As could be seen on the screens in the ballroom, the ice in the ice rink was being resurfaced in preparation for the gala’s after-show programme: next on the agenda was a comical game of curling between some particularly striking sculptures made of plastic waste, which staff members were placing on the ice wearing thick gloves. Upstairs in the ballroom, the crowd had dispersed into that somewhat too relaxed atmosphere with which wealthy people immediately return to business after a cultural event.
Along a long, white-lit buffet island lay items designed to look expensive, even if they were cold: scampi on ice, gleaming caviar dishes, small bread rolls in precise geometric shapes, bowls of dill cream, carved radishes, slices of lime as decoration — and in the centre, several platters of thinly sliced Danish salmon.
Shane escaped his sponsor’s appointment with visible relief and headed not for conversation but straight for the buffet, ravenous and with the sober realisation of a man who knew that at charity evenings it was better to eat something before the next half of the evening decided to have the buffet cleared away for yet another photo.
From the other side, Ilya was heading purposefully towards the same buffet island. He was just as uninterested in company, just as determined to spend a moment dealing with something edible rather than with people. At the very same moment, both reached for the same narrow silver tongs beneath the same row of salmon.
There was a brief standstill.
Shane looked first at the tongs, then at Ilya.
“Of course,” he said.
Ilya didn’t let go of the tongs and remarked dryly that Brits apparently considered buffets their natural sphere of influence as well.
Shane pulled the tongs a centimetre towards him.
“This is salmon,” said Ilya. “Not Iceland.”
Shane held his ground long enough for two older female sponsors nearby to glance over briefly and then very deliberately turn back to each other, so that the evening remained socially intact.
Shane said, “We could both just pretend we’re adults.”
“It’s too late for that, because we’re wearing skates for money,” was Ilya’s response. 
Shane let go.
Ilya lifted two slices of salmon onto his plate, a barely visible shadow of triumph on his face. Then he pushed the serving spoon back with unexpected generosity.
“Is that the Russian form of a truce?”
“No,” said Ilya. “That’s the Soviet version of development aid: you look as though you haven’t eaten anything decent since the yeast dumplings at Chestnut Mountains.”
Shane looked at him for a moment. There was that old shared understanding, fleetingly present and then immediately neatly tucked away again. Then he too helped himself to some salmon.
“Romantic,” he said.
Ilya replied, “Don’t complain, that’s the nicest thing I’m going to say to you today.”
They now stood side by side at the buffet, each with a plate, both officially busy enough that a brief conversation seemed socially innocent. Beside them, the newly smoothed ice could be seen on the monitors encircling the ballroom. Shane took a piece of bread, too casually. Ilya took a slice of lime, which he popped into his mouth whole.
Shane asked, “Do you know the woman in green?”
Ilya didn’t look at him straight away. He was cutting the salmon with too much concentration to give away that the question interested him, and asked in return, “Which of the thirty? 
“The one who looks as though she could insult a country without raising her voice.” Shane pointed cautiously with his fork in Anya’s direction. She was talking to two Danish celebrities and the Japanese scientist.
A tiny twitch played around Ilya’s mouth. He knew immediately who Shane meant.
“No,” he said with deliberately blunt masculinity. “But if you want, I can go and meet her and tell you all about it later.”
Shane rolled her eyes in annoyance, but with a touch too much jealousy for Ilya to have taken it merely as a joke.
Ilya explained: “Our manager said the woman in green is from Rosatom, the state atomic energy agency of the Russian Soviet Republic. She’s quite a looker, isn’t she? I wouldn’t turn her down, given her figure. And because she’s Russian. After all, I want to support the motherland.”
Shane turned his head towards him and said, “That’s the daftest thing I’ve heard all day.”
“You say that at a party where people are marvelling at plastic waste artworks and a Danish state secretary is talking about ocean ethics.”
Shane chuckled briefly. “She wanted something from me. She even wanted to take me back to her hotel room!”
