The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel by Martin Walker Page A

like never before.”
    Most of the Western diplomats were fascinated by it all, Crimson related, even as the security people were issuing dire warnings about remaining on guard. And most Westerners were still sufficiently in Cold War mode to stick together. Some of the old guard even had something called the SWAN rule over romantic liaisons; it stood for Sleep White—and NATO. Not that Gilbert took any notice of such foolishness, said Crimson, which was one of the many reasons he’d liked him.
    “Gilbert was a man of great charm, made friends easily, and he probably had more Russian connections than almost any other Western diplomat in Moscow,” Crimson went on. “The Patriarch’s Russian son, Yevgeny, was doing some set designs for the Chaika Theatre at the time. He introduced Gilbert to the artists and theater people who were all having a glorious time with the new freedoms, and that gave him a way into the Soviet elite.”
    “How was that?” Bruno asked. “I’d have thought those worlds would be quite separate, particularly in Moscow.”
    Crimson grinned. “First rule of diplomacy, Bruno. The ruling classes in any society, and that included the Communist bloc, feel it part of their duty to cultivate the arts—opera and ballet, symphony concerts, the theater. At least their wives do; they like to think they’re part of the cultured classes, members of the intelligentsia. Get yourself invited to the artists’ parties and their weekend dachas, and pretty soon you start running into the sons and daughters of the Nomenklatura.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The Nomenklatura were the party elite, the Communist Party Central Committee and its staffs, government ministers and their top advisers, newspaper editors, directors of the big state enterprises. Gilbert already knew a lot of the top military men, and pretty soon he was uniquely well connected, hearing all the top-level gossip. I just rode along on his coattails, and I did pretty well out of it, even though Gilbert was very discreet, particularly about his dalliances with influential wives. As I said, he was a very charming man, handsome and with that fighter pilot’s dash about him. It wasn’t just the women that he bowled over; he was the kind of chap who also got on well with men.”
    “So you and Gilbert stayed friends after Moscow?”
    “Indeed, even though we didn’t see one another that often. But that sort of time in that sort of place, it creates a lasting bond.” Crimson refilled the glasses. “I knew he’d become a bit of a drunk, but he could still hold his liquor pretty well when he wanted to. And for the Patriarch’s birthday party, I’d have thought Gilbert would have wanted to stay in control. It seems very odd.”
    “You mean there wasn’t enough time between your seeing him and his being led away to get that drunk?”
    “Not quite. Since I didn’t see him carried off, I couldn’t say how long it might have been.”
    “That incident took place very shortly before the Patriarch announced the fly-past.”
    “In that case I’d say maybe ten minutes, fifteen at the maximum. But he’d have to have been drinking very hard and very fast.”
    “He had a large flask with him, made in England, twice the size of a usual hip flask.”
    “Heavens,” said Crimson, breaking into a smile. “I bought him that as a Christmas present when we were in Moscow. I’m touched that he still kept the old thing. It held half a bottle, I remember, because naturally I filled it before I gave it to him. If that’s what carried him off, I suppose that makes me an accessory. A bloody shame, he was a good man.”
    “Did you see him after you bought your house here?”
    “Off and on—the occasional lunch, and he always came to my garden parties, including the one you were at last year. I could never turn him on to Pimm’s, unlike you. Gilbert was a vodka man.”
    He paused. “Where are you going with this, Bruno? Do you think there was something fishy