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  Instead, Isabella smiled, openly and freely, as she did only in her brother's company.

  "Sorry, Gabs. My phone doesn't work, or I would have called you again. There was a security nightmare in Berlin. Some complete wankers on a stag jerking around. And we lost another hour. But I couldn't face going back to buy another phone card. I just wanted to get here."

  "You seen the news?" he asked.

  "Yeah, it was on the TV while we were waiting to board. And Pulkovo was like an army barracks when we landed. It's awful—weird."

  The nature of death itself, or death's meaning, had somehow changed.

  "The Russian TV has stopped showing it," Gabriel said. "Nobody knows who is in charge or what is really going on." He shrugged heavily, and Isabella saw how extraordinarily tired her brother was. There were broken blood vessels in his eyes. And his face was blank. He really was exhausted. She had wondered how she would behave when she arrived. Now she knew: a reaction to her brother's evident wretchedness—she was going to be all competence and coping.

  They were still standing. Isabella glanced around. "Okay, well, I think I'm going to grab a shower and then let's get—"

  "Julian Avery is coming over," Gabriel interrupted, still a little frenetic but seemingly unable to moderate anything. "Now, in fact—in five minutes. We're meeting him here. Sorry, but I wanted to—"

  "The guy from the consulate?"

  "Yes. They've been—they've been brilliant. I mean, Christ knows what would have—"

  "Don't." Isabella bit her lip. "Shit. I think that's him."

  Isabella looked behind her. A short, surreptitiously overweight man was crossing the lobby toward the bar. Julian Avery moved with surprising alacrity, his walk a double-time waddle. He had not seen them.

  Isabella drew a deep breath. "Okay. Right. So..."She hooked her hair behind her ear. "Shall we all get some coffee, then?"

  "Good idea." Gabriel nodded. "I was wondering what to drink."

  "Hang on a sec." She put down her bag on one of the chairs.

  Gabriel spoke softly. "They are being very can-do. Because of Grandpa Max, I suppose. God knows how they have even heard of him. It must be fifteen years since he left."

  "They remember everything in the Foreign Office." Isabella took off her scarf. "They will have known exactly who Mum was too, since she had a British passport. You know how it is. They always know everything, somehow. Okay, let's go."

  Avery had begun flicking through his briefcase, which he had propped on a stool. Now he stood smartly to greet them. He wore a blue, round-necked, fine merino wool sweater and beige slacks, and Isabella guessed his age as late thirties, but he had one of those fair English faces that appear to change hardly at all between the loss of freckles and fifty-five. His features were genially unremarkable, she thought, save for his hair, which was wound in the tightest possible curls, and his unusually large ears.

  She introduced herself, her name sounding strange as she said it out loud. She felt suddenly very British, the granddaughter of Maximilian Glover.

  "Julian." He took her offered hand with a demure nod. "I can't say how sorry we all are. My condolences. It must be a very difficult time."

  "Thank you."

  Gabriel presented himself and said, "We thought coffee, but please, feel free to—"

  "Coffee is fine."

  The barman nodded and they went back to Gabriel's table and sat down, Isabella taking the chair opposite Avery.

  "Thank you so much for coming over here tonight—it's very kind of you," she said.

  "No, not at all."

  Almost businesslike, she opened her bag for pen and notebook. She was conscious that this was overdoing it but could not stop herself. Since she had taken Gabriel's call outside the Angelika, a renegade part of her had been noticing the increase in unintentional words, involuntary actions. "We were only now saying how grateful we are for your help. Thank you so much for coming out."

  "It's the least I could do."

  "I've only just arrived from the airport, I'm afraid, so we haven't really had a chance to catch up. And we're both pretty much at sea. With more or less everything we need to be doing..."