Ilya replied, “That would have been a disappointment for the lady in green, or at least a surprise. She’s certainly not here for the ice ballet.”
Shane stabbed the salmon with his fork, as if he could punish the fish for Ilya’s jibes.
“What did she want from you, then: your face for a nuclear campaign? Your nationality for a change of allegiance? Or the rights to your boredom?” Ilya grinned and pushed a second slice of lime onto his plate.
“Your not-boring Soviet Union,” said Shane.
Now Ilya looked at him after all. “Did you sell out?”
Shane replied, “You know my mother handles the contracts.”
That was dry enough that Ilya almost had to smile again. “Mothers and secret services are equally dangerous. Only mothers are less likely to call you back.”
Ilya never usually spoke of mothers because he’d lost his own. That signalled to Shane that something was wrong here. Shane looked at his plate, then across the hall, then briefly across the room towards Anya, who was pointedly talking to an older sponsor and had just handed her a fancy business card.
Shane lowered his voice and said, “She knew about the puck that Danish idiot gave me.”
Ilya’s gaze remained calm, but the focus in it sharpened. “Then it wasn’t a fan gift, though I know you like it when strange men slip things into your pocket.”
Shane checked to see if anyone was standing close enough to the salmon to overhear. 
“This time even I noticed,” he said, slightly sourly.
“Congratulations,” said Ilya.
A waiter squeezed his way between two sponsors. Glasses clinked softly. A woman in a pearl collar asked for more dill sauce as if the stability of Europe depended on it.
Shane lowered his voice even further. “If Anya’s Russian and you don’t know who she is — is that reassuring or bad?”
Ilya said, “Both.”
Shane nodded as if he’d expected precisely that useless answer. Then he noticed something over Ilya’s shoulder.
Anya was approaching, feigning a casual search for a plate at the buffet with that precisely measured directness that betrayed the fact she’d already found her target. Her gaze fell first on Shane, then on Ilya. Then to the fact that both of them were standing at the same buffet with plates, as if this were a perfectly ordinary international Ocean Cleanup event.
Shane followed her gaze, froze for half a moment, and then made a decision with the speed of a man who lived by instinct on the ice.
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
Then he set down his half-full plate and headed straight for the toilets.
Ilya looked at the plate and watched him go. Anya was now only a few steps away. Ilya watched Shane for just a moment, then muttered, deliberately sarcastically and very pleased with himself: “Transatlantic.”
By the time Anya reached him, Shane had already made his exit.
“Did Mr Hollander just leave you here with the fish, Captain Rozanov?”
Ilya sat up straight and retorted, “That decadent Brit? He takes too much and then leaves half of it, typical capitalist West and bourgeois decadence.”
Anya took a plate and placed an egg and a slice of salmon on it, along with a blini topped with caviar. Then she asked, “Do you know Mr Hollander better?”
Ilya took his glass of vodka from the buffet, glanced briefly at the spot where Shane had disappeared, downed it in one go, and then looked back at her. Now the conversation was official. And Shane was no longer there to defuse the situation.
Anya looked at Ilya over the edge of her plate.
“You defeated him and the CVP today. Yet you stood peacefully at the buffet. He didn’t run away from you. He ran away from my question.”
Ilya placed another lime peel neatly on his tongue. Only after he had swallowed it did he reply.
“Then you probably ask good questions.”
“Or inappropriate ones.”
“In this ballroom, almost everything is inappropriate that doesn’t taste of marine ecology. That’s his style.”
Now Anya did look at him, like someone assessing whether a useful adult stood before her or just another decorated form of muscle mass.
“You watched him down on the ice. Then from above, from the VIP platform. Then back down here at the buffet. That’s either habit or concern.”
“Or boredom,” said Ilya. “I need to know my opponents. But Hollander is just boring. The Ghanaian in his team was a far more dangerous striker. And the British goalkeeper wasn’t easy to outmanoeuvre.”
“Boredom looks different.”
