The Silent Oligarch: A Novel

by Christopher Morgan Jones

  Out on the street the cold hit him again, making his eyes water. This was the bright street that he had seen earlier. He scanned it from left to right. To the right, at the corner of the hotel, stood the tall man, his arms crossed. Just standing, watching Lock. Lock stepped back onto the steps of the hotel and turned to go back in. Through the glass he could see the small man standing by the flowers in the middle of the room. For a moment his mind was blank. No useful thought was there. He had gotten this far on luck and what remained of his instinct.

  It seemed he had a tiny scrap left. Going back up the steps he walked through a door to the left of the revolving doors, wrong-footing the doorman who was now on the other side. He walked toward the small man, who looked briefly taken aback. But instead of tackling him or challenging him, Lock climbed clumsily onto the table and with the sole of his shoe kicked the vase over, shouting as it fell, in his head or out loud he didn’t know, the words mangled and slow: would you just leave me the fuck alone.

  Guests sitting nearby with their drinks recoiled but the heavy glass vase remained intact, landing on the carpet with a thud and spilling flowers and water onto the floor. Lock looked down at the strange scene he had made. He felt high above it. The small man had stepped well away from him, and was now by the exit. The doorman, joined by a colleague, was at the table, trying to work out how to get Lock down with the minimum of fuss. The only noise was the Chopin still piping from the speakers in the ceiling.

  “English,” said Lock to the doorman. “Very drunk.” He sat down to slide himself off the table. The doorman took Lock firmly by the arm and walked him across the lobby to a door behind reception. His colleague followed.

  EVERYTHING LOCK LOOKED at slipped away. The more effort he made the more it slipped. He tried to focus on a single point but there were no points. He felt himself being guided to a chair and pushed gently into it. There was a desk, and a computer, and beyond them a man with a mustache like a brush and above it a red, bulbous nose.

  This man introduced himself in broken English as Herr Gerber. He was the head of security at the hotel and he was going to call the police. He said some other things in German, but Lock didn’t understand them. “Police” he understood, though, and “Polizei,” and he explained in broken phrases, stumbling through the words, that he was an important English businessman and that someone was trying to kill him. Gerber looked at him for a moment and then reached for his phone. Lock, holding up an unsteady hand, told him to wait and reached into his back pocket, expecting his wallet to be gone. To his surprise it was still there, and still full of money. He took two notes out, looked at them carefully as if making sure they were real, and put them deliberately on Gerber’s desk side by side.

  “I need to call. One call.”

  Gerber left the notes where they were and angled the phone toward Lock.

  “Ikertu,” said Lock. “I don’t have the number. London.”

  Gerber looked at him, shook his head and sighed. He tore a piece of paper from a pad in front of him and passed it across to Lock with a pen. Lock wrote on it feebly and passed it back. Gerber turned to his computer and after a minute took the phone and dialed a number. He passed the receiver to Lock.

  The person who answered the phone refused to put him through to Webster, and Lock didn’t have the energy to argue. He left a number that Gerber gave him, and for two minutes the three men just sat in the office, not talking. Gerber busied himself at his desk; the doorman manned the door. Lock felt like his head was full of metal, and his gut ached. He could feel the nausea steadily returning and hoped it would wait until he was clear of the hotel. He wasn’t sure his money would stretch that far.

  The phone rang. Gerber answered and passed the phone to Lock. Lock talked laboriously and then passed the phone back to Gerber, who, after a minute or two and a few grunted words of German, put the receiver down and said to Lock, “Give me another five hundred.”

  Lock frowned. “Why?”

  “I’m going to drive you.”

  “Where?”

  “Out of town. To meet your friend.”

  Sixteen

  WHEN THE CALL CAME THROUGH Webster was asleep on Lock’s bed, his head uncomfortably against the headboard, his chin pressing down onto his collarbone. As the phone rang, a loud old-fashioned ring, he opened his eyes and felt familiar pain along the side of his head. Lock and Inessa had been in his dreams. How could he have slept?

