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The very smart-looking man waited at a table - his table, coincidentally, or perhaps not - while the old woman made her way from the kitchen. She lumbered across the cobblestones, pushing chairs out of her way as she went, and sat opposite him, overflowing the rickety chair.
He spoke in Russian. She replied in kind.
"Who took him?"
"One of them was Scotland Yard Inspector, Russian Desk. Older man, white hair."
"I know him. Foul man."
"But the others, the men who carried them out, they were not cops. They were special forces, maybe. No insignia."
"This is bad."
"That is why I notified you immediately, comrade."
"You have done well. Your information has always been good. But we need to know more."
"I wish I could tell you more."
"I would like to know why they took him, and why they took him now."
"Why I cannot say, but they have been watching him for weeks."
"Who?"
"Beat cops. Nothing special. They had a tradesman's van over on that corner some days, other days over there. You should check the drycleaner. She might have tipped them off that he was upstairs with the girl."
"And who is this girl?"
"Nobody. An innocent bystander. And she has not returned to the café or her room since. But it has only been two days."
"If they let her go, they will relocate her. You will not see her again."
"He was pretending to be ordinary businessman, the filthy vor. She is just silly blind girl. God knows what he told her, or what he did to her. It's detestable, taking advantage of a poor girl like that. But who else could he woo? No one else would have him." She sighed dramatically, as if she'd seen it all before.
"She is of no concern to us. Only he is."
"There are plenty of vor in London, comrade. If you do not mind me asking, what makes this one so special?"
"That is also none of your concern. Your service has been greatly appreciated. Let us know if anything of further interest occurs." He slid an envelope across the table. "Is there anything you need?" he asked, but he said it in such a way that it was clear he did not think she needed anything else at all.
She looked over to where her husband stood in the doorway to the kitchen, eyeing her in his usual, oily manner.
"Valeriyovna?" the smart-dressed man said.
She looked back at her handler, her seventh handler since the end of the war. Her third since the wall fell. She was the only constant in her world. She had never met with him here, in the open, but he'd wanted to see the café, the view of the drycleaner's storefront, the scene of the crime. Here it would be hard for her to lie or be vague about the events. Here she was laid bare. "Comrade, I have served long, and never complained about my exile to this godforsaken… I mean, this decadent island. I have never asked for special treatment, but now I plead with you for return to the motherland."
"Impossible. You are still needed here." He rose.
"Protection, then!" She grasped his sleeve. "This morning they came again, the vory v zakone, looking for the man."
"I know."
"They threatened us."
"That is what vor do."
"Can you not help me? I am frightened of them. Especially the leader. He was crazy, demanding the whereabouts of his friend. He is dangerous, this man. And he is the kind that does not know how to keep his mouth shut. You know what I am saying?"
"We know of whom you speak."
"He will talk to the wrong people."
"We agree; we will take care of him."
She let his arm go. "Thank you, comrade." She would be safer if that man was out of the picture.
The man straightened his coat sleeve and adjusted his tie. "It is very sad about your uncle, madam, but he did live a very long and fruitful life," he said loudly enough for everyone to hear, especially the proprietor.
Valeria looked around and saw that all eyes were upon her, something that had not happened in years. She had no trouble remembering how to play her part. "Yes, and I thank you very much for travelling all this way to bring me this sad news," she said loudly, in English. "I will light a candle for him."
The smart-looking man's eyebrows rose.
"They sometimes do that here, comrade," she assured him in a whisper, in Russian once more.
The man smiled. "It is not against the law to have religion, not any more," he told her. "And it is not the fashion to call each other 'comrade', not for a long time. You have been away for many decades. I do not think you would be able to adjust to life in modern Russian, Valeriyovna. Stay here with your husband who knows nothing. It is safer for you. I will be in touch."
Later, after Valeria had hidden the payment in the usual place, her husband came upon her in the kitchen.
"You never said you had an uncle," he commented, suspicion in his voice.
"Oh, I've not seen him since I was a little girl." Lies came so easily when they were for a greater good.
"And this would have been uncle…?"
Valeria blinked. It had been a long time, but it was like riding a bicycle - living with the constant fear of discovery but confident that her skills would keep her from disaster, making up stories on the fly, giving enough detail to make them believable, but being sure to only invent things she would be able to remember in the future if she was ever questioned. It was a game, a glorious game. The past month had been a breath of fresh air. A joy to be in the game again. A joy to be forced to make use of her training.
"Yes, my uncle. It was so long ago, and I was a favourite of his…" she said with a sentimental lilt to her voice. "Uncle Vanya…"
She could remember the name 'Uncle Vanya' easily. Her husband, who was challenged by reading a newspaper, let alone the theatre, would never guess the truth.
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