  "Of course." Perhaps taking his cue from Isabella's pad, Avery adopted an air of quiet professional practicality, leaning forward a little, small hands joined, fingers loosely knitted, thumbs pointing toward the mirrored ceiling. "Okay. Well, first of all, the good news is that we have managed to jump the cemetery queue and short-cut some of the other bureaucracy—with the kind help of your father. Your mother can be buried at the Smolensky graveyard on Vasilevsky, which is, I understand, in accordance with her wishes. That's official as of close of play today."

  Without needing to look over at him, Isabella felt the entire force field of her brother's attention change direction. So now she spoke quickly, fearful of what he might say if she did not. "Sorry, I'm totally behind here. I live in New York." This was also unnecessary, but she felt the need to invoke the strength somehow resident in the city's name.

  Avery had a way of moving his head from one side to the other every so often, as if he were required to hear things with each of his ears in turn in order to quite believe them.

  "I've been on flights for the last God knows how long," she explained. "And I haven't had a chance to speak with my father. I don't think Gabriel has either." She did not look across but kept on as casually as she could. "Is our father helping?"

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. I had no idea. I assumed..." Avery hesitated, but only for a second. "I assumed you had all had the chance to talk."

  "No. Not yet." Isabella smiled adeptly. She could not tell how much Avery was reading into their strange lack of familial communication. "We were going to go through everything after we had spoken to you."

  "Right. Well, I should ... I should fill you in." The coffee was set down, and Avery was silent until the waiter had left. "I had a conversation with your father earlier today. Just after I spoke with you, Gabriel, this afternoon. Actually, he rang me. I'm sure he will tell you all of this ... He was calling to confirm that he would be meeting all the expenses. Unfortunately, there is something of a cemetery ... er, shall we say a cemetery system operating here in Petersburg, and, well, certain people have to be paid ... Though as I say, everything is now settled on this score, as of this afternoon." He sipped his coffee. "Once that side was sorted out, the rest was just a matter of contacting the relevant people at the hospital and the undertakers—and, of course, the people who organize the service itself. I have passed all three sets of details on to your father's solicitors. I understand that it is his intention to meet these expenses as well. But as I say, once the cemetery is confirmed, and the service, the rest is comparatively straightforward. So Friday should, fingers crossed, be just a matter of details."

  Again she spoke quickly. "That's really great news—about getting a space at the cemetery, I mean." Only now did she risk a glance at her brother. He had his hand to his forehead and she could not see his face. "And it's a massive relief to know that it's all being done so quickly. Is it okay if I give you a call first thing tomorrow and check if there is anything you need us to do—once I've had a chance to catch my breath?"

  "Yes, of course." Avery raised a manicured finger and thumb to his stiff shirt collar. "I can be the liaison, if that's helpful—in case your father gets through to me first, or you need a man on the ground, as it were."

  His eyes expressed genuine sympathy; an intelligent man, well used to dealing delicately with distressed human beings. And she was grateful for that kind "gets through"—as if there would really be any trouble with their father "getting through" to his children if he, or they, had wished it.

  "Thank you—that might be useful." She knew that the natural end of the conversation had been reached. She paused a moment and then asked, "Will there be an autopsy?"

  Avery turned his head a fraction, as if to allow his left ear a chance to confirm the impressions of the right, but if he was surprised at this
ambush, neither his face nor his manner betrayed it. "No. In the case of an older person's death, where there are no suspicious circumstances, then there is not usually an autopsy."

  There was a moment's silence. Avery slowly rotated his head. Though he had sensed the disquiet previously, Isabella had now taken him into a much murkier place altogether. And she realized that rather than adding anything to his statement, he would wait until she spoke again. Silence was his natural holding pattern; he was a diplomat, after all. She was just about to ask another question when suddenly, to her complete surprise, Gabriel sat forward for the first time.

  "And there's no problem with her being a British national ... who defected and all of that?"

