Elena had rushed out of the kitchen the moment she heard Mr. Moretti had collapsed. She’d immediately instructed the headwaiter to phone for an ambulance, while she knelt by his side and checked his pulse. It was weak, but he was still alive. Gino asked for the nearest phone.
“They’ll be here any minute,” Elena said, holding his hand tightly. She wasn’t sure if he could hear her, but then his eyes opened and he attempted a smile.
It felt like hours before she heard the welcome sound of an approaching ambulance, although in fact it was only seven minutes.
A moment later two young paramedics were kneeling by Moretti’s side. While one checked his pulse, the other placed an oxygen mask over his face. They then lifted the gray-faced old gentleman onto a stretcher, and carried him out of the restaurant as concerned customers stood aside to allow them through.
“Phone his wife, Gino,” said Elena as she accompanied them out onto the street, still holding Mr. Moretti’s hand. He was lifted into the ambulance and strapped in. A few seconds later they were speeding toward the hospital.
Elena tried to remain calm, while praying to a god of whose existence she was no longer certain. The paramedic in the back of the ambulance went through a routine he had carried out countless times; first, wrapping a pad around the patient’s right arm and attaching a lead to a small screen that traced a line showing little mountains and valleys bobbing up and down. Suddenly, without warning, the mountains and valleys became a flat uninterrupted desert. The paramedic immediately switched into emergency mode, thumping the patient’s chest every few seconds, pausing occasionally to check the monitor. After several minutes, when there was still no response, he finally gave up.
“We’ve lost him,” he said quietly, and slumped back, aware that any further attempt at resuscitation would serve no purpose.
“No!” cried Elena, not wanting to accept his words. Something else he’d experienced many times.
“Was he your father?” he asked sympathetically, as he placed a sheet over Mr. Moretti’s face.
“No. But no father could have done more for his daughter.”
* * *
“Did you see Charlie in Dream?” asked Ben, as they sat at the bar.
“All eight performances,” admitted Sasha. “Even the matinees.”
“That bad?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“There’s not much I can do while Oberon is continuing his amorous performance offstage as well as on. I seem to be cast in the role of Bottom.”
“I think you’ll find he’s already moved on to his next part.”
“But I saw them—” Sasha stopped in midsentence.
“That was before the critics hailed Rory as a future star, while Charlie barely got a mention.”
“But I thought she was wonderful,” said Sasha. “Every bit as good as him. Better in fact.”
“Pity the critics didn’t agree with you,” said Ben. “But then, they weren’t to know she was in love with someone else.”
“There’s someone else?”
“No, idiot. Honestly, I sometimes wonder how such a clever man can be so dumb. Every time I see Charlie, she only talks about you. So go and cheer her up. Start by telling her how wonderful you thought she was as Titania.”
“I don’t think she’d welcome that from me.”
“Sasha, for God’s sake, wake up, get off your backside and do something about it.”
It was another twenty-four hours before Sasha got off his backside and did something about it.
* * *
Sasha found he couldn’t concentrate during his morning supervision. He didn’t eat lunch, and skipped his afternoon lecture, before finally taking Ben’s advice and setting off in the direction of Newnham.
This time, when he arrived at the college, he didn’t creep around the back and climb up the fire escape, but walked through the front gate. He registered his name with the porter before making his way slowly up the stairs to the second floor. Several times he nearly turned back, and might have done so, if he hadn’t heard Ben’s voice in his ear repeating “Pathetic idiot.” He hesitated once again when he reached Charlie’s door, then took a deep breath and knocked.
He was about to give up, when the door opened. For a few moments the two of them just stared at each other.
“Et tu, Brute,” Charlie eventually managed.
“Wrong play,” said Sasha. “I came to tell you there is nothing so fair in all Verona.”
“But you climbed onto someone else’s balcony before mine.”
“You saw me?” said Sasha, turning scarlet.
“Both times. And it didn’t improve my love life when I jumped out of bed and ran to the window only to find you’d already disappeared.”
Sasha burst out laughing.
“Rory left almost as quickly as you did. But come in,” she said, taking his hand, “because that was only a dress rehearsal.”
* * *
When Sasha returned to his college a couple of hours later, no one could have failed to notice the satisfied grin on his face, except perhaps for the porter.
“Telephone message for you, Mr. Karpenko,” he said, handing him a slip of paper.
Sasha unfolded it, and once he’d read the single sentence, he asked when she had phoned.
“Just over an hour ago, sir. I tried your room but you weren’t there, and no one seemed to know where you were, as you’d missed your afternoon lecture.”
“No, I was … If anyone asks, please tell them I’ve had to go to London at short notice, and I don’t expect to be back for at least a couple of days.”
“Of course, sir.”
Within an hour, Sasha was stepping onto the platform at King’s Cross. When he arrived back at the little flat above the restaurant in Fulham, he found his mother more distressed than he’d seen her since his father’s death. She had taken the evening off, something he’d never known her to do before.
