The Silent Oligarch: A Novel

by Christopher Morgan Jones

  “I would prefer not to answer that. I own a majority holding in the company. That shareholding is structured through various offshore companies in order to minimize my tax obligations.”

  “Legitimately minimize,” said Kesler.

  “Sorry, legitimately minimize my tax obligations. I don’t see that the exact shareholding structure is relevant to Mr. Tourna’s claim. I own a majority position and am authorized to speak on behalf of all shareholders.”

  “Good,” said Kesler. “OK. That’s how it’s likely to start. If I was Greene I’d want to look at your career, the founding of Faringdon, how it’s grown. I’d leave the charges until last. That’s probably how he’ll play it. Now the main thing to remember is not to be drawn on ownership, not to be drawn on financing. Stick to the version we’ve established. Let’s deal with the background now. We can go through the charges tomorrow. Lawrence, please continue.”

  It was Friday, and Lock was back in the offices of Bryson Joyce drinking his second cup of stale coffee. He, Kesler and Griffin sat around a table in a small, hot meeting room. Thursday had been final coaching; today and tomorrow, mock questioning; Monday, Paris. He would have preferred to have been anywhere else. Kesler was annoying him. His manner was now openly critical. He, thought Lock, is the despairing impresario to my talentless gangster’s moll. Every mistake Lock made he felt less like the client and more like a liability. If this exercise was meant to give him confidence it seemed set to fail.

  At least this was work, and at least this was London, and the two together helped to distract him from Oksana. He was surprised by how keenly he felt the loss of her; he had expected that arrangement to be easier to break. But what hurt more, of course, was that she was right, as Marina had been, and blunt, as Marina had not.

  “So, Mr. Lock. Can you help us all, please, by giving an account of your career to date? It would be useful to know how you came to Russia and what business you have had there.”

  The problem is, thought Lock, that Griffin is being much too polite. Will it be this genteel on Monday? Presumably Lionel Greene didn’t get to be the man he is by talking to his witness like the local parson. Nevertheless, as Lock went through his answers he didn’t mind. Overall he would rather be roughed up only once.

  And so the day went on, Griffin asking neat questions and Lock delivering neat answers. After an hour or so Lock’s mouth was dry and he had become conscious of the flat monotone of his voice. Two days of this.

  “And how would you describe yourself, Mr. Lock? In business terms.” Griffin seemed to be enjoying calling him Mr. Lock.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what sort of a businessman are you?”

  “I’m a private equity investor. I invest in private companies at any stage of their history. Usually I take a majority stake. While I hold my investments I work with the management of the company to optimize value.” All carefully scripted, to within an inch of being meaningless.

  AT LUNCH, Lock left Bryson’s office and walked toward the Barbican, which rose boldly above the City like the relic of some strange and ancient civilization. He lit a cigarette, regretted it instantly and stubbed it out. The day was gray and warm. He called Marina—he should have called her yesterday but he hadn’t felt like talking to anyone. A piercing, scrambled digital squall began the call and then the line went dead. He tried again and reached her voice mail straightaway.

  “Hi, it’s me. I got in late last night. Call me. I . . . I’d like to take you to dinner. Tomorrow? I’ve been thinking about what you said when I was here last. Love to Vika.” It felt strange to be talking about normal things after so long with Kesler. Reluctantly he took himself back to the office, and the barrage continued.

  “Can you please describe your relationship with Konstantin Malin?”

  “I know him. Anyone who has worked in Russian energy knows him.”

  “Would you say that he was a friend of yours?”

  “A strong acquaintance, I would say.” Kesler’s phrase.

  “I see. So you have met Mr. Malin?”

  “Of course, a number of times.”

  “Have you ever done business together?”

  “Not personally, no. Faringdon has many dealings with the Ministry of Industry and Energy where Mr. Malin works.”

  “So Faringdon has never profited from a close relationship with Mr. Malin?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Really? Your paths certainly seem to cross often enough. Let’s take Sibirskenergo ZAO. This is a Faringdon company, yes?”

  “We own sixty-eight percent.”

  “We?” Kesler interjected.

  “Sorry.” Lock took a breath. “Faringdon owns sixty-eight percent.”

  Griffin resumed. “What does it do? Sibirskenergo.”

  “It explores inaccessible oil properties in the far north of Siberia. Skip, why are we doing this? We didn’t prepare for this.”

  “You won’t be prepared for everything. That’s the point. Carry on, Lawrence.”

  “And in 2006 Sibirskenergo won how many exploration licenses in that territory?”

  “Skip, I don’t see the relevance of this.”

  “You will. You do. Carry on.”

  “How many licenses?”

  “Four.”

  “Who had previously owned the licenses?”

  “A state-run company called Neftenergo.”

  “And how many companies competed for the licenses when Neftenergo decided to sell them?”

  “None. Well, one.”

  “Only Sibirskenergo?”

  “Yes.”

  “For state-owned assets.”

  “Yes.”

  “How much was paid? For all four.”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. I don’t recall.”

  “Which? You can’t say or you don’t know?”

