“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 gotten 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 dialed 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 Web site “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 used it only 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 café 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 dish-washing liquid in plastic crates. One stall was given over to gloves in black leather or wool of every color, another to earrings and bracelets strewn across a table in cellophane packages 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 to the row of shops behind and found the café. Enzo’s Market Café. Its window frames were painted pale blue and chipped in places to a dull gray 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 arrived. 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 feet 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 gray 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.”
Webster kept a solemn face and said nothing.
Lock smiled an unconvincing
smile. “I’m beginning to wish that we’d hired you first.” Webster gave a little nod of acknowledgment. “But what concerns me is that after Paris there’s . . . there’s no clarity. Too many courts, too many bloody lawyers—charging more than you, I should imagine. I think the best ending for everybody will be agreed outside court. Except the lawyers, perhaps. This thing is hurting my business and costing Aristotle money. A fortune if his fees are as bad as ours. But I’m finding it hard to get through to him. That’s where I thought you could help.”
Webster nodded again, slowly. This was good: Lock was talking too much, offering too much. “And you think Tourna wants a settlement?”
“If it’s the right amount, yes. That’s how it works.”
“I’m not sure. I think he wants revenge. I’m not sure he cares about getting his money back. I may be wrong.” Webster took a sip of thick brown tea. “And Malin? He wants one?”
“Wants what?”
“A settlement.”
“That’s irrelevant. It’s my business. My dispute.”
“Mr. Lock . . .”
“Richard.”
“Richard. With respect, we won’t get anywhere with a settlement if you won’t be straight with me. I’m not wearing a wire. There’s no one else here.” He looked around the room and then back at Lock. “These are not my people.” A pause. “Anything you tell me stays with me. You have my word on that. I’m not here to trick you.”
Lock scratched the beard on his cheek again, shaking his head. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Webster. I have a business. When someone attacks that business it’s mine to protect. I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“Richard, I think you do. You asked for this meeting and I’m happy to be here, but if we can’t be open with each other I’ll leave. I know a lot about you now. But I knew how you and Malin worked long ago—before I took on this case. I know Russia. I know how it works. Malin is the player, and you’re his bagman.” Webster stopped for a moment to let Lock react. Lock had turned his head to one side and was looking down at the floor, his chin cupped in his hand, his elbow on the table. He didn’t want to hear this. We’re close. “Richard, I also know that that man outside your hotel room is not a bodyguard.” Lock looked back at him. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have had to run away from him last night.”
Lock said nothing for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve been following you. I’m sorry. We saw you go to your wife’s house but we never saw you leave. Just now—what, an hour ago?—your two bodyguards or whatever they are had a word with your wife and then tore off. You haven’t been back to the hotel. We’ve checked.”
Lock held Webster’s eye. Webster could see resentment in there but resilience too.
“Richard, your time’s up. Every relationship like this, every one I’ve ever seen—you can’t break it. Konstantin can’t. He needs you as much as you need him. But the outside world can. The FBI can. They’re itching to tear you two apart.” Lock had stopped looking at Webster. He was gazing at the table, appearing not to hear, but Webster went on. “Only, the final act, that tends to be down to the Russians. The guys like you always hang on too long. And when the Russians don’t trust them anymore, you know what happens. I don’t need to tell you this, do I? You know it better than I do.”
Lock pushed his chair back and made to stand up. With defiance he looked Webster in the eye. “I came here to talk business and you just . . . harangue me. I don’t need this. You have no idea how little I need this.”
Webster leaned forward and put his hand flat on the table, a gesture of finality and trust. “Richard. I’m not here to offend you. But you’ve got a decision to make. You’re here in yesterday’s clothes with mud on your shoes for what? Because you thought it would be fun to jump over walls in the middle of the night? You’re not the man you were a week ago. Your life has changed.”
Lock stood up. Webster went on.
“Was it part of the plan, to bolt? Or blind panic? Or would your wife not let you stay?”
Without looking at Webster, Lock walked away between tables and out the door. His mug was still full of tea. Webster saw his face through the window as he turned onto the street. There was no trace of insult there, no anger; only fear, like a man pursued.
