"But the Russian royal family's long gone" English royals she likes. Prince Charles she likes very much.
"When Princess Diana was killed she felt vary sad." During our conversation Lyudmila had been bringing dishes of food out of the kitchen and setting them on the table. Now she murmured something to Sasha, who jumped up announcing, "Please! Dinner is ready."
He went to the head of the table, and indicated that we should sit either side of him. But his mother continued to hover in the doorway, and it soon became clear that she didn't intend to join us.
"Isn't your mother going to eat?" I asked "Later. She prefers to serve us. Now, please, we have teepical Russian meal. First, zakuski." He gestured lavishly over the spread of dishes.
"Such kinds of smoked fish, fish eggs, smoked meats, cheeses, cucumbers help yourselves."
I would have felt bad had I not known about the Mafia dollars which had obviously financed this banquet. As it was, I started eating fast, to provide some bedding for the vodka which Sasha kept pouring freely from a litre bottle. The food was delicious, and the vodka made a perfect foil for the sharp, salty, smoky tastes, especially of red fish roe. Whenever one of us paused for breath Sasha exclaimed, "Please, eat! Dreenk!" and waved us on.
"Take it easy," I muttered to Rick.
"I'm sure this is only the start."
Sure enough, the next course was bortsch thick soup, not full of beetroot as it usually is in England, but more subtle, with a meaty stock for background, small slices of various vegetables floating in it, and a good, peppery overall taste. Next came bitochki meat balls in a rich tomato sauce, with mashed potatoes and after that a special cake full of nuts, made by our hostess, with which Sasha served sweet Georgian champagne.
Throughout the feast his mother waited on us with embarrassing anxiety to please, bringing new dishes, removing empty ones, watching us, fussing around, gently urging us: "Yest! Yest! Eat! Eat!" Sasha, though clearly devoted to her, did nothing to help, but ate and drank to keep up with Rick and me.
By the later stages of the meal, the vodka had got to all three of us. Sasha was gabbling away about how his brother, a taxi driver, had made millions of roubles from illegal sales of booze in the period when Gorbachev tried to bring alcoholism under control.
"It was a kind of prahibeetion," he kept saying.
"Everyone was crazy for vodka."
"You mean booze was banned altogether?" said Rick incredulously.
"Not absolutely. But rationed. One half-litre of vodka a week that was all."
"Why, though?"
"Russian people were drinking all day, all night. They were falling down in street, running over by cars. They couldn't work.
Very many died. Alcohol was our national disease."
"And did the prohibition have any effect?"
"Konechno nyet! Black market was immense."
Rick began to converse freely with Lyudmila in Russian. I sat listening, smiling genially at everyone, but my spirits were sinking. Once again guilt was clawing at me.
After many entreaties, we finally persuaded Lyudmila to join us for tea, and she sat at the other end of the table, obviously pleased that we had enjoyed ourselves, but still watching anxiously for any possible deficiency in her arrangements.
Suddenly Sasha raised his glass and shouted, "Your Queen!"
"The Queen!" we echoed, slurping champagne.
"My mother, she say your Queen is beautiful woman.
"Thank you!"
"My mother is big monarchic."
"Monarchist."
"Yes big monarknik. She make beautiful book of royal peoples." He switched into Russian, asking Lyudrnila to fetch her prize tome. With a show of simulated reluctance she got up, opened a drawer and produced a large, cheap scrapbook carefully jacketed in tissue paper, which she laid on the table for our inspection. The pages contained dozens of photographs cut from newspapers and magazines, almost all to do with England, but including a few of Tsar Nicholas II and his family, taken in the last few months of their lives before they were executed by the Bolsheviks in 1918. Towards the end, the cuttings went fast forwards and pride of place inevitably was accorded to Diana, Princess of Wales.
"Such kind of tragedy," Sasha kept saying, repeatedly translating a remark of his mother's.
"I know," I said.
"But she'd become a bit of a loose cannon.
"Excuse me?"
I explained that the phrase was used about people whose actions tended to be unpredictable.
"Yes, yes," said Sasha impatiently.
"But British people loved her. When she died, they came in millions."
Lyudmila had gone off on another tack.
"Something about the Second World War," Rick said.
"Can't quite get it' "Heetler!" cried Sasha.
"My mother would like to say thank you to British and American soldiers for help in beating Nazis.
She thanks you and your fathers. Her father was killed at Stalingrad, famous battle. She does not like Germans. British and American armies very brave."
"I'm glad to hear that," I told them.
"I've read in Communist history books that it was the heroic Soviet army who defeated Fascism single-handed."
"Kommunizm!" shouted Sasha derisively.
"Kommunizm is shit.
My mother does not say that, of course, but it is what she believes. Kommunizm all lies and rubbish." He turned and in Russian loudly sought confirmation from Lyudmila, who nodded and went, "Da, da."
The next thing we knew, Sasha had brought out a bottle of Georgian brandy and was pouring huge slugs. His mother did not touch the spirit.
