“Come in.”
Webster walked past him. Lock shut the door, and for a moment the two men looked at each other, neither having the right small talk for this very particular occasion. Lock looked harrowed. His hair was greasy and uncombed and he had a small sore, purplish red, at the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t shaved since London. Webster scanned the room: the bed unmade, the ashtray half full, the bottles of Scotch on the bedside table, one nearly empty. The window was closed and the air smelled of smoke and sleep and whisky.
“You have the chair,” said Lock. “I’m afraid we don’t stretch to two.”
“How are you doing? Why don’t we go and get some lunch? I’m hungry.”
Lock walked to the window and looked out, standing a foot or two from the glass and leaning back. He turned to Webster. “I’d like to talk here if we can. There’s been . . . I’m not feeling very safe.”
“Why not?”
Lock told him about the hairs on the doors and the man with the cap. Webster kept his expression steady but felt a short sting of anxiety: either Lock was beginning to imagine things or this was alarming, and what made this so difficult was that both were credible.
“Perhaps it was housekeeping.”
“The room wasn’t made up. I had the Do Not Disturb sign out.”
“Then we shouldn’t talk here. If you’re right.”
It took Lock a moment to understand. “Shit. Yes. Of course. God, I hate this business. I don’t know how you put up with all this crap.”
Webster smiled but it was clear Lock wasn’t joking.
IN AN ALSATIAN restaurant in Mitte they sat on wooden chairs at a plain wooden table and ordered food. Lock drank beer, Webster water. They took a table toward the back of the long narrow room, Webster facing the door so that he could reassure Lock that no one threatening had entered. Walking there Webster had looked for a tail and seen nothing.
Lock was uneasy; he didn’t eat. Webster quizzed him about his movements since London: had he followed the plan? Had he driven straight from Rotterdam? Where had he stopped along the way? What had he done since he was here? When Lock got to the point where he contacted Nina, Webster thought he understood. Someone was listening to her phone. It was even possible they were monitoring Marina’s line. He didn’t tell Lock what he was thinking.
“And since Nina?”
“Since the call? I went and bought these shoes. Not far from here. Then I went and had dinner—and noticed the man in the black cap when I was leaving. I did what you said but he didn’t follow me, not that I could see. Then I went back to the hotel.”
“And you stayed there till when?”
“Till this morning. I left at about seven-thirty to get breakfast. I didn’t sleep well. And when I got back, about eleven, the hairs weren’t there. Then I called Malin.”
“You called Malin?” Webster struggled to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
“Yes.”
“Why on . . . What for? I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t think about it. I just wanted to tell him to leave me alone.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He tried to persuade me that I’d be safe in Moscow. That . . . that in a year’s time all of this would be forgotten.”
“What do you think about that?”
“I don’t want to see Moscow again. And I don’t believe him. I have a feeling I’ve crossed the line.” Lock looked detached, almost curious, as if he could picture the line somewhere behind him and wondered why he hadn’t seen it before.
“What did you call him on?”
“That.” Lock pointed to one of his dismantled phones on the table.
“Well, we can throw that away. And if he wasn’t following you he will be now.” Webster sat and chewed for a moment. “Tell me about Nina.”
“There’s not much to say. She told me to sod off. Nicely but firmly.”
“How well do you know her?”
“I’ve had dinner with her three times. I think it’s three. We got on but I wouldn’t say we bonded.”
“All before Gerstman left Malin?”
“Yes.”
“So she sees you as Malin’s man?”
“She does. For sure.”
Webster took a drink of water and tried to decide how to get Nina to open the door to him. She knew that they wanted the same thing: Malin exposed. He was sure of that. The question was whether she would engage.
“All right. I’ll talk to her. If she’ll see me. If she thinks you’re a wanted man she may soften. Let’s go.”
“We can take my car.”
“If you’re right they may have seen it. We’ll get a cab.”
WEBSTER HAD THE DRIVER PASS Nina’s flat slowly, Lock lying down across the backseat. He couldn’t see anyone. It wouldn’t be easy to keep a watch here. The street was one-way and her building halfway down, which meant that you couldn’t rely on a car alone. And this was the sort of place where neighbors were observant and vocal. He kept one eye on the cars that lined both sides. They were all empty. It was still possible that Lock was imagining things; he was no longer the most reliable witness.
The driver thought they were mad and said so. He let them out two blocks away in a street parallel to Nina’s. Webster paid him and looked at Lock standing by the cab. There was fear and expectation in his eyes. He looked crazed, a mess. Have I done this to him? At best I’ve accelerated it. When we’ve seen Nina he can start to recover himself.
“We need to make you presentable. Can you do something about your hair? Smooth it down a bit. Maybe button your coat right up. OK. That’s better. Come on, let’s go.”
The icy channel worn through the snow on the pavement wasn’t wide enough for both of them and Lock walked slightly ahead, Webster carefully scanning the cars and the houses.
