The market maker

by Ridpath, Michael

  control."

  "I see." Ricardo had woven a compliance web that it was nobody's job to untangle.

  "So, they keep a watching brief. As long as money isn't being laundered in London, which it isn't strictly speaking, there's not much more they'll do."

  "And what about the police?"

  "Not much better. If I can come up with a 'suspicious transaction,' they'll bimg it on a computer somewhere. Apparently they have banks reporting hundreds of dodgy transactions all the time."

  I thought all this over. "Last month I came across a fax for Martin Beldecos from the United Bank of Canada. It said that the U.S. DEA is investigating Erancisco Aragao and that they'd traced a payment from him to Dekker Trust. Maybe they'll tie him in with Dekker. He is Ricardo's brother-in-law, after all."

  "Erancisco Aragao, eh?" Dave rubbed his chin. "Well,

  that would make sense. He sounds very dodgy/' He sighed. "You could try telling them, I suppose, but don't hold your breath." Dave saw my frown. "The best thing to do is to forget it, Nick. Look, when I get my pub, will you come in for a drink?"

  "Of course," I said. "If you let me know where it is."

  "I'll do that."

  I stood up to leave. Dave gave me a lift to the station. As I was getting out of the car, he called to me.

  "Nick?"

  "Yes."

  "Be careful. When Dekker has it in for you, they can turn nasty."

  "I will." I smiled grimly, shut the door, and turned into the station.

  Despite Dave's skepticism about the DEA, I thought it worth trying them. Now I had left Dekker there was nothing to lose. So, doing my best to ignore the damage it would do to my phone bill, I asked International Directory of Enquiries for the number of United Bank of Canada in the Bahamas, and dialed it. I soon got through to Donald Winters.

  "Good morning. It's Nick Elliot here, from Dekker Ward in London. I'm a colleague of Martin Beldecos's."

  "Oh, yes. What can I do to help you, Mr. Elliot?"

  Luckily, it seemed that Winters hadn't heard about Martin's death.

  "You sent a fax to Martin last month mentioning that you had linked a payment to our Caymans affiliate with Francisco Aragao."

  "That's right. That was something to do with a lawyer called Tony Hempel, wasn't it?"

  "I think so. You said something about Francisco

  Aragao being under investigation by the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency? "

  "Yeah. Tm not sure what became of that. We haven't heard anything more from them.''

  "Well, I wonder if you could send me details of your contact there?"

  Winters paused. "Wait, didn't you send me a fax about that last month?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "I'm sure I faxed back the details. Didn't you receive them?"

  So he had responded after all! And his reply had never made it back to me. Of course it might just have gone missing, but Dekker was efficient about things like that. More likely, someone had intercepted it.

  "No, I never got it," I said, "I'm sorry to trouble you again."

  "No problem." Winters gave me a name and number. I thanked him and hung up.

  I dialed the new number. It was somewhere in the United States, but I wasn't familiar with the city code, so I didn't know exactly where.

  The phone was picked up on the first ring. "Donnelly."

  "Good morning. This is Nicholas Elliot from Dekker Ward in London. Donald Winters at United Bank of Canada gave me your name."

  "Oh, yeah."

  "I have some information relating to Francisco Aragao, who I believe you're investigating."

  "Shoot."

  So I told him about Martin's fax, Martin's death, and my own attack. I could hear the scribbling on the other Une.

  "Do you have a copy of this fax?" Donnelly asked.

  ''No, but you can get the information from Donald Winters if you need it/'

  "OK." More scribbling. "Have you reported your suspicions about this Martin Beldecos's murder, or the assault on you?"

  "No," I said. "Fm not sure who to talk to about it."

  "I understand. Well, thank you very much for the information, Mr. ah, Elliot. Can you give me a number where I can reach you?"

  I gave him my home number. But I didn't want him to disappear without telling me what he was going to do.

  "Are you going to investigate this?" I asked.

  There was a moment's pause on the other end of the phone.

  "This may be useful intelligence, Mr. Elliot. We are pursuing a number of investigations at the present time, and this might help us."

  "But will you investigate Dekker?" I asked, unable to keep the exasperation from my voice.

  "I'm sorry, I can't disclose who or what we're investigating. But thank you for the information, Mr. Elliot, and we know where we can reach you. Now good-bye."

