His spirits, so carefully buoyed, collapsed. Who was listening to his calls? Probably Malin. Possibly Ikertu. Both? Could two groups of people tap the same phone? He had no idea. It hardly mattered. He had no one to talk to anyway. Putting the phone back in his pocket he turned to his bodyguard and told him that he wanted to go home.
ON TUESDAY MORNING he was in the office early, around eight. There was an e-mail waiting for him from Kesler, sent a little after ten, his time, the evening before. Lock expected it to be about New York, the next item on the legal agenda. Instead it told him that the Financial Crimes Unit of the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service wanted to interview him about “irregularities of ownership” in certain companies under his control. If he could attend a meeting the following week that would suit them. Kesler explained that if he did go it would be only with a guarantee from the island of temporary immunity.
This was the first official investigation. Newspapers and lawsuits and hints from Swiss prosecutors were one thing, this was another. Kesler was in the United States this week. Lock couldn’t call him until the afternoon. He wanted to know whether this was serious. He also wanted to know whether he would be allowed to go. His guess was that if he knew about it, he would be going. He would find out this evening when he saw Malin.
In the meantime, he had some last-minute planning to do. Even if he couldn’t be arrested in Cayman he wanted to be prepared to negotiate. He wanted something to offer them, and this meant that he had to go through with his plan that evening. He might not get another chance.
He had made some progress with the lock. He had realized finally that he needed two pins, not one, and fashioned something near the thickness of the hair clip, the only one he could find, from tightly twisting two paper clips together. It now took him about thirty seconds to open his own filing cabinet. He could only hope that Chekhanov’s locks were the same.
Oksana would not be helping him. He had called her once more, on Sunday morning, but again she hadn’t answered. He suspected she wasn’t talking to him for his own good. In any case, he had thought of a way around the practical problem. There was a stopwatch on one of his phones that had a countdown function. By changing the sounds you could make it ring as if for a new call when the count reached zero. Before his meeting, he would set it to count down from fifteen seconds, and then activate it from his pocket. He had practiced, and it worked: down button twice, right once, down once, center button.
His day was not productive, nor quick. Normal life continued in the network of companies, and he should have been signing documents and transferring money and opening bank accounts and making sure that everybody else was doing what they should be doing. But he couldn’t concentrate. Two scenes occupied his mind. In one, he was being led away from Chekhanov’s office by two enormous henchmen as Chekhanov himself looked coldly on; in the other, he was in a fluorescent-lit office in Cayman, bargaining feverishly with a pair of stony-eyed policemen.
Time dragged. He skipped lunch, and then regretted doing so. He smoked halfheartedly. By the time he came to leave for the meeting he was feeling light-headed and oddly detached.
Chekhanov’s office was in a low building above a row of shops: a café, a shoe shop, an electrical repair shop. It gave no hint of how much money and influence lay within. Wooden doors in the middle of the row opened onto a wooden staircase, its gray paint chipped away, lit by a single fluorescent bulb on the wall. Lock walked up two flights. Two doors opened off the landing at the top. He turned to the right and pressed the bell. A dull brass sign by the door read “Industrial and Economic Holdings Z.A.O.” As he waited Lock checked his equipment: one hair clip, the paper clips wound together, his countdown phone, his normal phone, his BlackBerry with its camera. All present, and none of it incriminating. His hand felt clammy in his pocket and he tried to dry it on the lining.
A key turned in the lock on the other side and the door opened. Chekhanov’s secretary showed Lock in, without pleasantries, and for a minute or two he stood in the reception area, unable to decide whether to sit down. Not many people were received here, he thought. Throughout the offices the walls were lined with wood, vertical strips of pine varnished a deep red brown, and the only decoration was a single frame displaying an incorporation document for Industrial and Economic Holdings. Two low steel chairs, their upholstery worn, were set against the wall facing the receptionist’s desk, between them a chipboard coffee table with nothing on it. The room smelled dusty, as if someone had just vacuumed.
The receptionist’s phone rang. “Mr. Chekhanov is ready now.”
Lock walked past her desk and down a corridor, taking the second door on the right. In here were the same pine walls, the same institutional hard gray carpet. Hanging behind Chekhanov’s desk was a Russian coat of arms, a gold double-headed eagle against a field of bright red.
Chekhanov rose, leaned forward across the desk and shook hands. His hand felt small and dry. His skin looked stretched across his face and the sharp ridge of his nose. Lock had noticed long ago that he never seemed to blink.
“Richard. It is good to see you.”
“Alexei. I hope you’re well.”
“Yes. Busy. I was in Tyumen last week. I have returned to a mess.”
Lock smiled what he hoped was an easy smile. “I know the feeling.”
“Hm?”
“I’ve been away since I saw you last. I’m only just recovering.”
“Good. Good.” Chekhanov was looking at his computer, distracted. At least he made no comment about Paris. “Has Konstantin mentioned this company in Burgas? Refining. I need to talk to you about it.”
“No. No, he hasn’t.”
Chekhanov sat down. On his desk were three mobile phones. Two were dismantled, their batteries out; one was not. He picked it up and slid the battery casing off.
