by Peter Tonkin
Richard had just reached the end of this story when a long black limousine with diplomatic plates drew up. A smart driver in a military uniform jumped out and ran round to open the passenger door. And another man in uniform stepped on to the pavement, came to attention and marched up towards the church but turned aside when he saw Richard. For once in his life, Richard was absolutely astonished. The man approaching so smartly was Laurent Kebila. Under one stylishly uniformed arm, where he habitually tucked a swagger stick, he carried what looked like a roll of parchment. Richard was so surprised to see Kebila in the first place that it took him a second to register that the medal ribbons on his breast had been updated and the pips on his epaulettes, together with the gold braid on his cap, had received attention too. All of which was confirmed on the ID label he wore on his lapel just above his campaign decorations. ‘Captain Mariner,’ said the punctilious officer.
‘General Kebila,’ returned Richard. ‘This is an unexpected honour.’
Kebila half turned so that he was addressing Felix and Robin as well as Richard. ‘Captain Mariner, Mr Makarov,’ he said formally, ‘I have come at the express orders of President Chaka to represent the people of Benin La Bas at the service. And the president has asked me to pass this to you, Mr Makarov. It is the award of our nation’s highest honour to your deceased associate.’
Felix took the proffered scroll, moving like some kind of a puppet. He unrolled it, apparently without thinking, and held it up to the cameras. General Kebila announced in a loud, formal tone, ‘Mr Maximilian Asov is hereby made a Companion of the Legion of Honour of Benin La Bas.’
And under the brightness of the TV lights, Richard could see the signature above the presidential seal. CELINE, it said. Now that was a confident woman, Richard thought. Confident of victory, carefully planning ahead. What a president she was going to make!
There was a moment of silence, then someone started clapping. Then someone began to cheer, and the whole of the roadway and the canal beside it was filled with a kind of standing ovation, so that Richard didn’t even hear the engine growl as the final car arrived. And it would have been quite a growl, for the last car was a Bugatti Veyron. Its wings were black and its bonnet red. The windshield and the side windows were tinted. It prowled up to the kerb and simply crouched there, reminding Richard of his Bentley Continental, which was also full of feline grace – like a black panther. But the Veyron could go fifty miles an hour faster even than the Continental, which could top 200 mph.
Richard crossed to Felix. ‘Isn’t that Max’s?’ he asked. ‘Or are there lots of Veyrons in Bashnev/Sevmash?’
‘It’s Max’s,’ nodded Felix. ‘Or it was.’
The driver’s door opened and Ivan folded his massive frame out, stretching to his full height and testing the seams of his perfectly tailored black suit and cashmere overcoat with its Persian lambskin collar. Gone was the rough and ready soldier-boy who had helped carry Max’s corpse back to the compound with Mako’s cross. This was every inch the shark-smooth biznisman. A fitting successor to his godfather. Ivan caught Richard’s eye and came up towards him at once, raising his hand to Felix as he did so, and blowing a kiss to Robin. The coat billowed wide as he shoved a black-gloved hand into its pocket.
As Ivan came up to face him, Richard read his ID badge. Ivan Larentovitch Yagula, Head of Security, Bashnev Oil and Power. ‘Richard. I have something for you,’ said Ivan, pulling his hand out of his pocket. It was a roll of red felt. Richard looked down at it, frowning. Then he understood, even as Ivan unrolled it and gave it to him. ‘Me and my Spetsnaz guys had a talk,’ he said. ‘We agreed you’d earned it.’
It was a red beret. Richard took it, overcome. For once in his life he was speechless.
‘That’s quite a car,’ said Robin disapprovingly. ‘Max’s babe-catcher.’
‘I don’t need a babe-catcher,’ said Ivan easily with a wide grin. ‘Anyway, it’s not mine. It’s the boss’s. I just get to drive it once in a while.’
‘The boss’s,’ echoed Richard, looking up from the red beret.
Ivan nodded once and stood aside. ‘The boss’s,’ he said emphatically.
There behind him, standing tall in a black business suit that looked to be Chanel, with a sable wrap and a cloche hat boasting a half veil, stood a woman whose simple beauty took Richard’s breath away. As with General Laurent Kebila, the change was so unexpected, the transformation so absolute, that it took a moment before he registered who he was actually looking at. Then the little half smile gave it away. That and the ID badge beneath the sable and the rope upon rope of lustrous black pearls: Mme Anastasia Asova, Chief Executive Officer, Bashnev Oil and Power.