Blood Stones (19 page)

He sat at his table, ordered a glass of pepper vodka and waited for Andrews. He wasn't late, Dimitri Borisov was early on purpose. He liked the Englishman but he wanted him at a disadvantage. Ray came in, looking round anxiously; the surroundings unfamiliar, the atmosphere thick with smoke and kitchen smells. Borisov rose and the two men shook hands.

‘Sorry,' Ray said. ‘Have you been waiting long?'

‘No, I ordered a drink. Sit down, let us order our dinner and then we can talk in peace. Will you trust me to choose for you?'

Ray Andrews grinned at him. ‘There's no way I can choose for myself. You go ahead. But easy on the vodka. I haven't got a Russian head.'

It was his suggestion that they used Christian names; he had explained that it was a Western practice, designed to democratize business negotiations. For a moment he had expected Borisov to refuse. He had a way of doing the unexpected. He had smiled at Ray and said, ‘Democracy is the fashion now. So I am Dimitri and you are Ray. Very good.'

He said to Andrews, ‘I hope you like this place. This is where
we
go when we want to eat well and enjoy ourselves. Around midnight they have some music.'

‘Gypsy music?' Andrews asked.

Borisov shook his head. ‘No. That is for tourists. A balalaika and a singer. He has a fine tenor voice. The musician is usually drunk, but he plays all the better for that.'

It was, as Ray Andrews wrote to his wife next day, the most extraordinary evening. The food gave him indigestion, but it was delicious and kept coming, one dish after another. The wine sat on his tongue like a kiss. And they talked business while they ate and drank, and then philosophy and politics, and then more business. He didn't bother describing the negotiations to her; she wouldn't have understood and only skipped to something more interesting. He wrote about Dimitri Borisov in terms that would surprise her. A new Russian, the heir of the Soviet system, born into the élite circle that ruled from the Politburo. A man who had adapted to change that had become anarchy in the view of men like his father. But the son had kept his ideals and his patriotism, and abandoned the political stance which was no longer relevant to the future of Russia. That night, with yet another bottle open on the table, Ray Andrews felt a sense of privilege. The Russian was opening his heart and his mind to him. Perhaps they were both a little drunk. It didn't matter. It didn't alter what was being said between them.

‘The difference is,' Dimitri said to him, ‘I am negotiating for my country. You are negotiating for a foreign-based company that exists through a monopoly. That's why I must drive the hardest bargain I can get from you. Because it's not for myself.' He filled up Ray's glass.

Ray said to him, ‘I know that. I appreciate it. But I'm not just a company man. My job is on the line; I've worked all my life for D.E. and it hasn't been easy, with a wife and kids always having to take second place. If I fail on this, my friend, I'm on the bloody rubbish tip. So that's why I'm going to drive as hard a bargain as you are. And no hard feelings!'

Borisov had laughed. ‘We understand each other. In a way we have much in common. That's why this business has got as far as it has. I can deal with you, Ray. I can tell you now that I don't like or trust Ivan Karakov, because he is only interested in profits and gorging himself and his business on our diamonds. He pretends to be a Russian. He was born in New York; he talks and thinks like an American. He likes to play-act, but he's as greedy as your people in London and Johannesburg. So I am going to choose between you. And that means I will sign with the partner that gives most to my country. Immediate financial loans without interest and without set repayment, to industrialize the area around Sytykanskaya, so we can bring a new mine into production in two years. Assistance with cleaning and de-polluting the Baikal Lake – it's been poisoned for years, flooded with chemical waste, the fumes alone are causing sickness and death in the surrounding populations. We have to address that problem. We need money, Ray, and expertise. You can give us that.'

Ray had said slowly, ‘You've never mentioned Baikal before. You're asking the moon, Dimitri. I can't promise you anything as big as this. Why pick this moment to spring it on me?'

Borisov looked at him. He filled up his glass. Andrews covered his own with a hand, shaking his head. ‘Because,' the Russian said, ‘it's our price. I didn't know that till last night. I invited you to eat with me so that we could both get drunk and talk more easily.'

‘I'm not drunk,' Ray answered. ‘And I don't think you are either. I'm not that easy to soften up.' It was said without rancour.

