The maid came in and said: ‘Would you like coffee, Mr Peshkov?’

‘No, thank you.’

Marga said: ‘Bring the vodka, in case Mr Peshkov would like a drink later.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Greg noticed how solicitous Marga was about Lev’s comfort and pleasure. He guessed that was why Lev was here, not at Olga’s, for the night.

The maid brought a bottle and three small glasses on a silver tray. Lev still drank vodka the Russian way, warm and neat.

Greg said: ‘Father, you know Jacky Jakes—’

‘Her again?’ Lev said irritably.

‘Yes, because there’s something you don’t know about her.’

That got his attention. He hated to think other people knew things he did not. ‘What?’

‘She has a child.’ He pushed the photographs across the polished table.

‘It it yours?’

‘He’s six years old. What do you think?’

‘She kept this pretty damned quiet.’

‘She was scared of you.’

‘What did she think I might do, cook the baby and eat it?’

‘I don’t know, Father – you’re the expert at scaring people.’

Lev gave him a hard look. ‘You’re learning, though.’

He was talking about the scene with the razor. Maybe I am learning to scare people, Greg thought.

Lev said: ‘Why are you showing me these photos?’

‘I thought you might like to know that you have a grandson.’

‘By a goddamn two-bit actress who was hoping to snag herself a rich man!’

Marga said: ‘Darling! Please remember that I was a two-bit nightclub singer hoping to snag myself a rich man.’

He looked furious. For a moment he glared at Marga. Then his expression changed. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘You’re right. Who am I to judge Jacky Jakes?’

Greg and Marga stared at him, astonished at this sudden humility.

He said: ‘I’m just like her. I was a two-kopek hoodlum from the slums of St Petersburg until I married Olga Vyalov, my boss’s daughter.’

Greg caught his mother’s eye, and she gave an almost imperceptible shrug that simply said: You never can tell.

Lev looked again at the photo. ‘Apart from the colour, this kid looks like my brother, Grigori. There’s a surprise. Until now I thought all these piccaninnies looked the same.’

Greg could hardly breathe. ‘Will you see him, father? Will you come with me and meet your grandson?’

‘Hell, yes.’ Lev uncorked the bottle, poured vodka into three glasses, and passed them round. ‘What’s the boy’s name, anyway?’

‘Georgy.’

Lev raised his glass. ‘So here’s to Georgy.’

They all drank.

15

1943 (I)

Lloyd Williams walked along a narrow uphill path at the tail end of a line of desperate fugitives.

He breathed easily. He was used to this. He had now crossed the Pyrenees several times. He wore rope-soled espadrilles that gave his feet a better grip on the rocky ground. He had a heavy coat on top of his blue overalls. The sun was hot now but later, when the party reached higher altitudes and the sun went down, the temperature would drop below freezing.