Blood Stones by Evelyn Anthony Page A

rat Reece was adamant. Fraser was Julius’s choice. Not even preference – choice! I made it absolutely plain I didn’t like the idea or see the necessity, but he insisted. I even suggested that Palmer girl – you don’t know her, darling, she’s in the finance department – but Reece had already asked Fraser, and she’d said yes. I don’t know what Kruger felt about it. Pissed off, I should think—’
    â€˜Not as pissed off as I am,’ Elizabeth said. ‘She’s awful. God, I’m not having her round my neck, I promise you—’
    â€˜You won’t have any contact at all,’ he protested. ‘She’s strictly office hours. We don’t have to mix with her socially. Look, you don’t think I like the idea, do you? Kruger’s bimbo stuck under my nose, watching everything and running back to him with details. Why Julius picked her I’ll never know.’
    But he did know. Because she was the most competent, business-orientated woman in the London office, and also, without her at his elbow, Dick Kruger would be less effective. He decided not to labour the point with Elizabeth. She had few faults in his eyes, but one of them was a difficult temper when it was roused. And strong prejudices, which ruled out women who broke up thirty-year marriages. He sighed, ‘Don’t make an issue, Liz, please. I’ve told you, you don’t have to see her … I had to take her. It was an order, not a suggestion.’
    â€˜All right.’ Elizabeth shrugged. ‘I don’t mean to be difficult … it’s none of my business who acts as your secretary. Sorry, darling. It’s just that I saw Valerie Kruger when I was lunching with Mum. Now, let’s have a look at this palace you’ve picked out for us to live in …’
    All was harmony again between them.
    Ray Andrews had booked into the hotel in Moscow. He had an appointment to see the British Ambassador at eleven that morning. He had slept badly, he had indigestion from the heavy and over-spiced Russian food he’d eaten the night before, and he’d rid his comb of yet more of his thinning hair. Susan was always going on at him, saying not to wear a hat because he was going bald. He had told her very calmly that, for that very reason, he preferred to cover his head with a trilby or a cap. She hadn’t listened, because she still said the same thing afterwards. In her mind hats and hair loss were synonymous. They’d spoken on the telephone when he arrived. She’d sounded cheerful, which relieved him, and there was nothing gone wrong in the few hours since he’d left home. He loved her, and he knew she hated being on her own. He wondered sometimes what she’d do if he died, then put the thought away. He was sick of travelling himself, now. He’d spent such a large part of his working life on planes. He knew every major airport and a lot of minor ones. He’d travelled dusty pot-holed roads in Africa and twelve-lane highways in the States, stayed at luxury hotels and rat holes where there wasn’t enough water to wash in, and malarial mosquitoes buzzed round the room all night. He had enjoyed it then, he was young and filled with a sense of adventure; he didn’t enjoy it any more. He had come to a career stop, and his home and family life were more important now, perhaps because of that. He was honest enough to admit the likelihood. Moscow held no charms for him. Five years ago he’d done the tourist bit and walked through the riches of the Kremlin – day after day of them – when he was waiting for an appointment with the senior trade official in the Russian Nuclear Energy Ministry, the ministry responsible for all mining development.
    The negotiations had ended in disaster, casualties of the upheaval in Russian political affairs; now he was expected to resurrect them. He felt a lack of confidence in his own ability to