  He had expected Hammer, and at first didn’t recognize the slow, stretched voice on the other end of the line. Then, with beautiful clarity, it made sense. It was Lock. He was alive. Hammer had gotten through to Malin. The deal was starting.

  Lock sounded ill. Webster couldn’t make out what he was saying. When Lock passed the phone to Gerber, Webster had assumed that this was part of the ploy: he would now negotiate Lock’s release and the handover of the dossier. As he listened though, confused, it slowly became clear that something else was happening. Gerber was German, without any doubt, and incensed, in a rather bureaucratic way. He didn’t sound tense. He didn’t sound like he wanted anything. All he wanted was for Webster to come to the hotel now to pick up his friend. Only at that point did he realize that Lock was free. He looked up and said a silent thank you to the heavens.

  Webster told Gerber that Lock was in danger and would pay to be taken from the hotel safely. Gerber grunted and said he would drive him to the north side of Gartenplatz; his car was in the garage under the hotel and Lock could lie down on the backseat. They would be there in fifteen minutes and would not be seen.

  Instantly awake, relief and excitement coursing through him, his head forgotten, Webster washed his glass in the bathroom sink, put the books back on the bedside table, plumped up the pillows, smoothed out the covers on the bed and pulled the curtains open.

  He looked at the note: what an innocent-looking document. He took two sheets of paper from the rack and three pens from his pocket. One was a blue ballpoint. He clicked the point into place and began to write on one of the sheets of paper, carefully copying Lock’s handwriting from the note. Since my friend. Since my friend. It needed to be rounder, steadier. He began to find some rhythm. Since my friend Dmitry Gerstman died I have been unhappy. The tails weren’t quite right but that didn’t matter. Taking the clean sheet he worked quickly through a fair copy. He sat back and looked at it. Not bad. It wouldn’t persuade a specialist for a moment but it might fool a glance, which was all he wanted. He folded it as the note had been folded, put it in an envelope and left it on the desk where the note had been. The original he put carefully back into its envelope and into the pocket of his coat. He tidied up, putting the scraps of paper in his pocket as well.

  Checking that the room looked exactly as it had done he turned out the light and left. He picked up his bag and went out, telling Frau Werfel that he had found Mr. Green and would be bringing him back shortly.

  He needed a pay phone and a taxi. More snow was falling, gently now. The hotel steps were newly icy and he came down them carefully, holding on to the railing. At the bottom he looked up and saw a car approaching from the west, going faster than was sensible on these roads: a gray Mercedes sedan, only the driver inside. It stopped across the entrance to a garage ten yards short of the Daniel and a small man wearing an overcoat and cap got out. He walked quickly toward Webster, half sliding on the ice, twisting in midstride to lock his car. As he turned back the two men came face-to-face and in that moment knew each other. Webster could see Lock’s torment in his unsurprised, colorless eyes.

  Neither man wanted to be detained. Each had his own purpose: to clean up Lock’s room; to rescue Lock. For a second they stood, a yard apart, in an unlikely impasse. The man shifted to the side to let him by. As Webster moved past him, their eyes still locked, the man tripped him, sweeping his foot across and catching him on the ankle.

  Webster lost his balance on the
ice and fell heavily on his side with a leaden thud, the compacted snow hitting him like iron, his cheek pressing against the frozen sludge on the pavement. By instinct, like a boy, he reached out an arm, caught the bottom of the man’s trousers and pulled hard toward him. The man’s feet went out from under him and as he fell on the small of his back Webster scrambled with skating feet to get up. But he was barged from the side and the man was on top of him, hands grasping for his throat, Webster’s reach just long enough to keep him off. For a second they were joined in each other’s grip, raging eyes staring. Webster took a hand from the man’s shoulder and as he fell, off balance, jabbed him with two fingers in the eye; trying to get to his feet, his leather soles slipped hopelessly and he found himself on his knees, like a choirboy, reaching toward the car’s door to pull himself up. The man pulled at Webster’s coat, using it to get upright, until he too was on his knees, up close, searching for grip with his feet, reaching inside his coat pocket. His eyes were bright with fury. Webster grabbed the man’s lapels, arched backward, and snapped his head down with all its weight on his brow. He felt bone crack. The man’s body slumped in its clothes and Webster let it fall.