The conversation became ever wilder, with stories of army brutality.
"You know how they treat prisoners in Russian army? This soldier in Murmansk ..
"Murmansk?" yelled Rick.
"Where the f-' He stopped himself just in time and and finished up, "Where's that?"
"In Russian Arctic. Far north from Moscow. Terrible place.
This man is soldier in garrison. Very poor, like I told you no money. But he is also musician, used to moonlight. He played accordion in restaurant in the evenings to earn roubles. He went maskarad in disguise with glasses and some beard. But an officer went to the restaurant and recognised him.
"So, to punish him, they put him in a cell, with acid on the floor, deeper every day. No shoes. They wanted to leave him for a week, but after three days his hair had gone grey, so they took him out. Such tortures they make in army."
It was midnight before we reeled out. We tried to say we'd walk or get a taxi, but Sasha wouldn't hear of it and insisted on driving us back. When we went down in the lift, Lyudmila came with us to give Tigr an extra run, and as we said goodbye she kissed our hands, holding the cat against her. Rick did his best to thank her gracefully, but I felt too choked to say anything except "Spasibo! Bolshoi spasibo!"
Morning brought shock after shock to exacerbate our hangovers.
The first came on the news, when somebody heard that the Russian Foreign Minister, had been assassinated. There'd been a shoot-out on Leningradski Prospekt, the main thoroughfare running out towards the north-west. The Minister had been on his way to Sheremetyevo airport, enroute for Washington, when a car had come up alongside his Zyl limo -in spite of the police escort and gunmen had riddled it with bullets. The Zyl had run off the road at speed and crashed head-on into a concrete wall, and the bulletin didn't make clear whether he'd been killed by gunshots or by the impact. In any event, he was dead. So were the driver, two of the bodyguards and one policeman. The gunmen had got clean away, but blame had immediately been placed on 'criminal elements' in other words, the Mafia.
"Chechens, for sure," said Sasha, the moment he arrived in camp.
"And why? They make retaliation for losing their Beno. I told you."
"It's a war, going on in the middle of Moscow," I said.
"Zheordie, this war will last fifty years.
Like us, Sasha was feeling rough, and we gave him a cup of strong black coffee before starting for the ranges.
Then Toad appeared, washing his hands like crazy.
"Heard the news?" he went.
"The hit on the Foreign Minister?"
"Yeah but the stand-off it's creating."
"What are you on about?"
"It's just been on the BBC World Service. The American Ambassador was in that same car.
"Jesus!" I sat up.
"Did they kill him as well?"
"Not quite. He's in intensive care. But the United States is threatening to break off relations with Russia. Clinton's been on the hotline to the President, giving him a bollocking. He reckons the whole country's going to rat shit "He's not far wrong," I said. I felt my gut contracting. Now we're really in it, I thought and as if to confirm my misgivings, in came another unexpected punch from a different direction.
We were on the point of leaving the building when in burst Rick, looking chuffed to bollocks.
"You'll never believe it!" he yelled.
"Irma's back!"
"Take it easy," I told him.
"Who's Irma?"
"Natasha's sister. The one who went to the States."
"What about her?"
"They've got her back!"
"Who have? For Christ's sake, explain."
"The FBI turned up at her apartment in the Bronx. They grabbed her and a few of her friends and deported them put them on a plane for Moscow.
"Ah," I said.
"This is starting to make sense. You've Tony Lopez to thank for that. He must have got his finger out."
Then suddenly I thought, Wait a minute. How does Rick know about this? He must have been talking to Natasha. Hadn't I told the prick to lay off?
I felt my face colour up and I said quietly to Sasha, "If you don't mind, we'll meet you in a couple of minutes outside the armoury."
He got the message and took himself off. The moment he'd gone, I turned on Rick.
"You stupid bastard! You realise what you've done?"
"No. What's the matter?"
"There's a very good chance you ye compromised the entire operation. Listen. How did that woman get hold of you?"
"She phoned."
"Exactly. And how did she know your number?"
"I'd given it to her."
"Exactly. Jesus Christ! Are you out of your mind? Who d'you think she's busy giving your number to now?"
"What do you mean?"
"THINK, cunt! Her sister's been in the grip of the Mafia in New York. The FBI have kicked her out, along with a bunch of other slags. They snatched the whole lot and sent them home.
But mow she's in Mafia territory again, worse than New York.
The wide boys here have access to the airlines' passenger lists.
They know she's come back to Moscow. They've got her address from before. She's probably got a Russian pimp here anyway.
"In other words, they know precisely where she is. And now, because you can't stop following your prick around, they know precisely where you are. The next thing'll be a group of four charming young men with Gepards up their jumpers coming to the gate to ask for a fucking interview!"
I wasn't exactly shouting, but I was talking a lot faster and louder than usual. From the stricken look on Rick's face, I might as well have been hitting him.