  Again without changing tone or manner, Avery directed his attention to her brother. "Yes ... you are right—it's a strange situation. There might have been an issue with nationality. I was talking to your father about this. But ... well, the truth is, I think we can assume that the Russians know who your mother is and that they don't have a problem." He finished his coffee, pleased perhaps to be back on familiar consular ground. "I would be amazed if they didn't know her. They knew your grandfather of course, very well. And they will have known your father too. And all defections were treated with extra-special ... er, attention, shall we say? So even if she used her married name when she came back, I'd be surprised if they did not know that she was Maria Gavrilov originally. In fact, your own surname, Glover, might well be flagged on their computers—I know it's a common enough name, but they might well cross-check. Again, I wouldn't be surprised."

  It was a clever putting-at-ease question of her brother's, Isabella realized. He had interrupted only to move things on after her autopsy inquiry—as if to take over now that she had gone crazy. Perhaps she had.

  Avery continued. "My guess, for what it's worth, is that they used her original return application politically—granted her a visa to show that the new Russia was not the same as the Soviet Union. If anything, they will quite like the fact that as a Russian she wanted to be buried here. I don't think we need worry about all of that."

  Isabella cut in. "Did my father say that he would be coming on Friday?" She knew this was brutal, but she also knew that the question had to be asked and that if she left her brother to his own devices, he would never ask it.

  And this time Julian Avery's hesitation was obvious. "No. No ... Actually, he didn't mention it. I ... I presume he would want to be here, but I can't—"

  "Not necessarily." It would be better if she just said it. "Our parents were separated."

  "I see."

  Gabriel did not allow the silence to lengthen. "And will the service be in the Russian Orthodox tradition?"

  "Yes. Was that your mother's faith?"

  "Mum didn't have any." This from Isabella.

  "But," Gabriel pursued, "I assume that we have to have a Russian Orthodox service at the Smolensky?"

  "Yes." Avery nodded slowly. "It may be possible to arrange something else, but not before Friday."

  "Oh God no, don't worry." Isabella gave a wan smile. "Everything you have done is ... is really helpful. We don't want to change anything. We're just grateful that it's all going to be dealt with so painlessly."

  The security man passed behind them again, his face set and seeming to say, Terror does not sleep and neither do I.

  She had dropped her bags in their room and now sat waiting for Gabriel to return. He had gone to fetch yet more cigarettes. This did not feel like the Russia she knew. Indeed, this hotel, this lobby bar, wasn't her Russia, her Petersburg. In countless visits to the city, she had been here—what, twice before? Once with her grandfather, as she recalled. She looked around: two escort girls, laughing quietly and sipping their mineral water at one of the narrow tables in the corner; two slack-bellied businessmen drinking untidily at the bar, lecturing the blank-faced barman. An elderly American couple. It was past midnight. But something like midafternoon as far as her body was concerned. She knew for certain that she would not sleep, not soon, probably not at all. Indeed, ever since she had arrived, her brain had been moving so quickly that she had experienced the peculiar sensation of not being able to rely on reality, as if she were driving so fast that the scenery ahead was only just managing to construct itself in time, as if she were having to do far more than merely read the road, as if she were having to guess how the world was going to fashion itself. Their father had certainly outflanked them thus far—not only did he know about the death and the funeral plans, he was paying for everything already. But would he come? Gabriel's only thought would be how to keep him away. And her brother was right: their father was all corruption and tarnishing; their father could find a way to taint even the truthfulness of sorrow. And yet she could not help wondering what he would feel—as a human being, if nothing else. What was her father feeling right now, for instance?

  She smothered these questions quickly with the thick blanket of her loyalty as Gabriel reappeared, and in doing so had one of those odd moments which come only infrequently when you have known someone forever—longer: she suddenly saw her brother clearly as a stranger might. Yes, he was handsome in what she always thought of as his famous-for-something-but-nobody-is-sure-what look, but now his slight scruffiness, his tousled hair, his loose shirt, his jeans, his battered boots—they somehow told against him. Where before there had been a casual confidence dressing down, she now saw anguish dressing up. His manner no longer said, "I don't care to manage any better—take it or leave it," but instead, "This is the best I can manage."