  His breathing was short, his heart beating wildly. He looked up and down the street. He could see no one. He opened the man’s overcoat and went through his pockets. Euros, cigarettes, the car key. A knife. From his belt hung a holster and a matte-black pistol. No papers of any kind. Webster took the gun and the knife and pulled himself up against the car, panting, his trousers stiff with cold and ice. He picked up his bag and set off toward the canal, as quickly as he could, stopping only to slash two of the Mercedes’ tires and take a note of its number plate on his phone. The street was clear.

  As he walked, quickly, almost a run, checking over his shoulder to make sure the man hadn’t revived, he looked at the gun. It was a Makarov, a Russian make. That was no surprise. What was puzzling was why the man had attacked him: it made no sense. Crossing the canal he threw the gun far out into the water where the ice had yet to form. I’m the only link they have to Lock, he thought. Why not simply follow me? Because I knew who he was, and I wouldn’t have let him.

  He found a phone. He was still out of breath, and exhilaration was giving way to cold. Pulling his collar up, he leaned against it and dialed Hammer’s number. It rang only once.

  “Lock’s safe. I don’t know how. I think they slipped him something. I’m picking him up now. Look, I need you to find us a bolt-hole. Somewhere not too far from Berlin where no one would think of looking.”

  “Why don’t you just come home?”

  “Because I think we can end this here. I’ll explain later. I’ll call in half an hour.”

  IT TOOK HIM FIVE MINUTES to find a cab. Inside the heater was blowing and it was hot and dry. He gave the address and opened his window an inch. The driver—middle-aged, Turkish—drew his scarf around his neck and asked him if he was crazy, letting the cold in on a night like this. Did he want to kill him? Webster shut the window and looked out at Berlin. Mitte was busy. Just after nine on a Friday night. Everyone seemed young here. Frau Werfel aside, Webster couldn’t remember seeing a single old person in the city.

  The cab drove north, past the Adlon, past the Hauptbahnhof. Eventually it pulled in to the side of the road. “Wir sind hier,” said the driver. “Gartenplatz.” Webster asked him to wait and got out. An immense gothic church rose up in black over the square. In the darkness he couldn’t see Lock and he could feel his breath quickening again, but then he spotted him at the other end of the road, propped against a lamppost.

  “Richard,” said Webster, walking up to him. Lock’s eyes were closed. “Richard.” Lock didn’t respond. What had they done to him? Webster touched his arm. “Richard, are you OK?”

  Lazily, Lock opened his eyes. He blinked twice and pulled his head back a little as if unable to focus.

  “Richard, it’s Ben. Come on. You must be freezing. I’ve got a cab. Come on.” He put his arm around Lock and guided him carefully to the car, Lock struggling to keep his head upright. “Jesus, what have they given you?” Lock didn’t reply. Webster opened the door and eased him inside, his hand protecting his head.

  “Is he drunk?” said the driver.

  “He’s not well.”

  “Is he going to be sick?”

  “He’ll be fine. Can I borrow your phone?”

  The driver turned to look at Webster.

  “You don’t have a phone?”

  “No. I need to borrow yours. It’s a short call. I’ll give you a big tip.” The driver shrugged his shoulders and passed his phone back behind him.