Ilya took another sip of vodka from a fresh glass. The music from the hall changed. On the screens, a silver plastic jellyfish was being dragged across the ice, as if the salvation of the oceans depended on good props. The orchestra struck up Vivaldi’s “Sovente il sole” from Andromeda liberata. Accompanied by a small glitter show, a star tenor stepped onto the ice, dressed as a Baroque Sun King, and began to sing.
“And you?” asked Ilya. “Do you always count the glances when you’re invited?”
“Only when other people start sending messages across the ice.” Anya listened for a moment, then raised her eyebrows slightly. “Oh, interesting. That’s Dinmukhammed Qanatuly Qudaibergen. Stromberg brought the world-famous Kazakh here.”
That hit home.
Ilya’s expression barely changed. Only the complete lightness in it vanished.
“Perhaps athletes text each other,” he said. “It’s said to happen, as a distraction. I always get messages before the match too.”
“Of course. From Shane as well?”
“How would I have got his number?” Ilya looked pointedly down at the salmon. “The Kazakh sings really well.”
“Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov,” said Anya calmly. “I knew your grandfather.”
There was a brief pause. Not because Ilya was surprised, but because he now knew she’d seen enough to be dangerous. He picked up a slice of salmon with his fork without eating it.
“I only knew him briefly,” he said. “He got me into playing hockey and the ice. Did he recruit you too?”
He feigned a glance at her physique and tried to sound witty.
“Not quite,” said Anya. “He recruited me as a girl for the other company he worked for.”
She looked for something on the buffet island, then took a slice of lime herself and placed it on her plate.
Ilya’s eyes widened. Instinctively, he glanced towards the toilet door, behind which Shane had disappeared what felt like an eternity ago.
“Naive men are often more useful than those in the know,” said Anya. “Hollander was slipped something by a Danish scientist that he can’t make head nor tail of. But Mother Soviet Union certainly can.”
Ilya now looked at her directly. For the first time, without looking away.
“Hollander isn’t a courier.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he’s too visible for that sort of thing. And too bad at lying.”
Anya let the sentence hang for a moment, ate a piece of salmon with lime and looked as unremarkable as any other woman at this gala.
“You like him.”
“No.”
He cleared his throat, took a sip of vodka and set the glass down.
“But I like it even less when people drag a player into something that has nothing to do with the ice.”
Anya glanced briefly at the screens again before taking a stuffed egg from the buffet. The plastic waste sculptures now stood like little artificial islands on the white surface. Two officials were already applauding, even though nothing had started yet.
“You sound as if you want to protect him.”
“Perhaps I just don’t want stupid people putting pressure on the boring Brit.”
“And I thought Russians were pragmatic.”
“We are. That’s precisely why I’m saying it.”
Anya took a small bite of the blini. Caviar, butter, cold.
“Then be pragmatic. What exactly are you telling me?”
Ilya raised his glass briefly. Not as a grand gesture. More because he didn’t want to have both hands free for the next sentence, even though he wasn’t using them.
“Leave Shane alone!”
He hesitated and visibly considered whether the next word was wise, mad or treacherous.
“Please.”
Anya didn’t reply straight away.
Ilya continued: “If there’s anything Hollander has, I’ll take it from him and bring it to you. He won’t ask questions. If you need information, I’ll get you information. For example, what that Swiss rat at the hotel really wants tonight—the one who’s been talking to all the team managers.”
The word “Swiss” sounded almost like a swear word. Anya took note of it.
“Do you mean the embezzler Pjetre de Vraas? Or the tax optimiser Valé?”
“I mean the man who looks as if he’d even resell his cufflinks.”
There was a hint of dryness in his tone, just enough to show that Ilya wasn’t improvising, but had made a decision. Anya had also noticed that, following his brief emotional slip-up in which he’d called Hollander by his first name, he’d put his armour back on.
“And why should you do that for me?”
“Because you’re Russian. And because this, if it has anything to do with energy, shouldn’t end up with a British sportsman or some Swiss dealer. You work for Rosatom, don’t you?”
