December Read Online Free PDF Page A

and middle-aged businessmen in casual suits with trophy wives all wrapped up in expensive furs.
    Alex walked up and stood awkwardly in line. He had been preparing to talk small-scale military operations rather than small talk. The house gates were open but blocked by two huge security men in black bomber jackets and a very attractive tall, slim girl from somewhere he couldn’t place in central Asia—Mongolia? She wore high-heeled black boots and a long sable coat with a cowl-like hood. Standing in front ofthe two doormen, she was welcoming guests and checking them off on a clipboard.
    She flashed a dazzling, friendly smile as Alex stepped forward, and said cheerfully: ‘ Dobry vecher !’
    Alex quickly replied: ‘ Dobry deetche .’
    ‘ Kak vasha familia ?’ she continued, holding the pen poised over her clipboard.
    ‘ Maya familia Grekov .’
    ‘Ah, Alexander!’ She seemed to be expecting him and smiled as if she had found a long-lost friend, then ticked his name off.
    She continued in Russian:‘Welcome to Sergey Shaposhnikov’s house. My name is Bayarmaa.’ She held out a delicate gloved hand. ‘Please, follow me.’ She handed the clipboard to one of the bouncers and led the way up the drive with a swirl of her long coat.
    Shaposhnikov.
    So that was who it was, thought Alex as he followed her. Sergey Shaposhnikov—he knew the name but couldn’t think in what context he had come across it.
    He followed Bayarmaa up the large front steps flanked by white columns and in through the open double doors. Heaters blew a curtain of warmth over them. There seemed to be no shortage of power here and the excess of heat felt luxurious after so many days of shivering.
    The heat was just as well, thought Alex, as he was confronted by the sight of a scantily clad pole-dancer writhing on a platform as they walked into the hall ahead of the huge room that took up most of the raised ground floor of the house.
    The Entry of the Ever-Virgin Mary, he thought wryly to himself as they walked past. Clearly Shaposhnikov didn’t take his orthodoxy that seriously.
    They handed their coats to a smartly dressed woman by the door and then a waitress with a tray of vodka shot glasses walked up to them. Bayarmaa handed Alex one with a smile that brooked no refusal. He nodded his thanks, threw the drink back and followed her through, savouring the burst of warmth in his stomach.
    Beyond the pole-dancer, the high-ceilinged room was noisy and packed with a couple of hundred guests. A bar stretched all the way down one side with ten uniformed barmen running around frantically trying to supply the crowd of people.
    A band at the far end of the room were enthusiastically belting out a Russian cover of a Stones song. After a few bars Alex worked it out as ‘Brown Sugar’.
    They looked an odd group, dressed in nylon imitation Russian peasant garb and fronted by a plump fifty-year-old woman with peroxide-blonde hair and heavy framed glasses in a long pink medieval robe and traditional Russian headdress. Behind her stood a tall, lugubrious-looking, bearded man in a green smock, tasselled cord belt, baggy Cossack pants and boots. He was playing bass on an enormous balalaika. The guests were too busy drinking and talking to listen to the band, though. No one was dancing yet.
    Alex followed Bayarmaa’s silky black hair as they pushed their way through the crowd to the bar.
    A loud squawk of alarm came from the lead singer on the stage and the music crashed to a halt mid-song. Looking out over the press of heads Alex could see that a drunken businessman had clambered on stage and grabbed the microphone from her. Everyone turned to the stage and a chorus of angry shouts and boos broke out. The man with the microphone began shouting back at them in Russian: ‘Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!’
    He was middle-aged, a bit above average height and well built, with a mop of straw-blond hair that shone in the stage lights and hung down over his eyes. He