Page 11

“Who is this Monk?” he asked Turkin.
“He’s an American diplomat. He seems disillusioned with U.S. foreign policy in Africa. I am trying to develop him as a source.”
Kuliev nodded heavily. That was good work, the sort of thing that went well on the report to Yazenevo.
At the Thorn Tree Café Monk handed over his package. Turkin looked apprehensive in case anyone from his own side had seen them. The package could contain money.
“What is it?” he asked.
Monk told him.
“It might not work, but it can do no harm. It’s all we have.”
The Russian went stiff, his eyes cold.
“And what do you want for this … gift?” It was obvious there would be a payback.
“You were on the level about your kid? Or just acting?”
“No acting. Not this time. Always we act, people like you and me. But not this time.”
In fact Monk had already checked with the Nairobi General Hospital. Dr. Winston Moi had confirmed the basic facts. Tough, but this is a tough world, he thought. He rose from the table. According to the rules he should twist this man into passing something over, something secret. But he knew the story of the small son was not a con, not this time. If he had to behave that way he might as well be a street sweeper in the Bronx.
“Take it, pal. Hope it works. No charge.”
He walked away. Halfway to the door a voice called him.
“Mr. Monk, you understand Russian?”
Monk nodded. “A bit.”
“I thought you would. Then you will understand the word spassibo.”
¯
SHE came out of Rosy O’Grady’s just after two and approached the driver’s side of her car. The Rover has central locking. As she unlocked the driver’s door, the passenger door also unlocked. She was in her seat belt, engine started and ready to go, when the passenger door opened. She looked up, startled. He was standing there, stooping to the open door. Threadbare old army coat, four soiled medals clinging to the lapel, stubbled chin. When he opened his mouth three steel teeth glinted at the front. He tossed a file into her lap. She easily understood enough Russian to repeat later what he said.
“Please, give to Mister Ambassador. For the beer.”
The sight of him frightened her. He was clearly mad, perhaps schizophrenic. People like that can be dangerous. White-faced, Celia Stone pulled out into the street, the open door flailing until it was closed by the car’s momentum. She tossed the ridiculous petition, or whatever it was, onto the floor of the front passenger area and drove back to the embassy.
CHAPTER 3
IT WAS JUST BEFORE NOON ON THE SAME DAY, JULY 16, that Igor Komarov, sitting in his office on the first floor of the dacha off Kiselny Boulevard, contacted his chief personal assistant by intercom.
“The document I lent you yesterday, you have had a chance to read it?” he asked.
“I have indeed, Mr. President. Quite brilliant, if I may say so,” Akopov replied. All of Komarov’s staff referred to him as Mr. President, meaning president of the executive committee of the Union of Patriotic Forces. They were in any case convinced that within twelve months he would still be Mr. President but for a different reason.
“Thank you,” said Komarov. “Then please return it to me.”
The intercom went dead. Akopov rose and went to his wall safe. He knew the combination by heart and spun the central dial the required six times. When the door swung open he looked inside for the black-bound file. It was not there.
Puzzled, he emptied the safe, paper by paper and file by file. A cold fear, part panic and part disbelief, gripped him. Taking a hold on himself, he began again. The files on the carpet around his knees were sorted out and examined, sheet by sheet and one by one. No black file. A light sweat beaded his forehead. He had worked contentedly in the office all morning, convinced that before leaving the previous evening he had put every confidential document safely away. He always did; he was a creature of habit.
After the safe, he began on the drawers of his desk. Nothing. He searched the floor under the desk, then every cupboard and closet. Just before one he knocked on Igor Komarov’s door, was admitted, and confessed he could not find it.
The man who most of the world presumed would be the next president of Russia was a highly complex personality who, behind his public persona, preferred to keep much of himself intensely private. He could not have been a greater contrast to his predecessor, the ousted Zhirinovsky, whom he now openly referred to as a buffoon.