An Agent of Deceit

by Chris Morgan Jones

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘It’s a serious idea. But you need to decide whether it’s good. I’m not pushing it.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Christ. What sort of a world do you live in? Is every day like this?’ He stared at Webster. ‘Running around, dreaming up plans? Let me ask you something. When do you start to play? Or do you just move the pieces around?’ Webster didn’t reply. With a will he held Lock’s gaze. ‘Tell me. If I’d have died, what would you have done? Found another me? Sent someone else off to the front line? Fuck, Ben, if it wasn’t for you I’d still be in Moscow and none of this would be happening. Would that be so bad? So Malin’s bent. So what? So the fuck what? Everyone’s bent. Tourna’s bent, Jesus. He’s worse. And all those blue-chip companies, you think they haven’t got someone like me to hide things, help them avoid tax? They’ve got legions of them. I’m just one man. And I’m not fucking dispensable, all right?’

  ‘This was always going to happen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This was always going to happen. You can’t keep stuff like this hidden. It comes out.’

  ‘And you just help it along? Is that it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Lock laughed, a hard, sharp laugh. ‘That’s great. That’s noble of you. Ben,we both work for crooks. We play our parts, and that’s it. And if we didn’t, someone else would. That’s the world.’

  Webster put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the ground. He didn’t feel like defending himself; didn’t feel that he could. Lock was right. It was time he stopped dressing this up.

  He sighed and looked Lock in the eye. ‘Look. I’m sorry. I underestimated Malin. That was my mistake. Perhaps you . . . you could take Dmitry’s files to Malin. To show your loyalty. You’d be back in the fold.’

  Lock shook his head. ‘No. No. That’s not what I want. Christ, Ben, you can’t lead me this far and then send me back. I’m not the same man. I can’t do it any more.’

  Webster was quiet.

  ‘Is that the idea?’ said Lock.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How risky is it?’

  ‘I told you. That’s for you to decide.’

  ‘No. You’re in this too. Let’s go inside. Christ knows I’m in no hurry to get in a car. We decide together.’

  Webster sat down in an armchair in the corner of his room and reached into his briefcase. He took out his phone, a straightforward Nokia, and pressed a combination of keys.

  Lock sat on the bed and watched. Webster put the phone down on the coffee table in front of him. A voice started playing over its speaker.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me . . . I wouldn’t have . . . This isn’t for pleasure, you understand. I think we may be able to help each other.’ A pause. Lock looked at Webster. ‘You’ve been busy these last few weeks . . . I’m beginning to wish that we’d hired you first.’ Another pause. ‘But what concerns me is that after Paris there’s . . . there’s no clarity.’

  As the words continued to play Lock said, ‘What is this? Is that me?’

  Webster nodded.

  ‘. . . I think the best ending for everybody will be agreed outside court. Except the lawyers, perhaps.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘. . . hurting my business and costing Aristotle money. A fortune if his fees are as bad as ours.’

  Webster leaned forward and picked up the phone. He pressed a button and the voice stopped.

  ‘When people find out what I do they want to know if I have any gadgets. I always say no. This is the only one. A man in Belgium made it for me. Gave it to me, actually. He was rather pleased with it.’

  ‘I should have frisked you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have found anything. This was on the table.’

  Lock shook his head. ‘Can I see?’

  Webster handed the phone over. ‘When you take the battery out, it starts recording. When you put it back in, it stops. It’s a brilliant idea. Mossad had it first, apparently.’

  Lock held the phone in his hand and inspected it closely. ‘What I could have done with this.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s my idea.’

  Lock looked up. ‘This?’

  ‘Part of it.’ Lock waited, still toying with the phone. Webster went on. ‘What’s the worst thing Malin has done?’

  ‘We don’t know. That’s the point. Unless you count destroying my life.’

  ‘Quite. He tried to kill you. And we’re fairly sure he killed Gerstman. But the only evidence we’ve got is you, and the note that they left.’

  ‘What note?’

  ‘A suicide note. They left it in your hotel room.’

  ‘Jesus. What did it say?’

