An Agent of Deceit

by Chris Morgan Jones

  ‘How will you get down?’

  ‘I’ll jump. I’ll be fine. It’s the first thing I’ve done for myself in fifteen years.’

  He kissed her, and as he turned to walk away she took his hand in hers and held it for a moment; at her touch his bravado faded and he fought the urge to stay.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said at last.

  No one had raked the grass and wet leaves squelched under his feet. In a moment he was on the sloped roof of the shed, and the top of the wall was level with his chest; he pulled himself up and sat, feeling damp seep through the seat of his trousers. Marina was still watching him. He waved to her, let himself down the other side so that he was hanging from his fingertips, and let himself drop.

  He landed in a bush, scratching a calf in the process and falling backwards onto his back. He raised himself up on his elbows and lay there for a moment in the muddy earth with rain falling on his face. Sweet London rain. He stood up, brushed himself off and in no great hurry walked towards Kensington High Street. He took inventory. He had the clothes he was in, damp around the backside from his fall but otherwise serviceable; his passport; his wallet, with around four hundred pounds in various currencies; the letter from Marina; and three mobile phones, which he should now turn off. He had read that you could be traced through your phone whether or not it was switched on – even listened to. He stopped and took the batteries out of each, keeping the bits separate in his pockets.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in an empty park at night. It made him feel like a teenager. His overcoat gave little protection and the trees had now lost nearly all their leaves, but he didn’t mind being wet and walked across the huge expanse of grass with his face turned up to the sky. His trousers flapped coldly round his calves in the steady wind. Around the edges of the park lay London like a thin border.

  As Holland Park narrowed towards the street he began to wonder how he was going to scale the fence at the end. What if it was huge? He couldn’t remember what was there. Through the trees he could see a stretch of wall and a fence behind some thick bushes. It looked high enough to be a struggle, but not worse. As he got closer, though, he saw open arches set into the wall, and in the end he just walked out into Kensington, feeling as light as a cloud.

  Newly free, Lock was surprised that he seemed to know what to do. It was half past twelve. No flights, no trains to Paris, probably no trains anywhere. Tonight he would hide in London. He walked up Kensington High Street until he found a bank and drew as much money as he could from its cashpoint machine. Then he walked down a side street away from the park, south towards Earls Court. Here he saw no one. There were few lights showing in the mansion blocks that lined the streets; London had gone to bed. Occasionally a car passed and he controlled the urge to turn and look at it. On the Cromwell Road he stood for a minute or two and then hailed a taxi, telling it to take him to Victoria.

  He asked the driver to stop by the train station, paid him, tipping him well, and set off in search of a hotel. On the main streets he passed large business hotels, bland and anonymous enough, but they weren’t what he wanted. Eventually he turned down a narrow side road where every house was a guest house: en suite bathrooms as standard, TV in every room. Through their glass doors he could see striped wallpaper and dirty brown carpets, beech veneer furniture and bright strip lights, but no guests or staff, no people at all. Signs hanging in front windows told him which had vacancies. He wondered who stayed in these places, and realized he had no idea. Salesmen? Refugees of one kind or another? Money-launderers on the run?

  He walked back down the row and found one that looked neater than the others. The Hotel Carlisle. There were geraniums, a little tatty, growing in pots on the windowsills and its entrance hall was warmly lit by a standard lamp.

  At his ring a brisk, unsmiling woman came to the door. It took her under a minute to take his money and tell him where to find room 28. He told her he was Mr Alan Norman, a name that as he said it sounded so strikingly unconvincing that he felt sure that she would question it, but she showed no interest and to his relief didn’t ask to see his passport. No one would find him here.

  Room 28, at the rear of the house, looked out over the backs of other Georgian houses and a mess of light industrial units and warehouses. It was small: there was enough room for two single beds, a bedside table in between them, and a pine wardrobe so close to a bed that its door only opened a foot. The walls were covered in woodchip paper painted over in a sickly fluorescent green, and in a corner a heavily shaded ceiling light spotlit the navy covers of one of the beds, leaving everything else in gloom. The advertised en suite contained a shower with a worn plastic concertina screen and a tiny basin that overhung the toilet. There was no television after all.

