and a smile that stopped you in your tracks with its attractiveness and occasional merriment. Those blue eyes became reflective now and Amelia could see he was weighing his words carefully before he spoke again.

‘Not that I’m not happy to see you, but why are you here? I’d hoped to see you again, of course, but here? In Moscow?’

Amelia let her gaze slide from his and stared out the window at the cold grey Moscow sky outside. How to answer? Honesty, in limited measure, was probably best, she decided, and met his gaze again.

‘It seems crazy, I know, but I had to leave in such a hurry last year. There are some things I need to do and to be honest, I have some more questions. You know, about . . . what happened.’ She shrugged and felt foolish as she waited for his reaction.

Patrick raised his eyebrows for a second and sighed lightly. ‘Is it wise?’

His words were gentle, but he spoke to her like a father would to a child, a patient tone obscuring frustration with a stubborn child. In his position as Trade Commissioner at the embassy, Patrick had worked closely with Robert. He’d also worked on the thing she was most interested in – the Prism-Sibraz deal.

Amelia had known him for several years. He was a friend and she suddenly found that she wanted him to understand.

‘Why do you want to reopen old wounds, Amelia?’ he continued before she could say anything.

‘They’re hardly “old”,’ she said, more sharply than she intended. ‘I mean, it’s not really as if the wounds have ever really closed.’ She continued in a milder tone, ‘I’m not trying to be dramatic, Patrick, but I feel . . . compelled – I suppose that would be the best word – compelled to try and understand more of what happened.’

He was silent again for a moment. ‘Why?’ ‘Why?’ She was surprised at the question, but tried to answer.

‘Because I understood so little at the time and no more now, a year after it all happened.’ She could feel a flush on her face and knew she would have to handle this better if she was to get any information out of anybody. However justified it may be, she could hardly afford to be over-emotional.

‘Okay,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘I understand. At least I think I do. I’m just worried about you.’

‘I know and it’s lovely that you care, but please don’t worry.’

‘Would you like some coffee?’ he changed the subject and gestured to a tray on a cabinet against the side wall. ‘It’s fresh.’

‘That would be nice, thank you.’ She nodded and watched as he started to get up.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘just for the record: I’m not sure you coming back here is wise, or the best thing for you, and I’m equally unsure about your chances of finding out anything else, but if I can help in any way, you know that I’ll do everything in my power.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, ‘I appreciate that. I’m sure I’ll need help along the way. In fact, I’d like to ask you to tell me again what you remember.’

Before he could reply, the telephone on his desk rang suddenly. He reached for it. ‘Sorry, may I?’

‘Please, go ahead.’ She watched as he sat down again to speak into the telephone with his familiar charm. While she waited for him to finish the call, she walked over to the cabinet and poured two coffees.

‘How are Cathy and the children?’ she asked when he’d hung up, not wanting to continue the conversation about her return to Russia immediately.

He smiled. ‘They’re well. Still not enjoying that special brand of Russian rudeness we all know, or the crazy traffic and the freezing winters, but the girls especially seem to be more comfortable now. Cathy would love to see you, so keep an evening open and we’ll have dinner, all right?’

‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘And how are you doing? How do you feel about the remainder of your time here?’

He shrugged, distractedly stirring his coffee. ‘Oh, you know this life. Sometimes it’s exciting and some days I don’t know why on earth we do what we do here.’

‘Mr O’Driscoll?’ An assistant peeked around the door. ‘Mr Brady is here to see you.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m expecting him, thank you. I’ll be there in a minute.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, Amelia, but I have to see this guy.’

‘Of course, don’t worry, I just popped in to say hello. I’ll see you again later in the week.’

He came around the desk and took her elbow as he led her to the door.

‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

She found herself hesitating. ‘The National.’

She smiled up at him as she said goodbye and wondered at herself as she walked down the corridor. Why did she hesitate before telling him where she was staying? You’re getting paranoid, Amelia, she told herself as she took the stairs up to the Ambassador’s office.