by Brian Martin
I had the uneasy feeling, after a moment’s reflection, that Arne had mentioned Belmont in order to give me a warning. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that it was a coded signal. He was telling me not to do anything stupid, watch out, take care: the forces operating in that arena were powerful and ruthless. No matter who you were, if you got in the way, you were expendable.
I asked him if it were possible to be taken round the main Myrex lab at Paldiski. Surprisingly he said I could be taken there and be shown some of the installation. Refitting had not progressed very far, but there were one or two parts of the lab that I might be interested in.
Arne asked me where I was staying, although I found it difficult not to believe that he already knew. ‘Are you here by yourself or are you travelling with anyone?’ Now, I thought, it was his turn to ask the leading questions. I knew it was pointless to deceive him about Mark. Tallinn is such a small community that, after a day or two, it would be generally known that Mark and I were in some way connected. After all, we had arrived on the same flight. Arne’s KGB credentials alerted me to what I should tell him.
‘Well, in a sense I am on my own, although I flew in with an old friend who is here looking for investment opportunities. As you must be aware, most merchant banks and venture fund groups are currently interested in this part of the world.’
Arne looked at his watch. The time must have been approaching a quarter past one.
‘Look it’s lunchtime,’ he said. ‘Have you an arrangement? If not, would you like to join me for sandwiches? That’s all I usually have unless I have a business lunch.’
‘That’s very kind. May I join you?’ I thought it an opportunity to get to know him better. He was an enigmatic figure, obviously not given to excess, and someone very much with his mind on whatever job was in hand. He picked up the telephone and spoke in Estonian to a secretary or aide.
After a minute or two we went into a room with a long table in the centre with nine chairs round it: one was at the head of the table and then four were placed at each side of it. The room was obviously used for board meetings or meetings with company delegates from abroad. At the head of the table was a silver tray of sandwiches, a bowl of olives, and a plate with cheese and coarse black bread on it. There was a jug of still water with slices of lemon floating in it, and a dark blue bottle of sparkling water next to two glasses. Arne set the glasses right way up and poured half a glass of still water. Then he stopped, apologised and asked me which sort of water I would like. I said I would prefer the fizzy kind. He poured it and said, ‘I can’t offer you any alcohol. Unlike most businesses we don’t keep any wine or beer on the premises. Our only exception is champagne should there be some important visiting delegation. Otherwise we are, how do your Quaker countrymen put it, “dry” here?’
Over our sandwiches I asked him if he lived in Tallinn. He said he had an apartment in a recently renovated set of luxury flats in the old town, but that he also owned a house in Switzerland, in Geneva, where he liked to go whenever he could. He was not married, but, in the course of conversation, revealed that he was godfather to his sister’s son. She and her family lived in Riga. I found it difficult to imagine him as any sort of a family man. He belonged to an organised world of business and finance. I could not help commenting at one stage that I was surprised, with his KGB background, that he could work successfully in business.
‘I took some time out in the days of transition to attend Stockholm University’s business school. I have their MBA for what it’s worth.’
I remarked that a friend of mine, who was a main board director of the world’s biggest pharmaceutical company, refused to employ anyone he interviewed who had an MBA. He commented, without humour, that there was some sense in that policy. He looked at his watch again and I thought it time to make my departure. I did not want to outstay my welcome as, I calculated, it was on sufferance anyway.
I said, ‘Look, I really ought to leave you. I’m sure you’re busy. I should certainly love to look round your Paldiski labs, whenever convenient.’
‘Of course. I’m afraid it won’t be for a couple of weeks. I shall have to get in touch with you. I’m abroad for some days. Presumably I can reach you at your newspaper office.’
I gave him my London Journal phone number and my mobile. It would be necessary to speak to each other, I thought, and not just communicate through intermediaries. With the best of good manners he escorted me downstairs and out of the house. We shook hands at the double doors and as I went down the steps on to the pavement, he stood there for some time and I felt his gaze scrutinising my back as I went away down the street.
I did not trust him. As he said, he was a diplomat. I had only scratched the surface of Myrex affairs in speaking to him. He had a tough veneer, a hard varnish, about him. It was impossible to work out what was going on in his mind behind those pale blue eyes shielded by the rimless glasses. He was giving nothing away. I might just have well accessed Myrex on their website, or looked up articles on their Baltic interests in my newspaper’s archives. Nevertheless, to go inside the Estonian labs would be a signal achievement. That I looked forward to.
Mark was not in his room at the Gloria. I searched the two public rooms but he was not there either. I went to my room, kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the bed. I lay there, my hands behind my head, and thought carefully. There was little point staying in Tallin any longer. It would be better to change my return flight to the following day. If Mark agreed, he could keep his booking for the day after that. Our separate returns might succeed in making it look less likely that there was collusion between us. I would broach it with him when we met later.