* * *
The large turnout for the funeral held at St. Mary’s, Fulham, the following week, bore testimony to just how popular Mr. Moretti was, far beyond the boundaries of the local community. Sasha’s moving eulogy led Mr. Quilter to remark, “As they say in Yorkshire, lad, you did him proud.”
After the ceremony was over and the coffin had been lowered into the ground, Sasha accompanied his mother back to the restaurant, where family, friends, and customers came to pay their respects. Many of them swapped stories of personal kindnesses they’d experienced, none more touching than Elena’s.
When the last guest had departed, Elena accompanied the grieving widow home.
“You must go back to work, Elena,” said Mrs. Moretti when the light began to fade. “Salvatore would have expected nothing less.”
Elena reluctantly rose from her chair and gave the old lady one last hug before putting her coat back on. She was just about to leave when Mrs. Moretti said, “Would you be kind enough to drop by sometime tomorrow, my dear? I think we ought to discuss what I have planned for the restaurant.”
* * *
Sasha didn’t return to Cambridge the following day, but headed in the opposite direction, arriving at Oxford well in time to join his teammates at Merton, who had all double-checked the date, time, and place.
But the Oxford team had licked their wounds, and were lying in wait for them. By the time Sasha had worked out what they were up to, it was too late, and Cambridge lost the match 4½ to 3½. Sasha explained to Dr. Streator on the journey back to the Fens how Jenkins had beaten them even before they made their opening moves.
“He did what?” said Streator.
“Mr. Jenkins broke with the convention of playing their best player against our best player. He put their weakest player up against me, clearly willing to sacrifice that game. So their strongest player played our second board, and they were at an advantage for the other seven games.”
“The Welsh bastard,” said Streator.
/> “Don’t worry, sir. They won’t get away with those tactics next year, because I’ll make sure it’s us who are lying in wait.”
“Good. And, Sasha, I intend to make you captain next year, so it will be your last chance for revenge. But I suspect that won’t be your biggest challenge, if you’re still planning to stand for president of the Union, and get a first.”
“I do sometimes wonder if I can do both,” said Sasha. “Charlie never says anything, but I know she’d prefer me to give up the Union and concentrate on my work.”
“I hear she’s given up the theater for the same reason,” said Streator. Sasha made no comment. “If you do stand for the presidency, who do you think will be your biggest rival?”
“Fiona Hunter, the current vice president.”
“If she’s her father’s daughter, she’ll be a formidable opponent.”
“You know Sir Max Hunter?”
“Knew would be more accurate. Max and I were contemporaries at Keble. I never liked him. He was always looking for a shortcut. A bent man, bent on politics.”
“He made it to the Cabinet.”
“Not for long,” said Streator. “He’d trampled on too many people on the way up, so when he finally fell from grace, none of them were there to support him on the way down. I can only repeat, if Fiona is her father’s daughter, keep your eyes wide open, because she’ll make Gareth Jenkins look like a gentleman.”
“I can’t believe she’s quite that bad,” said Sasha.
* * *
“Milk and sugar, my dear?”
“Thank you,” said Elena. “Just milk.”
“I wanted to see you because I had an unexpected call from my accountant last week,” said Mrs. Moretti. “He’s received an offer for the restaurant that he considers fair. More than fair, if I remember his exact words.”
Elena put down her cup and listened carefully.
“So I agreed to have a meeting with the prospective buyer, who assured me he was a great admirer of yours. He assured me that he’d want to keep you on in your present position, and had no objection to your continuing to live in the upstairs flat.”
Elena couldn’t hide her relief. She hadn’t admitted even to Sasha that she was anxious about what would happen to the restaurant now that Mr. Moretti was no longer around to look after his extended family.
“May I ask the name of the new owner?” Elena asked, hoping it might be a customer she knew, or perhaps someone she had worked with in the past.
Mrs. Moretti put her glasses back on, picked up the recently signed agreement, and checked the name on the bottom line. “A Mr. Maurice Tremlett,” she said, dropping another sugar lump into her tea. “He seemed such a nice young man.”
Elena’s tea went cold.
* * *
Maurice Tremlett marched into the kitchen and shouted above the bustle and noise, “Which one of you is Elena Karpenko?”
Elena put down her carving knife and came out from behind the long steel counter. Tremlett stared at her for some time before saying, “I want you off the premises immediately, and I mean immediately. And you have twenty-four hours to clear all your possessions out of my flat.”
“That’s not fair,” said Betty, taking off her rubber gloves and stepping forward to stand by her friend.
“Is that right?” said Tremlett. “Then you’re sacked as well. And if anyone else wants to join them, be my guest.” Although one or two of the other kitchen staff shuffled around nervously, no one spoke. “Good, then that’s settled. But be warned, should any of you speak to either of these two again,” he said, pointing at Elena and Betty as if they were criminals, “you can also start looking for another job.” He turned and left without another word.
Elena took off her whites, left the kitchen, and made her way upstairs to the flat without speaking to anyone. The first thing she did once she’d closed the front door was to look up the number of the porter’s lodge at Trinity. For only a second time, she was going to break her golden rule of never disturbing Sasha during term time. However, she decided this was, without question, an emergency. She picked up the phone, and was about to dial the number when she heard a long buzzing sound. The phone had already been cut off.
