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“Sweet heaven, what have they come to?” Irvine said to no one in particular, and turned into the side street.
Grishin’s car radio crackled as one of the walkers used his walkie-talkie.
“They’ve turned off. They’re going into a restaurant.”
The Silver Age is another completely traditional old-Russian restaurant, situated in a recessed alley around the back of the theaters. It was formerly the Central Russian Bathhouse, its walls covered in tiles and mosaics depicting rustic scenes of long ago. Coming from the bitter cold of the street, the two visitors felt the rush of warm air wash over them.
The restaurant was crowded, almost every table taken. The headwaiter scurried forward.
“I’m afraid we are fully booked, gentlemen,” he said in Russian. “A large private party. I am so sorry.”
“I see there is one table left,” replied Vincent in the same language. “Look, over there.”
There was indeed a single table for four standing empty against the back wall. The waiter looked worried. He realized the two tourists were foreigners, and that would mean payment in dollars.
“I shall have to ask the host of the dinner,” he said, and bustled away. He addressed a handsome olive-skinned man who sat surrounded by companions at the largest table in the room. The man gazed thoughtfully at the two foreigners near the door, and nodded.
The headwaiter came back.
“It is permitted. Please follow me.”
Sir Nigel Irvine and Vincent took their seats side by side on the banquette along the wall. Irvine looked across and nodded his thanks to the patron of the private party. The man nodded back.
They ordered duck with cloudberry sauce and allowed the waiter to propose a Crimean red wine that turned out to be reminiscent of bull’s blood.
Outside, Grishin’s four foot soldiers had sealed the alley at both ends. The colonel’s Mercedes drew up at the entrance to the narrow street. He got out and had a quick conference with his men. Then he returned to his car and used his phone.
“How is it going?” he asked.
From the corridor on the second floor of the National be heard a voice say, “Still working on the lock.”
Of the four men who had been posted inside the hotel, two had remained. One was now at the end of the corridor, close to the elevators. His job was to see if anyone got out at the second floor and turned toward Room 252. If someone did, he would overtake the person, whistling a tune, to warn the thief to leave the door and move on.
His colleague was with the thief, who was bent over the lock of 252 doing what he did best.
“Tell me when you’re in,” said Grishin.
Ten minutes later the lock gave a low click and yielded. Grishin was informed.
“Every paper, every document, photograph and replace,” he said.
Inside Sir Nigel Irvine’s room the search was fast and thorough. The thief spent ten minutes in the bathroom, then emerged and shook his head. The drawers of the chest revealed only the to-be-expected array of ties, shirts, undershorts, handkerchiefs. The drawers of the bedside table were empty. The same applied to the small suitcase stacked on top of the wardrobe, and the pockets of the two suits within it.
The thief went onto his knees and gave a low, satisfied “Aaaaah.”
The attaché case was under the bed, pushed right to the center where it was well out of sight. The thief retrieved it with a coat hanger. The numbered locks needed his attention for three minutes.
When the lid came up, he was disappointed. There was a plastic envelope of traveler’s checks, which normally he would have taken but for his orders. A wallet with several credit cards and a bar bill from White’s Club in London. A silver hip flask whose liquid gave an odor with which he was not familiar.
The pockets inside the lid yielded the return half of an airline ticket from Moscow back to London and a street map of Moscow. He scoured the latter to see if any sites were marked, but could find none.
With a small camera he photographed them all. The Black Guard with him reported their finds to Colonel Grishin.
“There should be a letter,” came the metallic voice from the street five hundred yards away.
The thief, thus forewarned, reexamined the attaché case and found the false bottom. It contained a long cream envelope, and inside it a single sheet of matching paper with the embossed heading of the Patriarchate of Moscow and All the Russias. This was photographed three times, just to make sure.
“Pack up and leave,” said Grishin.