Borisov noted that. ‘I didn't think you were,' he admitted. ‘But you haven't walked out on me, have you? In my office, I think you might have done … So we can still talk. Negotiations are still open. Now have some more wine. It's time for the music.'

An extraordinary experience, Ray Andrews wrote in his letter. But how difficult to describe the singer and his mixture of melancholy and exuberance, the balalaika player lurching at his side, playing his solo to rapturous applause. Impossible to convey the sense of manly comradeship that developed between Ray Andrews and Dimitri Borisov as they ended the evening on their feet, glasses raised in a mutual toast. He had been to Russia five years before and spent nearly six weeks there on this trip. Until that evening, he had known nothing of the city or its people. And, as Borisov told him, Moscow is Russia. What you see and feel here is the heartbeat of Russia. It sounded dramatic and theatrical when he wrote it down in the impersonal hotel room, penned to a woman thousands of miles away, who only wanted to know when he'd be coming home. Ray Andrews read the letter through, and tore it up. It wasn't really written for his wife. He had written it for himself.

He checked the time and put in a call to Susan instead. He said the negotiations were going well, he was missing them all, but didn't know exactly how much longer he would have to stay out there. He listened absently while she talked about the call she'd had from the son at university … he was finding the curriculum very hard and wanted to drop a subject. ‘Lazy little bugger,' Andrews muttered to himself, suddenly infuriated by the self-indulgence of youth. That, he admitted, was because he had a hangover, and wasn't fair. He recalled his thoughts from other things and concentrated on what had been happening at home.

And, promising to call again in the next day or two, he hung up with a feeling of guilty relief. Then he settled down to draft a long confidential fax to Harris in London setting out the terms put forward for a deal that would break Karakov and give Diamond Enterprises virtual control of the Russian diamond production.

James had come home early and silenced Elizabeth's description of her day by taking her to bed.

And there they lay in a happy doze, until he looked at his watch and said, ‘Sweetheart … we'll have to make a move soon. So what were you saying you did today?'

Elizabeth sighed in contentment. There was no dimming of romance in that marriage, no danger of their relationship becoming stale.

‘I was trying to tell you I had lunch with Jean Pierre and went to the Impressionist exhibition at the Musée d'Orsay … Darling, it was simply marvellous. You must come with me.'

He said gently, ‘I'm flat to the floor at the moment, maybe later on … When's Lasalle going to arrange this party with Karakov?' He wasn't interested in his wife enthusing about Impressionist pictures and how charming her new friend had been. All he could think of was meeting Karakov.

Elizabeth said, ‘He didn't say; he's got to fix it with them first. I said we'd be available, no matter what.'

‘Clever girl,' he said. ‘It'll put that cow Clara Wasserman in her place if you've managed to get us together and David couldn't.' He stretched, arms above his head. ‘If I brought this off,' he said, ‘we'd have a wonderful life. We'd travel all over the world; we'd have a hell of a lot more money, too.'

‘I don't care about money,' she protested. ‘We've got plenty.'

‘Oh we're all right,' he agreed, ‘but we don't know what money means compared to people like Harris and Heyderman. I'd get share options, that would go with the job … They could buy and sell both of us and our families and never notice the difference. You know how much Arthur paid for that yacht he raced in the Fasnet – a million! That's what I mean by real money.'

He was staring at the ceiling, lost in a dream where he sat at Julius Heyderman's elbow, and helped to rule his empire.

Elizabeth got up. ‘I don't want a yacht,' she said. ‘I want a bath and time to get organized. Or your smart French business people won't get any dinner.'

She hated him talking about money like that; it seemed to matter more to him since they started this phase in their lives. He had never drooled over sheer wealth like that before, and it disturbed her. James heard the bathroom door close. He knew his wife. She didn't care about material things. Always having what she needed induced superiority. And moral attitudes. He was surprised by the angry criticism in his own mind. He would have hated a money grubber, and he'd known plenty before he met Liz. It was the criticism of him, implicit in her dismissal, that angered him. Whatever he gained would benefit her even if she didn't want a yacht. She wouldn't say no to a villa at Cap d'Antibes … She'd go for that, he thought, becoming really angry. He checked himself, shaken by the intensity of his resentment, as if something had come flooding out that had been penned up, unadmitted for a long time. He was being a bastard, he decided. He was edgy, working flat out, and still hitting the wall because he couldn't get to Karakov.