  Lock took it all in and was pleased. It was clean enough, and it was his. He took off his coat, hung it on the back of the door and lay down on the bed. He was happy with this newly basic existence but there were things he wanted. He would have liked a bottle of whisky, and some pyjamas. Maybe he would ask the woman downstairs if there was anything to drink. Still, it was just one night. Tomorrow he would catch a train to Newhaven and from there a boat to Dieppe. Then he would hire a car, drive to Switzerland, withdraw all his money and disappear somewhere for a good long time. Go and see Onder in Istanbul and see about a new passport. Onder must know someone; he was the sort of man that would. And then on, somewhere unexpected and a little chaotic. Indonesia, perhaps, one of the remoter islands. Or Vanuatu. The end of the earth.

  What would happen then? Malin would look for him. Maybe the FBI would look for him. Perhaps the Swiss. He had forgotten the Swiss. What had Rast said, so unflappably? ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, Richard, but maybe you can make use of it. The Swiss prosecutor thinks you have an interesting business, and is becoming very curious.’ That was part of it. What if the Swiss detained him at the border? What if they already had enough on him? They could alert the Russians and ship me back home. God. If he had been clever he would have asked Bashaev to find out what the Swiss were doing.

  There were other problems with his plan. Could you take that much money out of a Swiss bank? Yes, he was sure you could. He had read stories about people leaving Switzerland with far more than the eight or nine million that he had in there. But what was that money, if they stopped him at the border? Where did it come from? How did he explain it? And how was he planning to carry it around: in a suitcase? To Istanbul? And then, and then: let’s say all this worked and he reached Sulawesi, how long would it be before Malin tracked him down? Horkov would know about his disappearance soon – by the morning, he guessed, when Ivan and Arkady finally realized that he wasn’t in Marina’s flat. Even having Horkov on your side was terrifying; Horkov and his people tracking you for all time was paralysing.

  His head was aching now as the vodka faded. He could feel the muscles in his shoulders tight against his neck and his back hurt. Who was he to escape? In Russia he had grown fat and timid and no longer had instincts he could trust. It was like releasing a pet dog into the wild. And if he made it, what then? A lifetime of the fear he was feeling now.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Webster came home a little after midnight. He undressed in the bathroom and got into bed as quietly as he could, sliding under the duvet and lying on his front. Elsa was already asleep. He lay there for a moment listening to her breathing, slow and deep. She was on her side, facing him, and he could feel her breath on his neck.

  ‘Is it over yet?’ she said in a low mumble.

  ‘I thought you were sleeping.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Sorry. No. He went to his wife’s. Ex-wife’s. He’s still there.’

  ‘I wonder if they’re asleep.’

  Webster kissed her on the forehead, turned onto his side and watched the light from the street lamps creep in around the blinds. Lock would be in bed by now, lying awake, no doubt, and considering his choice. He had to be.

  The next m
orning he woke early, before Nancy and Daniel, who were surprised to see him up when they came down for breakfast. He made them French toast with honey and ate two pieces himself. His phone sat on the kitchen table, fully charged and ready for another day of precise little messages from George Black. There had been one this morning, sent at half past six: ‘Refreshed team. Subject still at wife’s residence. Unknown surveillance in place with same team and car.’ Last night the mysterious Ford had followed Lock to Holland Park, to an address Webster recognized as Marina Lock’s, and George had sat discreetly behind it.

  Then nothing for hours. Webster walked the children to school across the park. The rain was now falling as a soft drizzle, and their bright coats shone in the grey light. He didn’t want to go to the office. There was little point in being there. He could go to Holland Park, to be close to events, but there was no good reason for that, either. In the end, rather aimlessly, he set off walking into the city, wondering whether Lock’s reunion with his wife was a good or a bad thing. If he was trying to engage with his old life that was surely good. Webster realized with surprise that he was pleased for him.