  “I can’t say.” Lock looked over at Kesler, but Kesler merely nodded at Griffin to continue.

  “Does it strike you as unusual, Mr. Lock, that four highly valuable licenses should be sold to your company without competition?”

  “No. I think that’s quite normal in Russia.”

  “Indeed? Even though it contravenes all guidelines for the sale of state assets?”

  Lock had no answer.

  “Mr. Lock, can you tell me which ministry oversaw the sale of the licenses?”

  “The Ministry of Industry and Energy.”

  “Where Mr. Malin works?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lock.” Griffin looked at Kesler.

  “You see, Richard?” Kesler was somewhere between exasperated and triumphant. “You never told us about those licenses. Can you tell me why?”

  “I’d forgotten all about it. It didn’t seem relevant.”

  “Now, Richard, right there is something you’re going to have to stop, by the way. Either you forgot or it wasn’t relevant. Either you can’t say or you don’t know. It can’t be both. Say one thing, then stop. Be clear. Understand?”

  Lock sighed. He was tired of being scolded. “Yes. I understand.”

  “Now what you say, in this situation, is that you can’t recall exactly how much the company paid for the licenses—you’re too important to know such details—but it was a market rate and you believe that the Russian Audit Chamber approved it. If the tribunal requires exact figures you will get back to them.”

  “OK.”

  “Don’t be afraid to give them less than they want. You’re an important man. You can’t be expected to know all the details.”

  Lock felt the USB memory stick in his trouser pocket: a little over a gigabyte of records, transactions, statements, spreadsheets, memoranda. No, he thought, I know lots of details. But always the wrong ones.


  AS THE TRIBUNAL APPROACHED, Lock greeted with childish relief any respite from Kesler and the unbroken sequence of questions and commands. He wasn’t even safe in his hotel: the Connaught was full and Kesler was staying at Claridge’s. So he had to cherish moments of freedom—breakfast in his room, cigarettes outside, phone calls to Moscow (some real, some invented)—and Sunday morning was luxurious: nothing to do until noon, when he would take a cab to St. Pancras for the train to Paris.

  He had spent the evening before with Marina and Vika. His first idea had been to visit their apartment and take Marina for dinner once Vika had gone to bed, but Marina had suggested they all three go to eat, and that had felt right. He had finished at Bryson Joyce’s eerily empty office around six and had met them at Vika’s favorite restaurant in Kensington. The London of neighborhoods was new to him—he was used to the center, to Mayfair, to the City, and to seeing what lay between from the windows of taxis—and he felt privileged to be inducted into its quiet, almost secret pleasures. They had eaten burgers, and teased each other, and watched Vika scooping ice cream from a tall glass with a long spoon. The place was full of families doing the same thing, and for an hour or two Lock had forgotten that the evening would end with him returning to his hotel room.

  That was always a wrench. He supposed it was the same for Vika, momentarily, and wondered whether Marina suffered too. He had wanted to talk to her after dinner, about Dmitry, about them, but somehow the chance hadn’t arisen. Marina had said that it was late, Vika should get to bed, and that had been that. He didn’t know which subject she was more keen to avoid. For Lock this was a reverse, but not a serious one. For years he had done his best not to hear Marina when she told him how she felt and now, more and more keenly, if he was being honest, he wanted to know. So he could wait a little longer; he would be here again soon.

  But for all that, he would rather have been in Holland Park than packing his bag in preparation for two and a half hours on a train with Kesler. They wouldn’t be able to discuss business, that was something, but what would take its place? What did Kesler talk about when he wasn’t talking about work? It took a moment for Lock to acknowledge that Kesler might be wondering the same about him.

  Kesler was there at reception as he came down to check out.

  “Good morning, Richard. Or is it afternoon? Sleep well?”

  Lock said that he had, and asked for his bill. With it came a letter, delivered by hand that morning. His name was written in Marina’s hand on the envelope.

  “A billet-doux?” said Kesler.

  Lock felt himself redden. “No, no. Just some personal business.” He tucked the envelope inside his jacket and handed his credit card to the receptionist.

  On the way to the station, waiting in the business lounge for Griffin to join them (Griffin didn’t get to stay at Claridge’s at Malin’s expense, Lock noted with approval), boarding the train, he could feel the letter against his heart; it seemed to be radiating heat. Only when they had settled in their carriage and the train was well on its way through east London did he feel comfortable enough to excuse himself. He walked through two carriages toward the buffet, sat in an empty seat and opened the letter. It was written in black ink on heavy ivory paper with a distinct grain, the hand delicate but precise, the lines level and evenly spaced. As soon as he saw it he could see all the letters Marina had ever sent him: serious and impassioned before they married; chatty when he was away on some pointless trip; pained and resolute at the end. She had written to him far more often than he had to her; his own letters were inelegant next to hers, and he had always found them hard to write. He wondered whether she had kept them nevertheless, as he had kept hers.

  There were three pages, with writing on each side. It was no mere note.