Webster drummed his fingers on the tabletop in thought. Ten more minutes with him was all he needed. He put his phone back together and waited for it to warm up. He needed to call Black and let him know that Lock had left and was heading east on Church Street. His tea was still warm, and he sat with the thick white mug in his hands. He could go after Lock now, catch up with him along the street, or he could find him later, let his thoughts do the work. But it had to be today.
His phone chimed awake, and as he picked it up the bell above the door jangled. Lock stood in the doorway with an odd look of contrition on his face. Webster looked up as Lock threaded his way between orange plastic chairs and sat down again. For a moment neither man spoke.
“Can we discuss me?” Lock said at last.
Webster gave a small, understanding nod. “I think we should.”
“I . . . I went to church this morning. That beautiful one on George Street. Do you know it?” Webster shook his head. “You should go. Walk through the door and it’s like being in Italy. I thought that if I told someone everything then perhaps . . . But I couldn’t find a priest. And I wasn’t sure what I was there to confess.”
“Sins of omission?”
“Possibly. Yes. I have omitted rather a lot.”
For the next half hour, Lock talked. He talked about Cayman, and the horrifying specter of the FBI. He talked about Malin and his growing impatience, about the bodyguards and the prison that Moscow had become. He talked about Gerstman, and the terror that still struck him whenever he imagined his death. He left very little out.
It seemed to do him good. Webster listened closely, interrupting with the occasional question, and it occurred to him as Lock revived a little that in some respects his own profession was not so different from his wife’s. He had felt this before, the beginnings of a strange dependency, a stranger intimacy. Each needed to trust the other, whether that was wise or not.
Then it was his turn. He told Lock what he knew about Malin, and what the FBI would come to know. Lock interjected that the Swiss were also interested, so he thought, and Webster said there would probably be more. He laid out what would happen next: how charges would be drawn up and international arrest warrants issued; how Lock would be forced to remain in Russia; how the newspapers, frankly quiet until now, would feed happily on it for months. He began to remind Lock of the precedents, the helicopter crashes, the drive-by shootings on motorbikes, until Lock cut him short.
And then he described the alternative. Cooperate with law enforcement. Engage independent lawyers. Work against Malin; expose him. Go to prison, perhaps, but claim some small piece of your life as your own.
Throughout, Lock sat and listened, nodding occasionally as if to stay in touch from somewhere far away. He seldom looked at Webster; he stared at the table, out the window, at the other people in the café, which was busier now. He was still in his coat, and underneath its bulk his body looked shrunken and collapsed. When Webster was done he sat nodding steadily for several moments.
“The trouble is,” he said, finally looking at Webster, “I don’t think I know enough to be of use.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know enough. Never have. Kesler explained it to me. To hurt Malin you need to show he’s a criminal. I don’t know he’s a criminal. Or I can’t prove it. I just know that he’s a rich Russian and I own things for him.” He leaned back and tried to find something in his trouser pocket; it sounded full of change. Eventually he pulled out a small plastic rectangle and held it up for Webster to see. “On here is everything I know. Every document from my
files—every transfer, every company, every instruction. I thought I should have it all somewhere safe in case I needed it. But the funny thing—do you know what it is?”
“No.”
“The funny thing, is that it’s so clean. Money goes from here to there, it buys things, it grows, but I don’t know where it’s from. Fifteen years I’ve been doing this and I don’t know—have no idea”—Lock beat out the syllables on the table with the flat of his hand—“where any of it comes from. I guess, like you guess. But I don’t know.”
Webster felt his stomach lift and fall. “So what did Gerstman know?”
“Did you know him?”
“I saw him before he died.”
Lock frowned a little, as if he was thinking something through for the first time. “So it was you.”
“I like to think it wasn’t. He wouldn’t speak to me.”
“Do you know how he died?”
“I have an idea. He didn’t strike me as the type to kill himself. Or to do it in that way. So either he knew something, or it was a message.”
“To me.”
“Perhaps.” Webster watched Lock take this in. Either way, he thought, one of us precipitated his death. He didn’t say it. “So what did he know?”
“More than me, I suppose. He was a Russian, for a start. He knew where the money came from. Or some of it.”
“Enough to make him dangerous?”
“Dmitry was much too clever to be a danger to those people. He did everything he could to show Konstantin that. I thought he believed him.”
The Silent Oligarch: A Novel Page 23