Ahead of them, ten yards from the turning into Nina’s street, a man was crouching down on the pavement next to a car. With one gloved hand he was taking the plastic covers off the wheel-nuts; in the other he held an L-shaped cylindrical spanner. As they approached, he stood up, took a step backward and looked down at his work. He was tall and wore a gray overcoat. Webster put his hand on Lock’s shoulder to slow him down. He heard a step behind him, the faintest crunch on the ice, and before he could turn felt his knees buckle under him. As he slumped a dull crack sounded in his head. Pain shot behind his eyes. He fell forward on his knees, the ice and grit stinging his hands. Another crack and then darkness.
HE HEARD VOICES FIRST. When he opened his eyes he saw gray snow, the wheel of a car beyond. A strip of bright pain ran from the bridge of his nose around to the back of his skull. There was cold against his cheek and in his clothes. He closed his eyes again.
These were German words. Some of them he knew. He raised his head and the pain seemed to flow to a point, like water. A hand touched his shoulder and he turned on his side and looked up, squinting into the light.
“Sind sie verletzt?”
“Was ist passiert?”
An arm reached around him and pulled him up until he was sitting. His trousers were wet against his thighs and there was the taste of iron in his mouth. He reached up and felt his forehead, his temple. Above his ear the hair was warm and clumped. He took his hand away and looked at the blood, frowning.
Lock. Christ. Lock.
He tried to stand but his feet couldn’t find purchase on the ice.
I have to find him.
“Bewegen Sie sich nicht. Wir haben einen Krankenwagen gerufen.”
There were three people. A man was squatting by him and two women stood close by, their faces full of concern. He put his arm around the man’s shoulders and pushed with his legs. The man stood with him.
“Wirklic
h. Er kommt gleich.”
Webster looked down at himself. His body didn’t feel like his own. His head reeled and he fought the urge to be sick. I have to move. For a moment he stayed leaning on the man for support and then set off in the direction of Nina’s flat, moving each leg with deliberation, his hand outstretched to find the wall.
There were protests behind him.
“Danke,” he said, turning. “Hat jemand gesetwasehen?” Did you see this? The three looked blank and shook their heads. “Dankeschön,” he said. “Danke.” He walked away and raised a hand, as if to say thank you, please stop.
Nothing was happening in Nina’s street. No police cars. No Russians. No Lock. As he shuffled slowly toward her flat one thought filled his head, louder than the nausea, sharper than the pain. This cannot happen again.
BY HER BUILDING he looked back; at the corner of the street his three helpers were watching him. He turned into the doorway, slumped against the wall and pressed the button for her flat. His reflection stared slackly at him from the glass doors; his coat was grimy and his tie pulled down but otherwise there seemed to be little damage. But when he checked his face in the silver intercom panel he saw that one side of it was red with blood—smeared across his forehead, thick and crimson over his ear and down his neck.
He went to press the button again. Please be in. For his sake be in.
“Hello.”
“Frau Gerstman, it’s Ben Webster.” The words were thick in his mouth.
Nina said nothing. He turned from the microphone and spat blood and dirt. He waited for her to speak but she wasn’t there. He buzzed again.
“I do not want to see you, Mr. Webster. Unless you have news for me.”
He closed his eyes in pain and frustration. “I have to speak to you.” His voice was earnest now, urgent. “I was with Richard Lock. He’s been taken.”
“Please, Mr. Webster. Go. I have had enough.”
“Here, in your street. They knocked me out. The same men who broke into your home.”
Nina was silent.
“The same men who are calling you.”
The door buzzed, just long enough for him to take his weight off the wall and push against it.
Nina met him on the landing again, looking straight at him as he opened the gates to the lift, her arms crossed. She was still in black.
“Jesus.”
“It’s OK. It’s not that bad.”
She gave him a long, steady look and then without saying anything turned and went into her apartment. Webster wiped his feet on the mat and followed her down the corridor, the damp soles of his shoes still loud on the wooden floor.
Before the sitting room she turned left into a bathroom, more modern than the rest of the flat, all marble and glass. She took a towel from a rail, wet it under a tap and handed it to him.
“Sit on the bathtub.”
He pressed the cloth to the side of his head and felt the cold sting against the wound. It came away vivid with blood.
“I let them take him. It’s happening again.”
“Wait.” Nina took another cloth from the rail and ran it under the tap. “Here.” She stood by him and dabbed at the blood on his forehead, wiping it away.
“Thank you.”
“What happened?”
“We were coming to see you.” He shook his head and felt the pain rolling inside it. “I don’t know where they came from. I never saw them. I never saw them.”
“Shouldn’t you call the police?”
“They won’t find him. I have to find him.” He turned and looked her in the eye. “I need to bargain with them.”
She said nothing, then broke his gaze and leaned in to him, cleaning blood from the side of his face. He pulled away.
“Nina, I heard what Prock said to you. When did they break in?”
She shook her head, threw the towel into the bathtub and walked out of the room.
“Nina.” He followed her down the corridor. The afternoon had clouded, and the light in the sitting room was lowering. She turned on a floor lamp and sat in her chair, staring at the ground. He took a remote control from the coffee table and switched the television on, turning up the sound so that voices and music filled the room.