  ‘That you’d lost your family and your reputation, and that Dmitry’s death had sent you over the edge.’

  ‘Do you have it?’

  ‘Yes, I took it from the room and left a dummy in its place. It may have fooled them.’

  Lock nodded.

  ‘Do you want to see it?’ Webster said, leaning forward as if to get up.

  ‘Like seeing your own obituary,’ said Lock, as if to himself. He shook his head.

  Webster sat back. ‘But it won’t be enough. We can probably prove it’s not your handwriting, but there won’t be fingerprints and even if there were they wouldn’t help.’

  ‘So?’

  Webster collected himself. ‘Malin wants the dossier. He also wants you. If you go back to Russia we’ll never see you again. So we bring him here, control it very carefully, and you talk to him. You ask him why he tried to have you killed.’

  ‘He’ll never say anything.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what people will say when they know no one’s listening.’

  Lock thought for a moment.

  ‘He’ll never come.’

  ‘He will. He’ll come for you.’

  Lock looked down and smoothed the hair on the side of his head – twice, three times. ‘And what do I want?’

  ‘What do you tell him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That doesn’t really matter. The one thing that isn’t going to happen is that you hand over the dossier and he meets your demands.’

  ‘It might.’

  Webster considered this. He looked at Lock; his face was puffy, the skin on his cheeks still a sickly pale. ‘OK. We could play it like that. You can try for both. Or either. In any event it needs to sound convincing, I suppose. What would you ask for?’

  ‘A separation. I’d sell up. Or I’d look like I was selling up. He’d find a buyer and I’d sell to them. In return I’d want some money and a guarantee that he leave me alone.’

  ‘A guarantee?’

  Lock shrugged his shoulders. ‘I know. But if I’m gone and the story’s OK why draw attention to it by finishing me off?’

  Webster nodded slowly. He gave Lock a candid look. ‘We don’t have to do this. We can go back to London. Get you somewhere safe.’

  ‘I’m not really up to thinking.’ Lock stood up, one hand on the bed for balance. ‘I’m going to lie down.’

  ‘But if we do it, we should do it soon. You should call Malin today.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lock said yes. After an hour in his room he knew what his answer had to be.

  He had sat and watched the lake, like steel now under cloud that had moved steadily in from the west. It was overhung by black trees that looked sketched in charcoal; its furthest shore he couldn’t see.

  He had never been close to death before, and now that he had, he couldn’t remember it. Malin had robbed him even of that. But he knew that things had changed. His life – this sickly thing he had been living – had come to a point. In Berlin they had rendered him senseless, but in truth he had been senseless for years: serene, peaceful, a fool amongst knaves. To stumble to his death, unseeing and unthinking – that was the right way for that life to end. And it had. It was over. It wasn’t just that he could no longer bring himself to protect Malin; he could no longer
stand to protect his old self. The FBI, the Swiss, Tourna, the journalists, the joke-makers in Moscow: they could have him. They had been right all along and if they had to prove it, crow about it, then let them.

  Malin, though; Malin was his. Lock wanted that inflated, bullying life reduced, its power drained away, its crookedness laid bare. He wanted Malin to understand what it was to be nothing; to be a beggar; to be undone.

  He found Webster in the restaurant, the only person in the neat, bright dining room. The place smelled faintly of toast and fried bacon. Webster was stirring a cup of coffee, the spoon chinking against the side; only his table had a tablecloth.

  ‘You alone?’

  ‘They don’t serve lunch. Herr Maurer’s wife made me an omelette. I’m sure she’d do another.’

  Lock shook his head. ‘Just the smell in here is enough. Thank you.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Water.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Webster got up and went into the kitchen; he seemed to be making himself at home. Lock looked out of the window, which gave onto neat brick outbuildings by the side of the hotel. Herr Maurer was wheeling a tall white fridge on a trolley towards a white van whose doors were open at the back.

  Webster came back with a bottle of still water, a bottle of fizzy, a glass and a bowl of ice.

  ‘I didn’t know which you wanted.’

  ‘What do you think they gave me?’