In the meantime, I decided to take a siesta. The room had a kettle, some instant coffee and some teabags. I made a cup of tea and, from a miniature bottle of aquavit, I poured in a tot. The hot tea and the spirit rushed through my digestive tract and left me with a balmy, warm, tired sensation and I was soon dozing. Arne hovered in my mind, and then Roxanne. I could see an image of them, both semi-naked, preparing themselves in a hotel bedroom to go to bed together. My dream’s camera shifted to the outside of their hotel so that I was looking in through a tall sash window. The hotel was the restored Myrex office building in which I had just met Arne. Roxanne, in my mind’s eye, took off her bra and stepped out of her pants just as a strip artiste does. Looking back over her shoulder towards Arne and beyond him to me looking in, her expression changed from eager anticipation to anguish, and back again, within a second. I recognised in that momentary look that she was with Arne under duress. She had signalled me to help her. I could sense that Arne was sexually aroused as he took off his briefs. I tried to see his sexuality that, in the circumstances of the dream, both threatened Roxanne and me. It was impossible. Just as I thought I was about to glimpse, what I imagined would be, his satyr-like erection, he turned slightly and it was obscured from view. He got into bed and under the sheets. He was the active partner and too quickly it seemed, Roxanne was moaning with pleasure. At that point there was a loud knock at the door. I awoke from my dozing and realised that the insistent knock was at my door. The vision of Roxanne and Arne had evaporated.
‘Hold on,’ I called. I collected my thoughts, raised myself from the bed, loosened my shirt collar and went to the door. When I opened it, I found Mark standing there.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for you. The last place I thought you would be was here. I went to he English Café and looked in at the bar of the Italian hotel. I finally came back here.’
‘I’ve just had the most ghastly dream,’ I said. ‘I was having a little snooze. My subconscious came up with a nasty little picture of Roxanne and Arne cavorting sexually in a hotel that looked very much like the Myrex offices.’
‘Well, I hope you didn’t join in and make it a threesome,’ he joked.
‘There was no chance of that. I sensed jealousy and anxiety. They don’t make for good sex. Anyway, come in. Le
t me make you some coffee.’
We finished off the aquavit in our drinks and I told him about my visit to the enigmatic Arne. Mark was intrigued. I told him of my plan to return to London the next day and that he should then follow as already planned. He agreed. He had arranged one or two meetings that he did not want to break.
‘I’ve discovered there are some hefty financial dealings going on here. There’s a lot of illegal money, mostly Russian, being laundered here in banks and businesses; but it’s not just the Russians. There are other mafias concerned, if you can call them that. There are Italian money men here all the time and one of my banking contacts said that the Estonian authorities are not too happy about Myrex Corporation. They suspect it of handling illegal funds and enforcing contracts by blackmail. They don’t like its presence here but can’t pin anything on them. Arne is a smooth operator and leaves no chinks in Myrex’s armour.’
‘I can appreciate that,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine Arne neglecting details and opening up his employers to EU investigation.’
Mark reminded me that Italian money, millions of illegally profited euros, had recently been laundered in Switzerland. The cigarette market was the source: huge profits had been made from undercut prices charged on smuggled goods. A vast amount of money had been made in Iraq by selling an American brand. That clearly broke international sanctions.
‘It’s a common thing to do,’ he said. ‘It makes a lot of people very rich quickly; and it’s more than likely that Myrex is involved in something like that. I’m sure I’ll get wind of it if they are up to something.’
That evening Mark and I dined together. We went to a new restaurant, all dim lights and Scandinavian furniture. The chairs and tables looked good but were uncomfortable to use, typical of that austere sort of design. By chance, Rovde and Mo were at another table. We greeted them both and chatted when we went in, but we kept to our separate tables. The two were getting on fine. I said to Mark that I thought that relationship might be going places. Mo looked happy and radiant. Her usually stooped posture had opened up like a flower in sunshine. Rovde’s orbit was doing her good.
I said to Mark, ‘Rovde’s a great guy. He’s quite a tonic, bluff and cheery. He’d do anyone good. Mo’s a lucky girl.’
Mark waved across the room to another man seated at a corner table with someone who looked Japanese and a smartly dressed European woman. They were drinking champagne. Mark explained that his acquaintance was one of his banking contacts in Tallinn.
‘You’ll probably find that Arne shows up,’ Mark said.
‘I don’t think so. I reckon he’s ascetic. He keeps out of the way and probably only drinks water.’ As an afterthought, I said, ‘I’m going to have difficulty the next time I see him. I shall have that vision of him in his underpants, taking advantage of Roxanne. In cold daylight, I can’t imagine him doing anything like that. It’s going to be hard to dispel the image though.’
Arne did not appear. Mark and I talked mostly about architecture, and about art back in London. Tate Modern was hosting a show by Barnett Newman. The Turner Prize was about to be awarded. Julian Opie’s Warhol-like picture of the pop group Blur, now hung in the National Portrait Gallery. There was no doubt, we concluded, London was the cultural centre. At that time, it had eclipsed Paris and New York. It was no wonder that the number of French people moving to London had increased recently, despite their national prejudice against the perfidious English.