He crouched by her chair and looked up at her, speaking softly. “Nina, listen. I’m scared. You know what’s happening. I need to know what Dmitry knew. Otherwise Richard is dead.”
“I don’t know what he knew.”
“These men have been in your flat. They’ve been calling you. They were out there this afternoon, watching. Christ, others may be there now. Until they’re convinced, they will go on. Give it up. When they know you don’t have it, they’ll stop.”
She sighed abruptly, almost a sob.
“I don’t want to remember him like this. Being chased for what he knew.”
I have to get going, thought Webster. There isn’t time for this.
“Nina, tell me something. Why do you want to hold on to it? What good will it do you?”
“Dmitry didn’t want them to have it.”
“Without Dmitry it means nothing.”
Nina was silent. She looked down at her lap.
He went on. “He’d have done this for Richard. They were friends.”
She sniffed, looked up at him. “So you trade it for Lock?”
“That’s right. If it’s not too late.”
“And after that, what good is it? Lock is alive and Malin is what? The same.” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She sat like that for a while, and he didn’t disturb her. “It’s not mine to give,” she said at last.
“It’s the part of him you don’t want to remember. Let it go.”
Nina nodded—once, deliberately—and left the room. When she came back she held a small piece of folded paper in her hand. Silently she gave it to Webster, who took it, opened it, folded it again and put it in his pocket.
“Thank you. Call me on this if anything happens.” He left her another card.
She nodded again. He hesitated, as if there was something more to be said. But he knew there was not, and with a single good-bye he left.
FROM NINA’S FLAT Webster ran east in the direction of the hotel, the cold air rushing against him. He needed a pay phone. How quickly the normal world could fall away and tip you into fear. He offered a brief prayer that Lock was all right; he didn’t often pray, but Lock did. In the dark the snow was still falling, heavily now, leaving a thin layer of powder on the ice all around.
He found a phone on Steinplatz. It was open, a steel column with a small sheet of glass above his head by way of shelter. He pulled himself in under the canopy, put his credit card in the slot and called one of the numbers he knew best. As it rang he looked around the square. On this side a mother was wheeling a stroller toward him; to his left two girls were sliding from long run-ups on the ice. His head pulsed with pain.
“Hello?”
“Ike, it’s Ben. Lock’s missing.”
“Another midnight flit?”
“No. Worse.”
Hammer listened while Webster explained.
“You OK?”
“I’m fine. Terrified but fine. Furious with myself. I need you to reach Malin.”
“Through Onder?”
“Through Onder. Or Tourna. He may have a number for him. Tell him we have what he wants and if anything happens to Lock we’ll send it straight to Hewson at The Times. If he lets us know Lock is safe then we’ll talk again. And talk to Yuri. One of the phones I bought for Lock has GPS. If he still has it we’ll know exactly where he is.”
“All right. What about Gerstman’s stuff?”
“Have a look at it. It’s in a hotmail account.” He read out the details twice. A user name and a password to unlock the big
secret. Please let it be good.
“Got it.” Hammer paused. “How did they find him?”
“He called Nina. And Marina. Could have been either. It was stupid. I should have thought.” He sighed. “This is my doing, Ike. I did this.”
Hammer said nothing.
“Would you call the police?” asked Webster.
“I would. Only because if something happens they’ll let you know. If something does, that means they’ll involve you. But that’s OK. You’d probably want them to.”
“OK. Could you call George?”
“To send some people out?”
“Maybe just have them on standby.”
“OK. I take it you’re calling me?”
“Until I get a new phone, yes. I’ll call later this evening.”
Webster put the phone down. His hand was freezing in the evening air. He put it deep in his coat pocket and ran off in search of a taxi.
He had the cab stop two hundred yards short of the Daniel. Scanning both sides of the road he could see nothing suspicious, just empty cars. He walked past the hotel for some distance and found that clear too.
He had decided to enlist the manageress; he needed to get into Lock’s room and preferred not to risk being caught breaking in. Frau Werfel was not a woman to flap; she looked at his head with curiosity but nothing more. He explained, as best he could in halting German, that he had had an argument with Mr. Green and had been knocked over by a moped as he chased after him across a busy road. When he had come to, Green was not there, and this was worrying because he was prone to fits of depression, was depressed at the moment, and may not have taken his medication with him. It was the best he could do. Frau Werfel nodded gravely, as if she didn’t believe him but understood these things all too well. Had she seen him? She had not, but she had been busy this afternoon and had frequently been downstairs in the basement. Would she mind letting Webster into the room? She looked carefully at his face, sizing him up. She would not. Webster thanked her and followed her up the two flights of stairs to Lock’s floor, watching her thick ankles in their sheepskin-lined boots as they went up step by step. As he walked down the corridor, which was gloomy and hot, he had a violent vision of opening the door to find Lock hanging by his neck, his new shoes twisting in space. He shook his head to clear the thought.
The Silent Oligarch: A Novel Page 26