43.
The Boisdale Restaurant in Victoria bustles with activity when Jeff Dalkin arrives ten minutes early at 7:20.
He doesn’t see his Brit sitting anywhere. "Do you have a reservation for a Thornington?" he asks.
Yes, of course," said the Spanish maitre d'. "He waits for you in back."
Dalkin peers through the restaurant. "In back where?"
"Out back door, across courtyard."
Dalkin shrugs and
swaggers.
The back door, sure
enough, leads to a courtyard across from which is a small pub, whose only
access is through the restaurant.
"Kudos to you."
Dalkin greets Thornington at the bar while perusing two rows of obscure single
malts. "Laphroaig," he
instructs the barkeep. "A few drops
of water, a couple cubes. In a whiskey glass.”
"Part of my
training at MI5 was to scout discreet meeting places," Thornington
whispers. "This is the actually the
first time I've been back since." He pauses. "I never
meet Igor in the same place twice."
As Thornington says the
Russian's name, Sokolov appears in the doorway, unzipping his anorak, removing
the hood that obscured half his face.
"Ah," he says, making his way to the bar.
"Another grand
tour?" asks Dalkin.
Sokolov nods. "I know London better than taxi
driver." He eyes Dalkin's bag.
"Yep." Dalkin looks down at the bag himself.
"It's your brazhort—blow me."
"Eh?"
"Your money—blow me."
"Blow you?"
Thornington guffaws. "Hungry?"
Igor shakes his head. "Nyet.
I drink dinner." He orders a
single-malt and the three men hunch around a corner bistro table.
Igor reaches into an
inside pocket of his anorak and retrieves a manila envelope. "First, old notes." He hands four pages to Thornington. "I remember most things. And I ask helpful person in Moscow to look
again and, how you say, refresh my head."
Thornington peruses the
typed, single-spaced notes.
"Brilliant."
"Next. Princess." Sokolov offers three pages bound by a paper
clip back and forth to Dalkin and Thornington, as if he were playing a game of
eeny meeny miny moe. He stops at the
American.
Dalkin accepts the report
with his left hand, raises a whisky glass with the other and savors smoke and
peat from the Isle of Islay.
Then he reads.
Halfway down the first
page, he looks up at Sokolov, eyebrows raised.
"It's good,
no?" Sokolov grins.
Dalkin whistles. By page two his teeth are gnashing.
Thornington is curious, but maintains cool British reserve and asks no questions.
The Russian checks his cheapo wristwatch. "I leave soon." He eyes Dalkin's bag.
"Yeah,
right." Dalkin unzips his bag. "You have something to put it in?"
"I put in my
pockets."
Dalkin hands the bag to
Sokolov. "Take it."
"Nyet." The Russian peers inside, makes a mental
calculation and grunts. Then he stuffs
his pockets. "Is things like this"—he
gestures at the bag—“make problem later."
He rises to leave.
"Wait a sec,"
says Dalkin.
Sokolov lowers himself.
"The MI5
mole," says Dalkin. "Remind me
how much?"
"One million dollar
US." The Russian chuckles. "Easy to remember."
"What's the best
price you can do on that?"
Sokolov shrugs in
puzzlement. "I tell you. One million dollar US."
"No. Your best price."
"One million
dollar US."
"A quarter
million," said Dalkin. "Cash—blow
me."
"Is always
cash. One million US."
Okay,
half-a-million dollars—blow me," said Dalkin.
"Nyet. One million."
Thornington watches in
amusement.
"C'mon, Igor," says Dalkin. "Cut me some slack here. I can't get you one million dollars—blow me. Not now, not ever. Never. But I can get you half-a-million—blow me. And it's a one-time offer because I’m running out of time.”
Sokolov considers this. "You make decision now, on spot?"
"Exactly. If you agree, we have a deal, this minute. But if you leave here without a deal, it'll never happen at any price."
The Russian nods, his
mind absorbed with arithmetic.
"And I mean the
works," Dalkin snaps him back to the moment. "Not just a name. When he was recruited, where he was
recruited, the identity of his SVR case officer, how they communicate and how
he gets paid."
Sokolov nods. "I try.
No promise. I get all I
can."
"How soon?"
"This one
difficult. Maybe three weeks."
"No good,
Igor," say Dalkin. "I need it
faster."
"Then you must pay
one million US," he blurts in exasperation.
"No can do. Half-a-million—blow me—with a one-week
turnaround."
"I try." Sokolov rises, peeks out a window, bundles
himself into his anorak, nods goodbye and steals out into the damp night.
"I hope you
actually have a half-million dollars," says Thornington.
Dalkin winks. "I actually do."
Thornington eyes the file in Dalkin's hands, his curiosity getting the better of him. "And Diana?"
"Trial run," says Dalkin. "No one needs to see it but me."