  HAMMER HAD FOUND a guesthouse in Wandlitz, twenty miles north of Berlin. Lock slept, leaning against the door of the car. With his head hanging on his chest he looked like a wooden posing doll slumped on a shelf. Webster watched him, chastened. This wasn’t the man he’d been pursuing. That man was a cipher: a name on documents, a picture in magazines, a series of assumptions about his kind. This man breathed. He had weight and form. His face showed that he had loved and feared. On this cold night Webster felt finally awake.

  The place wasn’t easy to find, and the driver missed it twice before Webster spotted the tiny sign pointing between two large villas. They drove down a narrow drive overarched with bare lime trees and pulled up in front of a large white house lit by two floodlights.

  Webster got out of the car. It was no longer snowing, the wind had dropped, and the air was pure and heady, alpine. The moon was a day or two short of full but by its light he could make out beyond the floodlights a sailboat and a jetty held firm by sparkling gray ice. For a second he was thrown; this couldn’t be the sea. No, of course; this was one of the lakes. Wandlitzsee. He had heard of it. From somewhere in the dark he could hear the steady cracking of water freezing at the farthest edge of the ice. To his right, white ice in layers on the shore reflected the moon in clusters of pinprick lights.

  Hammer had called ahead. Heaven knows what he had said but the proprietor of the Villa Wandlitz could not have been more obliging. He introduced himself as Herr Maurer, took the bag and, while Webster paid the driver, helped walk Lock into the house. When Webster began to explain that his friend was ill, that he had a migraine, Herr Maurer said that he knew, that this was a shame and he hoped Herr Webster’s friend would be feeling better come the morning. He didn’t want to know about credit cards or passports or anything else. Instead he took two keys from behind the reception desk, showed Webster and Lock into the lift and took them to adjoining rooms on the first floor. Breakfast was from seven until nine, but if they wanted to sleep late he would be very happy to make something specially for them. He didn’t even seem to notice Webster’s filthy clothes or the blood dried on his temple. Webster thanked him and said good night.

  He took Lock’s coat off and draped it over a chair. It gave off a faint smell of vomit that he hadn’t noticed before. He shuffled him over to the side of the double bed, turning him around and letting him collapse onto it, took off his shoes and folded the duvet over him.

  “Do you want some water?”

  With his eyes shut Lock frowned tightly and shook his head. Webster filled a glass from the bathroom tap and set it down on the bedside table. He left the bathroom light on and the door open between their two rooms.

  For some time he sat in his room in the dark, looking out the window at the moon and the lake. He should go downstairs and borrow Herr Maurer’s computer to look at Gerstman’s files. He should call Hammer. He should call Elsa. More than anything else he should work out how to make this end well. There was a way, he was sure, slowly forming in his mind.

  He looked at Lock. What was going through his head at the moment? Nonsense, with any luck. Or nothing. He went to the bathroom and inspected his wound. A patch of brown hair stuck down gave it away; otherwise you wouldn’t notice. It would wait till tomorrow, and so would everything
else.

  ELSA WOKE HIM. Through his dreams he slowly made out the buzz of his phone as it skittered across the bedside table. He answered it full of sleep.

  “Hello.” There was pain behind his eyes. He remembered his head.

  “You’re there. Why didn’t you call last night?”

  He sat up a little against the pillows. There was a small patch of dried blood on the sheets.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t get in till late. I thought you’d be asleep.” Through the curtains he could see sunshine. It must be late.

  “Then send me a text.” A pause. “I called but it went straight to voice mail.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “I was worried.”

  “I know. I’m an idiot. Sorry.”

  Neither said anything. Webster could hear voices in the background, the radio. He should have called; that was stupid.

  Elsa spoke first. “When are you coming back?”

  “I wish I knew. Could be today. Could be as late as Tuesday. I think I’ll know today.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Everything’s fine. How is everyone?”

  “Playing upstairs. Nicely for the time being.” Elsa was quiet for a moment. “You’ve had a strange letter. It’s addressed to St. Benedict Webster, care of the Websters. It’s sitting staring at me.”