“Shall we?”
Lock hesitated for a moment. “Yes, of course.” Fuck. How could he have been so stupid? Fuck. Would Alexei remember how many phones he usually had? If he took two out, and Alexei commented, then he could produce the other one and claim absentmindedness. It was the best he could do. He removed his BlackBerry and a regular phone, took their batteries out and left them on the desk. He smiled again. “So? Where do you want to start?”
Chekhanov was still checking his e-mail. He glanced at his desk and then looked back at Lock, his eyebrows raised. His eyes were gray and quick. “You ready?”
“Yes.” Lock waited for the question. It didn’t come.
“Let us start with Kazakhstan. It isn’t making us any money and the manager’s defrauding us. I think I found a purchaser last week. If we sell it there will be about a hundred and eighty million coming in. Be ready to put it somewhere.”
Chekhanov talked and Lock took sketchy notes. The refinery in Romania was close to breaching its debt covenants and needed money; there were bribes to be paid in Bulgaria, decent ones, if they were going to buy this refinery in Burgas; the group’s financing company needed funds to buy equipment before leasing it on into Russia. And on and on. All the while Lock could feel the phone in his trouser pocket pressing against the top of his thigh.
He looked at his watch. It was 6:35. Surely Alexei had to leave soon? He was talking about some problem with Langland, some customer who hadn’t paid, and checking his e-mail for the details.
“This is no good. I have to go. This one can wait.” He looked up at Lock. “Did you get all that?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Chekhanov put his phones back together and stood up, dropping them in his briefcase. Lock stood too and put the batteries back in his dismantled phones. He put one in his trouser pocket and as he did so keyed in the sequence on the other: down down right down center. As Chekhanov bent over his desk to shut down his computer, the phone rang. Lock took it out, looked at it, pressed a ke
y as if to answer it and then covered the microphone.
“Sorry,” he said to Chekhanov in a half whisper. “Do you mind?”
Chekhanov, gathering up papers now, waved him on.
“Philip, hi. How are you?” Lock answered in English, then paused. “Sorry, I’ve been in a meeting. Yes, I can. Shit, really? That’s not good. Well, I have to leave for another meeting shortly but yes, I’ve got twenty minutes or so. Hold on.” Another short pause. “Hold on a second.” He covered the phone again. Chekhanov was ready to go, briefcase in hand, a quilted coat over his arm. “Alexei, do you mind if I finish this call? It’s important.”
Chekhanov looked at Lock. He seemed to have hardened somehow in the last minute. “Come with me. I’ll drive you to the ministry. Finish your call on the way.”
“It could go on a bit,” said Lock. “I don’t want to bore you.”
“No.” Chekhanov was firm now. “Come with me in the car. Otherwise call this person back.”
“Well, I don’t need to be in the ministry for . . . Yes, OK. Yes. I’ll come with you.” Lock felt himself flush around his neck. Chekhanov had been briefed about him. He was no longer trusted. “Right, Philip. Sorry about that. How can I help?” This is ridiculous, he thought, as he went down the stairs after Chekhanov, saying the occasional yes or no to keep the fiction up. Chekhanov left the building and walked to his car, which was directly outside. Lock followed, wondering how on earth he was going to finish this. “Quite. Hm. OK, I see.” He got into the backseat, next to Chekhanov, and shut the door. It was suddenly so quiet that his phone felt glaringly dead and silent in his hand. “Philip, listen. I don’t think that sounds so bad. I think the thing to do is to talk to the accountants this afternoon and see if they can do a full, do a full audit on everything. Do you have a sense of how much we’re talking about? Hm. OK. That could be worse.” He gave a sigh in the hope that it would seem authentic. “Listen, let’s talk tomorrow when you know more. Yes. Yes. OK then. Bye. Good-bye.” He sat back in his seat and let the phone fall by his side.
Chekhanov looked down at the phone and then at Lock. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, fine. Fine.”
“What was that?”
“Oh nothing. Some money gone missing in the BVI. Probably an oversight.”
“Not such a long call.”
“No, it was nothing really. In the end. Nothing.”
Ten
FOR A WEEK London had been dark and cold. A fine, dense rain fell like sea mist and the city felt empty, like a resort town off-season; as he walked to the Tube in the mornings Webster half expected to turn a corner and find the wind blowing at him on a broad promenade beaten by waves. From time to time the sky lightened from lead to limestone and his spirit dared to lift a little, but this was an oppressive time.
London had felt like this when he moved back from Moscow; an unfamiliar, insidious cold across the shoulders, endless rain that had left him yearning for snow. In those first weeks home he had found his home city more impenetrable than the one he had left behind, and for a while he had regretted trading Moscow’s movement and wild spontaneity for all this admirable solidness. Even now, sometimes, he felt a pang of regret at having left Russia, a sort of homesickness that he could never quite explain. But more than anything this weather brought to mind his long-dead plans—undoubtedly good, never robust—to stop writing stories that never seemed to have any effect, to get out of journalism altogether and do some good; reminded him too of the day he got the call from Global Investigations Corporation and signed up instead for this strange career that ever since he had relished and distrusted in equal measure.
