Trial Run

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I could think of three good reasons for not going to Moscow, one of which was twenty-six, blonde, and upstairs unpacking her suitcase.

‘I can’t speak Russian,’ I said.

‘Of course not.’

My visitor took a genteel sip of pink gin, sighing slightly over my obtuseness. His voice was condescending.

‘No one would expect you to speak Russian.’

He had come by appointment, introduced on the telephone by the friend of a friend. He said his name was Rupert Hughes-Beckett; that it was a matter of some... ah... delicacy. That he would be glad of my help, if I could spare him half an hour.

The word ‘mandarin’ had drifted into my mind when I opened the front door to his ring, and every gesture, every intonation since then had deepened the impression. A man of about fifty, tall and spare, with uncreased clothes and quiet shoes. An aura of unflappable civilised composure. A cultivated voice speaking without much lip movement, as if a muscular tightening round the mouth area could in itself prevent the issue of incautious words. There was control, too, in every movement of his hands and even in the way he used his eyes, rationing their forays into small courteous glances at my background between longer disciplined concentrations on my face, the backs of his own hands, or the glass holding his drink.

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