* * *
A firm rap on the door caused Dr. Streator to pause in midsentence.
“Either the college is on fire,” he said, “or once again I’ve got the wrong day for the match against Oxford.”
The three undergraduates dutifully laughed as their supervisor rose from his place by the fire, walked slowly across the room, and opened the door, to find a stern-looking man and a uniformed police officer standing in the corridor.
“I apologize for disturbing you, Professor Streator,” (he was flattered by the promotion) said the young man in a gray suit and a college tie that the Senior Tutor thought he recognized. “I’m Detective Sergeant Warwick,” he said, holding up his identity card. “Is a Mr. Sasha Karpenko with you?”
“Yes, he is. But may I ask why you want to see him?”
Warwick ignored the question, and stepped past the don and into his study, followed by the constable. He didn’t need to ask which of the three students was Karpenko, because Sasha immediately stood up.
“I need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Karpenko,” said Warwick. “Given the circumstances, it might be more convenient if you were to accompany me to the station.”
“What are the circumstances?” demanded Streator.
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir,” replied Warwick, as the constable took Sasha firmly by the arm and led him out of the room.
Streator left his puzzled students and followed Sasha and the two policemen out of his study, down the staircase, across the courtyard, and onto the street. Several undergraduates looked on curiously as Sasha climbed into the back of a waiting police car and was whisked away.
BOOK THREE
17
ALEX
Brooklyn
Alex was left alone in a small dark room below a naked lightbulb that barely illuminated the table where he was seated. Two empty chairs that stood on the other side of the table were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. A large mirror covered the wall in front of him, and he wondered how many people were standing on the other side observing him.
His brain began to work overtime. Why had he been arrested? What were they charging him with? What law had he broken? Alex couldn’t believe the police were interested in the small pickings he made playing chess on the weekends, and although he now owned four stalls, and was making a reasonable profit, it surely wouldn’t have been enough to interest even the lowliest tax inspector. And there was no way they could know about the hundred dollars a week Ivan was paying him, because it was always in cash. It couldn’t be anything to do with the university, because they had their own security, and in any case, the dean had recently suggested that he should apply for a place at Harvard Business School. Although he was flattered by the idea, Alex rather hoped he’d end up as a case study, not a student.
His thoughts were interrupted when the door suddenly opened and two well-dressed men entered. He recognized them both immediately, but said nothing. They sat down opposite him. He had never forgotten their first meeting, and wondered which of them would be playing the good cop. At least it couldn’t be worse than the Soviet Union, where they only had a bad cop, bad cop routine. He waited for one of them to speak.
“My name is Matt Hammond,” the older man said, “and this is my colleague, Ross Travis. You might recall that we met at your home some time ago.”
“When you claimed to work for Border Patrol,” said Alex, more calmly than he felt.
“We’re with the CIA,” said Hammond, producing his badge, “and hoped you’d be able to help us with an assignment we’re currently working on.”
Assignment, not investigation, thought Alex. Wasn’t I need to see my lawyer always the first sentence uttered by criminals when faced with this situation in the movies? But he wasn’t a crim
inal, so he remained silent. The next sentence Hammond delivered took him completely by surprise.
“We’re hoping you’ll feel able to work alongside us, Mr. Karpenko.” Alex thought back to their first meeting. “For the past six months,” continued Hammond, “two of our agents have been watching you day and night while you’ve been working as a courier for a man known as Ivan Donokov, who we’ve had under surveillance for some time.”
“But Ivan assured me he wasn’t dealing in drugs,” said Alex.
“And he isn’t,” said Hammond.
“Then what?” asked Alex, feeling nervous for the first time.
“Donokov is a senior KGB operative, who runs a network of agents right across the country.”
A long silence followed, until Alex said, “But he hates the communists even more than I do.”
“He knew that was exactly what you wanted to hear.”
“But we met playing chess…”
“It wasn’t a coincidence,” said Travis, “that Donokov was sitting at a chessboard with an empty seat opposite him when you first walked into Players’ Square.”
“How could he possibly have known that—”
“We think Major Polyakov tipped him off after you and your mother escaped from Leningrad.”
“But he didn’t know that I played chess, and—” Alex stopped in mid-sentence.
“No, it was probably your friend Vladimir who supplied Polyakov with that piece of information,” said Hammond.
Another long silence, that neither Hammond nor Travis interrupted.
“What a complete fool I’ve been,” said Alex.
“To be fair, Donokov is an old pro who’s been around for a long time, and once you got yourself into debt, frankly you were willing to believe anything he told you.”
“Am I going to be sent back to Leningrad?”
“No, that’s the last place we need you to be,” said Hammond.
“So what do you expect me to do?”
“Nothing too demanding to begin with. After all, we don’t want to let your friend Donokov know that we’re on to him. Keep delivering his messages, and occasionally one of my agents will make discreet contact with you. Just let him know what that day’s message is, and then carry on as normal.”
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