Anya looked at him for a moment. Now genuinely interested.
“Is that your appeal to Soviet-Russian solidarity?”
“Call it what you like. Solidarity. Patriotism. Leninism. Efficiency. I don’t care, as long as you understand that Hollander isn’t the right man for this.”
“And are you?”
“At least I’m not surprised that lies are being told tonight.”
A waiter stepped briefly between them, apologised, set down two fresh vodka glasses and disappeared again with the silent elegance of well-trained staff.
Then Magnus arrived, stood beside them and piled eight slices of salmon into a tower on his plate.
Anya glanced casually at the monstrous pile of fish, then back at Ilya.
“If I take him out of the game, I might lose direct access to what Lind has distributed.”
“Then don’t look for the carrier. Look for whoever thought they could use Hollander without anyone noticing.”
“He’s vanished. A dead end.”
“What did the missing man give him? I’ll get hold of it.”
No pathos, just determination.
Magnus raised his head.
“Who’s vanished?”
Anya affectionately pulled Ilya along with her.
“We were just about to slip away so we could have a more private conversation.”
Magnus gave Ilya an appreciative nod and then returned with his full plate of fish and a glass of vodka to the group of Austrian cadets, who were being fobbed off with raspberry juice and prawn skewers.
“By the way, congratulations on the victory, Captain Rozanow!” he called out.
But Ilya couldn’t hear him anymore. Anya nudged him towards the exit.
“So you do know Mr Hollander better after all? Why would he give you anything?”
“Because certain things stand out when you’ve played against the same person often enough.”
Anya nodded almost imperceptibly: it wasn’t romance, it wasn’t a confession, but it was enough to keep working with.
“Good,” she said. “Then I’ll put it more precisely.”
She placed her plate on the edge of a bar table and took half a step closer. “If Mr Hollander is stupid, he’s harmless. If he’s naive, he’s useful. If he’s in the know, he becomes a problem for me.”
Ilya couldn’t bear her gaze and looked down at the floor. Words like a knife.
“Then spare yourself the third scenario. He’s not one of your people. He’s a hockey player.”
“Hockey players are often more than that once the money gets big enough.”
“Not this one.”
The sentence came out too quickly. Anya heard exactly what she wanted to hear: not just information, but investment.
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Yes.”
“That makes you either loyal or blind. ”
“Perhaps I’m just better informed than you. I only recently played against him in Illinois.”
A brief grin played around Anya’s mouth.
“Then fill me in!”
“Not here.”
She looked towards the buffet, the sponsors, the WEO representative, the glass front, and Ravn, who was standing further back with two journalists. Ilya was ready for the next move.
“You make offers as if you’ve had practice at it,” said Anya.
“No. I’m making an exception tonight.”
Polite applause rose from above. Curling on plastic waste had apparently begun. A woman next to the lobster stand exclaimed enthusiastically, “How original,” as if criticism of civilisation in the form of stage props hadn’t already been loved often enough by rich people.
“And if I still don’t take my eyes off Shane?”
“Then I’ll assume you’re not interested in a solution.”
“That almost sounds like a threat.”
“I can’t threaten someone like you,” said Ilya. “But perhaps satisfy you. Like a working relationship?”
She looked at him. Then up at the screens. Then to where Shane had disappeared.
She hadn’t had enough yet, but enough to reassess the situation: Shane wasn’t the planner. Shane wasn’t the buyer. Shane wasn’t even a good liar. Shane was the wrapping. And Ilya was the man who would tear the paper off the parcel because it bothered him.
“Fine,” said Anya. “Then get me the material and come to Suite 365 on the third floor!”
Ilya didn’t even nod visibly.
“And you’ll leave him alone for now?”
“For now is a lovely Russian word,” said Anya, before heading for the lifts.
“Actually, no.”
For the first time, she really smiled.
Ilya looked once more in the direction Shane had disappeared into.
“Please don’t be any more stupid than necessary,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Then he typed into his mobile phone, “Suite 169 in ten minutes!”