Tom thought the woman climbing from the front was a chauffeur until he registered the braid on her shoulders and her peaked hat. Her uniform looked new. Although Tom doubted if anything straight off the peg would come with creases quite that sharp. Her shoes were sensible, though, stretched across the instep and slightly down at the heel. They were polished to a high shine. She stared at him doubtfully. ‘You’re late.’ ‘I was shaving.’ ‘Not well, from the look of it.’ Putting his hand to his ear, Tom felt a sticky patch where he’d nicked himself with the dry blade. He should have been another ten minutes late to see the ambassador and done it properly. Did he look as English to the Russian as she looked Russian to him? Not slight like a gymnast, or thickset like a shot-putter, but compact and stern, her fair hair folded into a complicated braid. ‘At the gate. What did that woman say?’ ‘Mary? She said not to trust you.’ ‘Good advice. We won’t be trusting you.’ Tom grinned despite himself and the woman looked offended.