  Holland Park

  Saturday evening

  Dearest Richard

  Thank you so much for a lovely evening. I hope you didn’t mind changing your plans. It’s important to me that the three of us can still have fun together. Vika enjoyed herself, but she is always sad to leave you. In a sense, that’s what this letter is about.

  When we got home she asked me whether you were happy. I said that yes, you were, but your job was very hard and perhaps you had too much to worry about. I tell you this because knowing Vika she will ask you questions about that, but also because I found myself thinking how much truth there was in my words. The difference between you now and when we saw you in the summer is so marked. There is something new in your face.

  I apologize for not talking to you about Dmitry properly. It’s very hard for me. If what you fear is true I have to accept that a man I once respected—the man who brought us together—has become something bad. I do not say that it isn’t true—I have a painful feeling that you are right—but you must understand that it hurts me to believe it.

  Whether it is true or not I think it tells you something. The fact that it could be is enough. You are right to be scared. You may not want to hear this again but now you might truly hear it: you work for a corrupt man in a corrupt business in a corrupt country, and it has corrupted you. I do not want it to finish you.

  Lock stopped here and for a moment watched the city slowly thinning into countryside. She was right—always, unerringly—and for once he was in the mood to embrace it.

  You were once a man of curiosity and everything seemed like a possibility to you. I loved you for this. I loved you for wanting Russia to change. I loved you for not being scared. And I loved you for being funny about it all. All our passions dim, our energy always fades, but your job has done more than that. It has taken most of you, Richard, and it pains me so much.

  I fear two things. I fear that one day I will get a call to tell me that something terrible has happened to you, and that I will then have to tell Vika. Since before Dmitry this has scared me.

  But more than this I fear that before long it will be too late for you anyway. That everything you once were will be gone. The worst thing they have done to you is convince you that the world is about money and power and oil. That is not you. When I see you make Vika laugh I still know that. This time I thought I saw that you know it too.

  When I see that in you, I dare to hope. What a dangerous thing that is. When I imagine the three of us together, I say to myself that I want it because I want Vika to be happy. But it’s because I want to be happy too. It would be easier if you were beyond saving, but you’re not.

  There is a point to this letter—a practical point. You have to leave Russia. I know this is difficult but it cannot be impossible. I will do whatever I can to help. The plan has to be yours: make it, and let’s talk about it. When you’re next here. Perhaps I can talk to Konstantin. The spirit of my father is still important to him, I think.

  Dmitry’s death is a sign, or a signal. There has to be a way. Please find it. I want my fears to be needless.

  With all my love still

  M.

  He held the letter in his hands for a long time, his eyes wandering over the familiar script, and let her thoughts come together in his mind and settle. Without having to think, he knew that she had captured it, as she always did. It was clear, and simple, and complicated beyond words.

  Eight

  IT WAS WEDNESDAY and Gerstman had been dead for three days. Webster had gone to the office but had done little work, and nothing at all on Project Snowdrop. There were a few small cases that needed his attention: a client was buying a ball-bearing manufacturer in the Czech Republic and wanted to know what he was getting; another was wondering why the manager of its Kiev business was losing so much money (because he had been stealing it himself, was the eventual answer). Webster checked on their progress, thanked providence that his team was so good, and spent the rest of the time in his office, thinking formless thoughts about his responsibilities to others and the risks of trying to improve the world. He felt betrayed by
his suspicions, by his enthusiasm, but still his theory sat by him, stronger for Gerstman’s death, at once goading his powerlessness and tempting him to resume work. Hammer took him for lunch and tried to persuade him to turn his mind back to the case. His colleagues kept a distance.

  That evening Webster went to the cinema with Elsa: Tokyo Story at The Tricycle. Afterward they ate at a Japanese restaurant in Hampstead, a tiny place where he and Elsa would sit at the counter to watch the chef at the hibachi. His hands, calloused and red with heat, moved with endless fluency, placing skewers of pork and chicken skin and quails’ eggs on the blackened grill, salting and turning them, knowing precisely when they were done. Webster looked at Elsa as she read the menu on the counter. In profile, her head bowed, she looked girlish. Her hair, so dark a brown that it was taken for black, not curled and not straight, hung about her face.

  They ordered: some skewers, some sushi, sea bream and mackerel with salt. Sake came in square wooden cups with more salt. They touched them together and drank.

  “How was lunch?” said Elsa.

  “Good. We went to that dreadful Indian he likes.”

  She laughed. “Empty?”

  “One other table. I don’t know how they survived before he found it.”

  She turned on her chair so she was almost facing him. He continued to look down at his sake. “And what did he say?”

  “You can probably guess.”

  “Anything new?”

  “Not really.”

  “He wants you to go on?”

  Webster nodded. “If I don’t, he will.” He turned to look at her. “There’s a lot at stake.”

  “I thought you’d made up your mind.”

  “I had.” Elsa didn’t respond. “He was very persuasive.”

  “As always.”

  He paused. “This isn’t like you.”

  “What?”

  “To be down on Ike.”

  “I’m not down on Ike. You know I love Ike. But he wants different things from life.” She paused while a waitress brought two bowls of soup and set them down on the counter. “He doesn’t have children, for a start.”