  I put down the phone. I was disappointed. I supposed I had hoped that squads of agents would fly out to London immediately to question Ricardo and Ed-uardo. But that obviously wasn't going to happen.

  I tried to think of it from the DEA's point of view. They probably had a target in mind. Perhaps it was Francisco Aragao. Presumably they would use any information they could to help them nail that target, but they wouldn't necessarily allow themselves to be sidetracked by suspicions that were, I had to admit, unsubstantiated.

  In some ways I felt better though. I had done my '.

  duty, I had reported what I knew to the proper au !

  thority Maybe now I could forget Dekker. i

  But I couldn't forget Isabel. ]

  23

  I was woken by the sound of glass shattering and wood splintering. I sat up in bed, trying to get my bearings. There was loud banging from the sitting room. I threw myself out of bed and lurched through the door, still wearing only my underpants.

  There were three of tiiem, big, hard men dressed in T-shirts and jeans. I threw myself at the nearest one, sending him crashing into a bookshelf.

  "Get him!"

  Strong hands pulled at my arms. I clung to the man underneath me, trying to force my arm around his throat. He bucked and kicked. The two others broke my grip, and hauled me to my feet. The man I had jumped on staggered upright and kicked me hard in the balls. I cried out and retched. Then there was a blow to my back that just missed my kidney, and a knee came smashing up into my face. My cheek stung and I tasted blood. But it was my groin that still hurt most. I tried to double up, but they wouldn't let me. Then something hard hit me on the side of the head, and all went black.

  "Ambulance! Quick!" The crackle of a police radio. Someone kneeling

  down next to me. "He's breathing. Hit on the head. Check the bedroom!"

  1 lay there, playing dead. I didn't have the energy to move, even to open my eyes. My body hurt all over. There was the continued sound of movement around me, the gentle weight of a blanket laid over my semi-naked body, and then the wail of a siren. Strong arms lifted me onto a stretcher. I felt cold air against my face. I opened my eyes.

  I was in the street outside my flat. Although it was night, there seemed to be lights everywhere, orange from the streetlamps, flashing blue from the ambulance.

  A man dressed in bright green overalls leaned over me. "Hang on. YouTl be all right, son."

  They slotted me into the back of the ambulance. Pain screamed throughout my body. I felt enormously weary. Everything went black again.

  My second visit to the hospital was briefer than my first. I was let out late the next morning with instructions to come back if my headache got worse. There was a sore spot on my skull, but my head felt fuzzy rather than in pain. I had bruises all over me; one on my back and one on my thigh really hurt.

  I took the taxi home with trepidation. Tlie flat was a mess. They had stolen a couple of things, some gold cuff links my parents had given me for my eighteenth birthday, and the video recorder. And my Apple Mac.

  Oh, shit! There was three years' worth of unfinished thesis on that! I fell into
the sofa and stared at the space on the desk where it had been. Now, think! It can't be that bad. Under the desk were three cardboard boxes. My notes. Please, God, let me have kept the rough printouts!

  I rushed to the boxes and tore them open. My notes

  were all there and drafts of three of the chapters. But the rest? All gone. I put my head in my hands. It would take months just to re-create what I had written.

  I sat on the floor, surrounded by the debris of the attack. Books were every^where, drawers were flung open. My body ached, my head was befuddled. I had no job. I had months of boring rewriting ahead of me. And Isabel was either dead or shut up in some flea pit thousands of miles away.

  The phone rang. I crawled over to the patch of floor where it lay and picked it up.

  ''Hallo."

  "Nick?"

  I felt cold. I recognized the deep voice. It was Eduardo.

  "Yes?"

  "How are you doing?"

  "You know damn well how Fm doing. You just had me beaten up and my place wrecked!"

  "You've been attacked? Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that." Eduardo made no attempt to hide the mockery in his voice. "Now, remember, I'm watching you. And I want you to keep quiet, do you understand me?"

  "Fuck you!" I shouted and slammed down the phone.

  Tidying up took me a long time. I was dispirited, stiff, and slow. I was interrupted by a police officer, who came to take details of what was missing. I told him. I also told him about Eduardo's phone call. Why the hell not? I doubted very much that they would be able to find any evidence to link him to the attack, but it might make his life a bit difficult. The policeman treated me a bit like a paranoid ex-employee, which of course I was, but he promised to look into it further.

  I finally finished clearing up and rang Russell Church,

  the head of my old department at the School of Russian Studies.