  "How you feeling?" she asked.

  "Fantastic. All go."

  Isabella smiled. "I mean, can you take a drink or are you going to crash?"

  "I'd love a drink. I would absolutely love a drink." Gabriel eased into his seat and grimaced. "I didn't sleep last night—in fact, I can't remember when I last slept. I'm totally wasted. What you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking vodka. It can only help."

  "Tonics separate?" Gabriel found a lopsided grin.

  She smiled in return. Vodka that was worth tasting—it meant they were in Russia together again.

  Gabriel put up his hand to catch the attention of the barman and unwrapped the new packet of cigarettes. "But if I burst into tears, get me to the lifts. I'm serious. It's been happening all day."

  "You won't. You're too tired." Isabella held out her palms. "Chuck the cigarettes, then."

  "You smoking again?"

  "No."

  "Me neither."

  After that, everything external slowly faded away until there was just the two of them talking to each other, moving slowly across the ice toward the discussion that they knew they must have. On any other subject they could be as frank and as open as it was possible for two human beings to be; but on the subject of their father—and on this subject alone—there was convention and even taboo between them.

  "What are we doing here, by the way?" Isabella asked.

  "Lina. Lina sorted it all out. She says not to worry about anything ... and I was too ... I was too battered to argue ... so I just checked in."

  "Right." Unlike everyone else, Isabella understood without judgment the exact nature of her brother's situation. And above all her other concerns on the subject, she worried about the hidden damage it was doing to him. But all that was for another day. "Is Lina coming?"

  Gabriel shook his head. "Probably not, now it's looking like Friday."

  Isabella considered. "I'd better go to the flat tomorrow. I suppose we're going to have to ship Mum's stuff home. Maybe not the furniture. But all the rest—her private papers, her books and everything. We should start."

  Her brother smiled sadly. "We'll spend the day. Go through it together."

  She watched him sip his vodka, then hold it on his tongue for a few seconds, tasting.

  "She had begun to call quite a lot," he said. "It was getting pretty mad. Every night."

  "Mad?"

  "I didn't mean that. Not mad. I mean she was bec
oming more roundabout—she was saying more and more roundabout stuff that always seemed to imply other things." Gabriel raised an eyebrow ruefully. "As well as all the usual lectures on how to live your life and the state of the world."

  Isabella swallowed and felt the burn. "Hard to know whether or not to take all that stuff seriously."

  Her brother sucked his teeth. "She did," he said.

  "Yes." Isabella nodded slowly. "You know, in the last few months she kept writing to me about Thomas Jefferson." She affected a declamatory voice. "'All attempts to influence the mind by temporal punishments, or burdens, or civil incapacitations tend only to beget habits of hypocrisy and meanness...'You know the routine."

  Gabriel nodded slowly.

  The vodka was working its magic on their willful blood. Isabella took another sip. "Do you ever think about those summers when she used to drive us around Europe—on her own in that old car?"

  "All the time." She saw the lines around her brother's eyes as he spoke. "Nothing but concentration camps and art galleries for weeks on end."

  "And don't forget every house that the great composers ever lived in," Isabella added. "Mozart's cradles and Beethoven's death masks. Jesus, she must have driven us a thousand miles every summer."

  Her brother shut his eyes a moment and screwed up his face—against the vodka's bite, perhaps. "You know she was ill?"

  Isabella looked away, momentarily taken aback, though this was one of her suspicions. "Ill in what way?"

  "She was coughing—coughing really badly on the phone. The last time she called she had this ... this fit. I'm not joking—she was coughing for about five minutes." Gabriel straightened and extended his arm before him, his cigarette between fingers. "You know what, Is? I think she had cancer and I think she knew it. I think that s why she was ringing me. I think she found out recently. I think the stroke might have been a blessing."