  It was half past ten and he had reached New Bond Street when his phone rang.

  ‘George, good morning. How is it?’

  ‘We’re not sure, Ben. We think we may have had a loss.’ Christ. He checked the urge to shout.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well. You’ll appreciate, Ben, there’s a lot of activity in the vicinity. There’s us watching the Ford and the Volvo and we’ve had to stay a long way back to make sure we’re not detected. Luckily it’s a nice wide-ish street with a sweep to it otherwise I’m not sure we’d have caught it at all.’ George waited for comment but Webster said nothing. ‘So, nothing happened all night. We assumed he’d emerge some time around eight or nine, and we changed the team early to be ready. But there was no movement. Then at 10.13 one of the men from the Volvo, one of the bodyguards, got out and went up the steps to the house. He was stood in the porch for thirty seconds or so and then he went inside. A minute and a half later he ran out of the house and down the stairs, into the Volvo and off onto Holland Park Road, heading west. The Ford followed, and we had the bike on them. But they turned off up Ladbroke Grove, and halfway down they timed the lights beautifully, took a right and there was no way we could make it. In short we lost them. From the way they did it I’d say we’d been compromised.’

  ‘The Ford made you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So where are you now?’

  ‘I’m outside Claridge’s. Our two subjects from the Volvo are in there now.’

  ‘And where the hell is he?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ben. There’s no way he could’ve got out the front door. Not with all those eyes on him. Through people’s gardens perhaps? Or over the wall into the park.’

  ‘Holland Park?’

  ‘Holland Park.’

  Webster thought for a moment. He could be anywhere. He could be on a train to France or seven miles above the Atlantic. ‘Keep an eye on the Volvo. Make that your priority. Have someone at the wife’s house in case he comes back. What else?’

  ‘Nothing useful.’

  ‘All right. Stay in touch.’

  ‘Sorry, Ben.’

  ‘That’s OK. Listen, George, there’s one thing you can do. See if you can find out what card Lock’s using to pay his bill.’

  He hung up. Christ, this was finely balanced – and agonizing with it. If Lock had run, that was good because he needed somewhere to run to. But if they couldn’t find him that was useless; and if Malin found him first that would be worse. He dialled the travel agent. Richard Lock hadn’t booked himself on any flights that morning. That was something. Then he rang Yuri.

  Yuri was a Ukrainian who had once worked for the KGB and then for the SZRU, Ukraine’s foreign intelligence agency. He had retired from government service years before, and now ran a small intelligence company in Antwerp specializing in what he called on his website ‘technical solutions to information problems’. Much of what he did was bug things: cars, offices, houses, hotel rooms. Today Webster wanted him for something else. Yuri had a means of locating mobile phone signals, to within any particular cell, anywhere in Europe and most of the Middle East. Webster only used it in emergencies, and this qualified. He had no idea how it worked, and didn’t particularly want to find out. He gave Yuri Lock’s telephone number, a Moscow mobile, told him it was urgent and asked him to see what he could do.

  As he hung up his phone immediately rang.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Ben, it’s George. We’ve checked at the hotel, discreetly, and he hasn’t checked out of his room. One of the bodyguards went off in the car. The other one’s still in there. We decided to stay put. I’m working on the credit card.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  Webster ended the call and held the phone in his lap. After twenty seconds it rang again. He picked it up without checking the number.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is this Ben Webster?’ A voice he didn’t recognize.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘This is Richard Lock.’ Webster felt his heart quicken. He didn’t say anything. He took the phone from his ear for a moment and looked at the screen: it was a London number, a landline. ‘I thought . . . I thought it might be useful to talk through our positions.’ Lock’s voice was smaller than it had been the night before, but businesslike.

  ‘Yes,’ said Webster. ‘I’m sure it would.’ He paused to let Lock talk.

  ‘I’m concerned that we may be missing opportunities for a settlement.’

  ‘Where are you calling from? You’re still in London?’

  ‘Yes. How did you . . . yes, I’m in London today.’