  ‘They gave Dmitry something called GHB. It’s made of floor cleaner.’ Lock didn’t say anything. ‘But there was a bottle of gin in your room that I don’t remember seeing. Was that yours?’

  ‘No. No gin.’

  ‘Then they probably gave you quite a lot of that as well. If not from that particular bottle.’

  ‘That makes sense. I can taste it on my breath.’

  Webster held up the bottle of still water to Lock, who nodded.

  ‘We should do it.’

  Webster finished pouring and passed Lock the glass.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Utterly. I owe it to Nina. Not to mention Marina and Vika. Christ, and everybody else.’ He took a drink. He could feel it cool and mineral in his throat.

  Webster watched him, as if expecting more. Lock drank again.

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Then we have a lot to do.’

  Lock called Malin that night. Webster had written a script for him, and told him to keep his tone professional. This was a deal, like any other.

  Webster had bought new phones from town that afternoon. Six more; they were getting through them. He had also spent hours talking to people in London about the operation. Security people were flying out, and would be there that evening. Nina was going to stay with her sister in Graz. Lock marvelled at how precisely each move had to be plotted. He was coming to rely on Webster, he realized: swapping one controller for another.

  It was late in Moscow when he called. Malin would still be up, though. He slept little.

  The line rang five times before he answered.

  ‘Richard.’

  ‘Konstantin.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Somewhere you can’t find me for once.’ They spoke Russian.

  ‘I wish you would come home.’

  ‘It isn’t home any more, Konstantin. Let’s be honest, it never was.’ Webster, standing over Lock, tapped his finger on the script on the desk. Get on with it.

  ‘Richard, I am perhaps the one man anywhere who can protect you. Don’t listen to anyone else who says he can.’

  Lock glanced up at Webster, who nodded. ‘Konstantin, I have a proposal. I have something you want, and you have something I want. I have Dmitry’s file. I know you’ve been looking for it.’

  The script paused here to give Malin time to respond, but he said nothing.

  Lock went on. ‘I can promise you that you won’t find it unless I help you. I’m prepared to give it to you in return for my liberty and a sum of money to compensate me for the trouble you have caused me. I will also ensure a smooth handover of my ownership interests to a party of your choice. I would recommend a Russian entity of some kind.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Wait. I’m not finished. I will also undertake to talk to any law enforcement agency only about matters within my competence. I will not speculate about anything else. As Kesler will tell you, that won’t be enough to do you any harm. Not in Russia. I may not be so lucky but I’m happy to take that risk. Finally, you will undertake to leave me alone and let me live my life. The same goes for Nina Gerstman.’

  Malin was silent for perhaps ten seconds. Lock glanced up at Webster and shrugged. Then Malin spoke. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘In essence, yes. When we meet we can discuss details.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Ten million dollars.’

  Malin grunted. ‘Where do you want to meet?’

  ‘Be ready to fly to Europe on Monday morning. I will call you again at midnight tomorrow night and let you know which airport. The flight will not be longer than four hours from Moscow. When you land I will call you again and give you a time and a place to meet.’

  ‘That’s not enough time to file a flight plan.’

  ‘It’s Russia. You’ll manage.’

  The line was quiet. Eventually Malin said, ‘Let me call you back in an hour. I need to think.’

  ‘No you don’t. If you don’t say yes to a meeting now I will call the FBI immediately and give them the files. They’ll enjoy them.’

  ‘If you have the files you can tell me what’s in them.’

  ‘You can find out when I see you on Monday. This isn’t a trick.’

  Silence again. Lock imagined Malin, that blunt face processing what it had heard.

  ‘Call me tomorrow night,’ said Malin and hung up.

  Lock felt Webster’s hand on his shoulder and looked up.

  ‘What did he say?’ said Webster.

  ‘That we should call tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s good. Very good. Did he say he was coming?’

  ‘No. But I think he is.’

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Same as ever. He doesn’t give much away.’

  ‘You were good. Confident.’

  Lock smiled. His head was clearing and for the first time that day he thought that he could eat.