And that afternoon Ruth Fraser had brought him a fax from London indicating that Ray Andrews was making significant progress. He'd made Elizabeth the scapegoat for his own frustration. He went to the bathroom door, opened it and said, ‘Sorry, sweetheart. No yachts. I'd forgotten what a pain you are when you're seasick.' He ducked as she threw the sponge at him, but he heard her laugh.

‘God,' Julius Heyderman sighed. ‘Oh God, what am I going to do about her?'

Sylvia Heyderman said gently, ‘There's nothing more you can do, darling, except keep an eye on her and bail her out when you can. You've tried everything.'

‘Bail her out – too bloody right. Arrested for being drunk and disorderly … Thank God she was charged in her married name; but one day, one day, Sylvie, the whole mess will come out.'

She slipped her hand in his. He'd thrown down the confidential report faxed in from the firm of solicitors in London who looked after Stella's welfare. It was the third offence in a year; the number of times they had paid off bad debts and got unsuitable tenants evicted from her house in Camden were a mere detail.

‘I don't know what to do,' he repeated. ‘If she'd only see me, or see you … she used to trust you.'

‘That was a long time ago,' his wife pointed out. She was so sorry for him; for such a strong man, his anguish over his daughter was pitiful to see. She loved him in her calm way, and she had long since lost patience and sympathy with Stella. Privately, she believed she was tainted with the same instability as her mother. Sylvia was not a woman who found mental illness easy to understand. She had suffered the loss of her first husband at an early age, and reared her three children on her own, running a design business at the same time. Her reward had been to marry one of the richest and most attractive men in South Africa. It hadn't happened because she had wimped out. ‘Ever since Jacob was murdered, she's gone out to destroy herself. You can't stop her, nobody can.'

‘That bastard,' Julius muttered. ‘Once she got involved with that lot, it was bound to end in disaster. I told him not to come back … He wouldn't listen.'

‘He'd been out of the country too long,' she said. ‘He thought he could come back and jump on Mandela's bandwaggon and get away with it. They never learn, that's what's so worrying. Listen, darling, I hate to see you upset like this, with all the other problems at the moment. Would you like me to go over and see if I can get through to her? I don't think it'll work, but I'd be very happy to try if you'd like me to.'

He slipped his arm round her for a moment. ‘Thanks,' he said simply. ‘I wouldn't let you put yourself in that position. Not after last time.' He frowned. ‘I'm sending Reece back to London. I want him to keep a watching brief on that little sod Arthur. He can also make contact with Stella. She's agreed to see him before. He might be able to put pressure on her. And I don't give a damn what kind of pressure it is … If we don't get her home here and in somewhere for treatment, she'll end up dead in the gutter. I owe it to Eileen to have one more try.'

Sylvia didn't argue with that. He had never once reminded her that it was her idea to send Stella to Witwatersrand, to involve herself in higher studies and student life. It had worked out only too well. In her first year she had discovered the extreme Left Wing of the anti-apartheid movement and thrown herself, heart and soul, into working for it.

The exhibitionist in her thrived on protest marches, on sit-ins and subversive meetings. She was arrested, released without charge because of her father's influence, endlessly warned and cautioned that one day even Stella Heyderman could go too far. Julius was furious with her, but he couldn't help a stab of pride in her courage and tenacity. His reckless, self-indulgent child had found a cause and she was brave enough to fight for it and dare the oppressive political system to treat her as it treated her black comrades in arms. There were no more defiant drunken escapades. A mature and politically committed young woman embraced the rights of black South Africans to equal rights under the law in their own country; she earned a lot of hatred and abuse, but also a grudging respect. Being a Heyderman didn't help when the police dogs were unleashed on a crowd of demonstrators, and Stella was always in the front rank. Julius's great fear was that she would break the savage miscegenation laws. Nothing could save her from a prison sentence if she were caught in a sexual liaison with a black man. She had affairs with her white counterparts in the movement, but never stepped over the barrier between the races. He knew, because he had access to the police reports on her. And friends in the hierarchy.