What good did he do? What was his tally? Webster was by instinct an agnostic, but he couldn’t rid himself of the idea that somewhere one’s deeds were being reckoned and that his own score was in the balance. GIC had been convinced of its own worthiness; Ike was more circumspect but believed ultimately that Ikertu was a positive force in the world. Webster even now simply wasn’t sure. What did he accomplish, exactly? How was the world different for what he did? He helped his clients not to lose money or reputation. That was all. If his client was upright, he told himself, this was good work, if hardly saintly; when, as now, his client was at best a rogue, how did he help anyone at all?
Snowdrop was unsettling him. It was the case he had always wanted, his chance finally to afflict those who tended to do the afflicting. But Elsa’s words wouldn’t leave him. This had become a quest—a twin quest, Tourna’s and his own—and his sense of proportion was unbalanced. He was no longer sure why he was pursuing Malin. Was it to restore to Tourna what was rightfully his? To show the corruption that still ravaged Russia, and by doing so accelerate its end? Or simply to destroy a life in compensation for the life he had seen destroyed?
Hammer’s advice, as ever, was simple and good. Do what it says on the engagement letter; remember the commitment you made. And while Webster’s motive might have troubled him, at least his next step was clear.
He had to get a message to Lock, and in such a way that no one else would know of it. The message itself was simple: you have options; do not assume that there isn’t a way out of this; you will need expert help, and I am the expert. Webster had taken down and folded away the hand-drawn map of Malin’s world that he had stared at for so long, and in its place was now a single sheet of poster-sized paper. On it was a circle drawn in thick black ink, and inside the word “Lock.” One other smaller circle marked “Onder” sat to one side. That was as far as he had gotten.
Lock was in Moscow. He had flown back immediately after Paris and hadn’t been anywhere else since. Webster knew this because he had primed his source at the travel agency to check three times a day for bookings in the name of Richard Lock. So far there was nothing.
The plan, not yet fully formed, was that Onder would find an excuse to see Lock and gauge his mood. If he was feeling trapped, as Webster had to believe he would be, Onder would offer to make the introduction. The problem was that this couldn’t happen in Moscow, because it was too dangerous, and in any case Onder was not the sort of person one could send off on missions; everything had to fit with his schedule.
Hammer’s advice was clear and constant: just wait. We’re not in any hurry; our client wants us to stop spending money, and this way we don’t spend any until we have an opportunity that justifies it. But Webster lacked Hammer’s restraint, partly because he was consumed by the case, and partly because Hammer enjoyed waiting as part of the game. For all that Hammer was constantly in motion Webster admired his ability to sit still.
So as the rain fell in the gloom Webster struggled with the obvious truth that there wasn’t anything to do and tried to occupy himself with other projects. But two things happened that week nevertheless, and neither served to make him any calmer.
The Wednesday after his meeting with Tourna he received a call from Elsa at work.
“Have you seen this e-mail?”
“What e-mail?”
“You clearly haven’t.” Her voice was anxious, tight.
“I’m not in my office. What is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s in Russian. But it has our address on it.”
“Hold on. I’m nearly there. Let me see.” He sat at his desk and clicked on his screen. There was one new e-mail, from a Nicholas Stokes, the subject blank.
“I was at school with Nicholas Stokes.” He opened it.
“Then he has a strange sense of humor.”
The e-mail was addressed to Elsa, and he had been copied. It was laid out like a letter; in the top left-hand corner was Webster’s home address in Queen’s Park, complete with postcode. The body of the message was the full Russian text of an article from Kommersant reporting the death of Inessa. Webster had read it at the time; it was notable for being one of the few to print details of her writing. Otherwise th
e e-mail was empty: no introduction, no Dear Ben, nothing. He looked at it for a moment blankly, conscious that his heart was beating faster.
“What does it say?” said Elsa.
“It’s an article about Inessa. From just after she died.”
“What the hell for? Why is our address there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s OK. Let me look at it.” He began to inspect it more closely. The name that had shown up in his inbox was Nicholas Stokes, but the e-mail address itself was [email protected]. The name meant nothing to him. He opened up the detailed information that showed the electronic path the e-mail had taken, but that too was meaningless.
“I don’t know what it is,” he said. “A message to me.”
“To us.”
“Hold on.” He searched for Boris Strokov on the Internet. Only a handful of results came back. “OK. Well, whoever sent it wants me to know that they know all about me. I haven’t seen Nick Stokes since I was seventeen. And they know our address.”
“And my e-mail.”
“And your e-mail. They’ve been busy.”
“Who is Boris Strokov?”
“I don’t know. Hardly any seem to exist.” By now he had discovered that Boris Strokov was a character dreamed up by Tom Clancy to inject Georgi Markov full of ricin on Waterloo Bridge. Russians, this meant, have a proud history of getting to people outside Russia. He kept the thought to himself.
“Ben, I hate this. I hate it. It’s your case, isn’t it?”
The Silent Oligarch: A Novel Page 19