As we left the restaurant, Rovde and Mo were still deep in conversation. We said goodnight. I told Rovde that I would return to London the next day but that I would undoubtedly be back in Tallinn soon. He told me that he was staying there for at least another month. Mark and I walked through the crisp, cold night back to the Gloria. We passed on the corner of a neighbouring street to the hotel, a fashionable, newly opened, Max Mara shop. I though of Roxanne: it was a designer shop where she bought many of her clothes. It boasted its presence in London, Paris, New York, Rome, and now it was here in tiny Tallinn. Tallinn had come of age and was with its bigger brothers and sisters.
Mark had a breakfast meeting the following morning so it was unlikely that I would see him before I left. We hugged each other and said goodbye. I was reluctant to see him go. I hoped that my night’s sleep would not conjure up renewed images of a libidinous Arne. As it turned out, I slept deeply that night: I remembered nothing of my dreams.
10
My London life immediately took over the moment I landed at Gatwick. There was little chance of a swift return to Estonia. My mobile phone signalled a text message. My editor wanted me to talk to him at the soonest opportunity. I picked up my old Xantia, drove into London, dumped it where I usually managed to find a parking spot. Since I was in luck, I was back in the house within an hour and twenty minutes of leaving the Gatwick terminal. I rang my editor. A contact in the States had given the Journal some information on a serial killer who had been periodically shooting individuals in the Washington suburbs. His victims were randomly chosen. There was no logic to the choice. It was big news in the States. A tenth person had been picked off. The marksman was using a sniper’s Armalite. The editor thought I should go out to DC, talk to our contact and do some snooping. As soon as I had written something about Estonia, I should re-pack my bags and go. Lorel, our secretary, would book my ticket and make the necessary arrangements. I said I would stay at the Cosmos, a club that had a reciprocal agreement with my Pall Mall club.
I knocked out an article of seven hundred and fifty words on commercial and industrial development in Estonia, hinted at dark deeds and dirty work by shady foreign business interests, mentioned laundered money, and hinted at Myrex’s plans for taking over old Soviet installations without naming them. The time had not come for that. I told Lorel to get me to America the following day.
Before I left, I thought I should keep Willy informed of what had happened in Tallinn. I phoned his mobile and we agreed to meet in the Brooklands brasserie of the RAC club that evening. I almost prefer the RAC to my own club because of its vastness and its Turkish bath, swimming pool and squash courts. It provides for so many types of interest and, additionally, has an excellent chef. I gave Willy the gist of what I had found out so far in Tallinn, told him that Rovde was the American presence so far as I could make out, and that there was much that needed watching. A smart game was being played there. Willy felt the Brits needed to join in. He intended to consult his superiors about the Estonian situation. In the meantime he suggested that I should maintain a discreet communication with Rovde and anyone else I thought trustworthy.
I left for Washington at lunchtime the next morning on a direct flight. At Dulles airport, I shared a minibus with six other people going in to the city centre. We stopped in K Street close to the Carlton hotel and I took my travelling bag to the Metro station at Farragut North and hopped one station to the Dupont Circle. Then it was a short walk to the Cosmos. There I relaxed. My room was spacious and grand. When Lorel had rung, the only rooms that they had available were double ones in the annexe. These I always preferred anyway: they were more luxurious than those in the main building. I stripped and showered, turned on the American television and caught up with CNN news. The programme showed a prevalence towards business news and the fluctuations of the New York Stock Exchange, and the usual unstable state of the Middle East. I flicked through the channels and found a BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. It was bizarre to be staying in the heart of the US watching a Jane Austen dramatisation. When I had dressed and gathered my thoughts, I went down to the bar and ordered a Dry Martini. It was perfect and was what I had been looking forward to for the last couple of hours. The blood sugar level rose in my constitution and I felt ready for anything. I decided that, before thinking what to do about dinner, I should establish contact with the Journal’s informant about the serial killer. I returned to my room.
I rang the number I had been given and a recorded voice told me to try a mobile number. That I did. Surprisingly – I
had not been told – the informant proved to be a woman, a freelance journalist, who clearly kept herself extremely well briefed on what was going on in DC. Her interests covered mostly crime, finance and politics. We agreed to meet for breakfast. I invited her to join me at the Cosmos. Since she lived in an apartment up in Kalorama Heights, she thought it a brilliant, convenient idea. She was to be with me at nine o’clock.
The rest of that evening I spent alone. I walked some way along Massachusetts Avenue to Scott Circle, down 16th Street to the Capitol Hilton, along L Street, and then back up Connecticut Avenue to Dupont Circle. I did not hurry and it took me about fifty minutes. Once back in the Cosmos, I sat alone in the restaurant and ordered dinner.
I ate some splendid prawns in a garlic and ginger mayonnaise, followed by a juicy fillet steak that I would never have dared to eat had I been ordering in England. From the wine list, I managed to find a half bottle of decent 1996 Californian Merlot that I hoped the Journal would not quibble paying for. The trouble with dining alone on expenses is that, unless you buy a bottle of wine and consequently drink too much, your choice is limited by the small range of half bottles. It is therefore always better to have dinner with companions.
There were a few other people dining that evening, small groups at tables scattered around the large dining room. I imagined they were senators, writers, doctors, representatives of the core of citizens who worked at the heart of the US governmental machine. I did not recognise anyone, and I was anonymous.