At his feet was a basket of food, some of which he had unpacked and was eating. He gnawed at a piece of sausage and held a bottle of champagne in his other hand. He rolled his head to face me, groggy with pleasure. “Mr. Halifax,” he drawled. “So good of you to come.” “Explain this,” I said. I was in no mood to trade jokes with him. I was angry at Pankratov for his blindness about Valya, and angry at my own helplessness in front of Dietrich. “We’re going to a party,” said Fleury, his words sloppy from drink, “and the people who invited us have also sent a gift.” He waved his hand crookedly over the basket, like an arthritic magician performing some kind of trick. “All that you see here.” I thought he was joking. He must have spent a fortune on some black market deal. One glance at the contents of the basket—chocolate, gourmet cheese, two bottles of good wine, another bottle of champagne—and I knew he had done something illegal to get them. It didn’t surprise me that he’d gotten his hands on the stuff.