  ‘The number showed up on my phone. Shall we meet?’

  Lock hesitated. ‘Er, yes. Yes. I have meetings this afternoon but I’m free now for an hour or two. Somewhere neutral, perhaps.’

  ‘Claridge’s?’

  ‘Probably better somewhere we won’t be seen.’ Of course.

  ‘Yes.’ Webster thought for a moment. He was slightly unprepared. He needed somewhere entirely out of the way. He should have planned this. ‘Let me see. OK, I know. Take a cab to Lisson Grove, and get out where it meets Church Street. There’s a cafe on the left about a hundred yards down. I can’t remember its name but no businessman has ever been there. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Church Street. I may be a little longer. How will I know you?’

  ‘I’ll be wearing a suit. See you shortly.’

  Webster turned and with new purpose walked north, looking over his shoulder for taxis. He called George, and Hammer, who was entertained.

  ‘What are you planning to do with him?’

  ‘Get him to see the light.’

  Hammer laughed. ‘I’d say he’s already seen it.’

  Church Street was five minutes north of Marylebone but somehow a different London altogether. This was a place where people lived rather than worked. It was lined with stalls selling fish in polystyrene boxes, fruit and vegetables in one-pound plastic bowls, women’s coats tightly packed on circular racks, floor polish and washing-up liquid in plastic crates. One stall was given over to gloves in black leather or wool of every colour, another to earrings and bracelets strewn across a table in cellophane packets like squares of ice. It was dry now but a cold wind blew steadily down the street and the market was quiet. Webster ducked between two stalls through to the row of shops behind and found the cafe. Enzo’s Market Café. Its window frames were painted pale blue and chipped in places to a dull grey beneath, and in the windows themselves pictures of food, all yellows and oranges and reds, displayed what you could eat if you held your nerve and went in.

  Inside, Enzo’s was thick with the smell of frying and old oil. Webster ordered himself a mug of tea, took it to a Formica table fixed to the far wall and sat facing the door, busying himself with his BlackBerry so that he would look occupied when Lock ar
rived. By the window an old man wearing a shapeless brown tweed jacket was closely inspecting a newspaper that he had spread out over the whole table; against the other wall, by the door, two women in thick quilted coats, propped up straight in their chairs, talked about the fortunes of the market. They were the only people there apart from the young man behind the till who looked as if he must be Enzo’s son. Lock would make six.

  He arrived ten minutes later, self-conscious, his forehead sweating. Webster stood up to greet him. This was Lock, but not the Lock of the magazine pictures he had seen. He was tall, six foot or thereabouts – the pictures had made him look shorter. He was wearing a well-cut overcoat in heavy navy wool but he was anything but smart: he had a day’s growth of sandy beard, his shoes looked damp and his grey flannel trousers, badly creased, had light sprays of dried mud around the ankles. He seemed less fleshy than in the photographs, less smooth, and his eyes were tired.

  ‘Mr Webster.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Mr Lock.’ Webster took it. It was cold and dry. Lock looked hard at Webster for a moment, as if to establish that they were there as equals and that he shouldn’t assume otherwise.

  Webster broke the silence. ‘What can I get you? I’m afraid this isn’t quite what you’re used to.’

  ‘No. That’s fine. A cup of tea, please.’

  Webster ordered and they sat, Lock keeping his coat on.

  ‘Do you have a phone, Mr Webster?’ Webster nodded. ‘Could I ask you to switch it off and take out the battery? It’s probably silly but in Russia you get used to doing it.’

  Webster was used to this with Russians; no one else seemed to do it. He told Lock that was fine, and spent a moment trying to slide the back off his BlackBerry. Eventually it gave; he removed its battery, did the same with his regular phone, sat back and let Lock start.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ said Lock, scratching at the beard on his chin. His breath was rich and stale, as if he had been eating too much meat. ‘I wouldn’t have . . . This isn’t for pleasure, you understand. I think we may be able to help each other.’ He paused. ‘You’ve been busy these last few weeks.’