  Later they ate together in the restaurant. There were three other guests: a party of Americans, a husband and wife and their friend, all retired, they said, and travelling round Germany and the Netherlands for a month. For ten minutes before dinner Lock and Webster swapped small talk with them in the bar, Webster engaging with them while Lock, still feeling delicate, sat back. The friend had been in Wandlitz ten years before when the hotel had just opened; she had come in the summer and swum in the lake. Webster moved the conversation on to their trip. Yes, they had been to Berlin. What an extraordinary city – an historical monument in itself; but such violence it had known. Webster was good at this, Lock thought. Eventually, to Lock’s relief, he said that they must go and eat, and they took their table.

  ‘Nice people,’ said Webster.

  ‘Nice people. Very nice. They’ve had a good life.’

  ‘No self-pity, please. You told me you were feeling positive.’

  ‘No, I mean it. They’ve had a good life. That’s good. It’s nice to meet some normal people. I can’t remember the last time I did.’ Lock took a sip of water. He pulled his napkin off the table and shook it open on his lap. ‘Do you know what I was going to do before I called you in London?’

  Webster shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘I was going to run away. I had it in my head that if I could get to Switzerland I could withdraw all my money and disappear. I know someone in Istanbul who I thought could get me a passport.’

  ‘Where would you have gone?’

  ‘I don’t know. Vanuatu. Some Indonesian island. Somewhere with sunshine and no government to speak of.’ He smiled. ‘In Switz
erland I’ve got nearly nine million dollars. If I live another thirty years that’s three hundred grand a year. That’s enough.’

  A waitress came and asked if they were ready to order.

  ‘What can you manage?’ asked Webster.

  ‘Very little.’

  ‘Boiled rice and carrots is what you want. And a glass of red wine.’

  ‘Why on earth would I want that?’

  ‘Good for upset stomachs. Trust me. I wouldn’t have anything else.’

  ‘OK. But no wine.’

  Webster ordered in German. ‘So what happened? Why didn’t you go?’

  ‘I remembered that the Swiss had been asking questions. They’d had one of my people in to talk to them in Zurich. Did you know that?’

  Webster shook his head.

  ‘So it wasn’t you?’

  ‘Not us.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it matters. I thought they’d stop me at the border and that would be that.’ Lock took some bread and broke a piece off. He took a small, tentative bite and chewed gently. The bread felt strange in his mouth. ‘But I shouldn’t think they would have.’

  ‘They might. But not yet, probably.’

  ‘Exactly. I think I was scared. Or I just didn’t want to go.’

  ‘Paradise not all it seems?’

  ‘I don’t think I could lie in the sun every day any more.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I have no idea. No idea.’ I do, thought Lock. I want to live in London and see my wife and child. To say it out loud would be to jinx it.

  Lock and Webster barely saw each other on Sunday: Webster went to Berlin to meet a man called George and find a location for the meeting, and Lock spent the day in his room drawing up a plan for the handover of Faringdon.

  In the afternoon he walked around the lake on a path of compacted snow, watching the ducks, the metal rigging on the masts of boats pinging softly in the wind like cowbells, black branches laden with frosted white sagging above his head. There was a light mist on the water and everything was silver-grey. Twenty yards behind him one of George’s people followed.

  He wanted to speak to Marina. She would be worried. Webster had explained that if he did Malin would hear the call, learn the number of Lock’s phone and attempt to trace it. Even if that phone was then dismantled and thrown on the growing heap of defunct mobile carcasses, Malin might still be able to work out from which cell the call had been made, and though time was now running short and his chances of doing so quickly on a Sunday slim, they couldn’t risk his discovering their whereabouts. But Lock had insisted, and so Webster had suggested a simple solution, good enough to last the half a day or so they needed: they would phone the switchboard of a friendly company in London, which would phone the switchboard of a friendly company in New York, which would then forward the call to Marina’s number, so that all Malin would see, in the first instance and without a good day or two of work, was a pair of apparently unconnected numbers that had nothing whatever to do with Lock. That, Webster had said, ought to be enough, provided that Lock made sure he didn’t mention precisely where he was, what he was planning, or with whom he was planning it. To Lock, who really only wanted to tell his wife that he loved her, it all seemed absurdly cautious.