  ''Nick, how are you? I was just about to phone you to thank you."

  "Oh, really?" What the hell was he talking about?

  "Yes. For the Dekker Ward sponsorship."

  My heart sank. "What sponsorship?"

  "I've just been on the phone with a man called Ross. He says that Dekker Ward would like to provide substantial commercial sponsorship to SRS. They'll start with a trial period of a year, and then see how it goes from there."

  "In return for what?"

  "Well, they will want access to some of our people and our contacts. They say they're planning to do more business in Russia. But they're willing to pay good commercial rates for any consulting work they commission. It's perfect. It's just the sort of external funding we need! Well done."

  "Actually, I knew nothing about it."

  "Oh. I rather assumed you were responsible. You must have made a good impression at any rate. So, how are things going there?"

  "Well, they're not." I tried not to let my voice sound sulky, but I couldn't help it. "I've left. You said I should give you a call if I decided the City wasn't for me."

  Russell was fuU of enthusiasm. "Well, now we might be able to find something for you here. We haven't thrashed out the details of the sponsorship deal yet. But perhaps you could take up some sort of liaison role."

  I stopped him. "Wait a second, Russell. I'm not sure that would work. Dekker and I didn't see eye to eye when I left."

  "Oh."

  "What would be useful for me is if we could carry on

  our conversation about openings at other universities. And rd like to use you as a reference, if I may."

  It clicked. Russell's voice became more cautious. "OK. Let's have a chat."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "All right. Say eleven? See you then."

  I was nervous as I knocked on Russell's half-opened door; as nervous as I had been the first time I met him for that interview five years before.

  "Come in!"

  I could see Russell had spoken to Dekker as soon as I entered. Neat, with thinning gray hair, he usually greeted me, beaming. This time he rose awkwardly from his desk and shook my hand, not meeting my eyes.

  "Oh, hallo, Nick. Have a seat."

  It was almost as though he wasn't expecting me. I perched on the small chair crammed against his desk. I recognized much of the debris that cluttered it. Admin. Piles of it. There was not a single page of Cyrillic script to be seen.

  He removed his glasses and wiped them, frowning. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?"

  "I need a job. I wondered if you knew of anything."

  "I haven't heard of much since you left here. I think the post at Sheffield might still be open. There's a chance something might come up soon at the University of Surrey. Apart from tliat, not much."

  This was my mentor, almost my friend over the last six years. The man who had gone out on a limb for me, despite my lack of formal qualifications in Russian. He could do better than that.

  I had to know. "You will be able to provide me with a reference, won't you?"

  A reference from Russell was crucial. He was well re-

  spected in the academic community in the U.K. Worldwide, for that matter. Without a good one, I had no chance of getting a job.

  The glasses came off again for another polish.

  "That might be difficult," said Russell. "I can provide you with something, of course. But it will be difficult for me to make it enthusiastic."

  "Why? What's wrong? What have they said to you?"

  "Mr. Ross at Dekker Ward explained to me the circumstances under which you left their firm."

  "Which Mr. Ross?"

  Russell hesitated. "I think he said it was Eduardo Ross. Fm not sure."

  "Oh, yes. And what did he say?"

  Russell shifted in his chair. "He told me that you had been caught bribing the authorities in Brazil over a transaction there, that this had become public knowledge, and that they'd had to let you go."

  "That's bullshit!"

  "I've seen the newspaper article, Nick." He pulled out a photocopy of the article from Bocci's newspaper.

  "But Dekker Ward planted that. I can show you another article that says the opposite!"

  "Ross told me you had gone to the press behind their backs as well." Russell's demeanor had changed. He was leaning forward, his jaw jutting out, ready for confrontation.

  "But don't you want to hear my side of the story?"

  "OK. Fire away"

  So I tried to explain. It was difficult without going into too much detail, but I thought I did a pretty good job of it. But Russell wasn't listerung. He didn't hear; he didn't want to hear.

  When I had finished, he tapped his pencil on his desk. "Basically, Nick, it's your word against Dekker's.

  and the Rio press/' He tapped the Bocci article in front of him. "And at this moment Dekker Ward is crucial to this institution's future. I can't afford to doubt them."

  I'd had enough. "Russell! You're being bought!"

  "That's an absurd accusation!"

  "No, it's not. If I had come to you from a faceless City institution and said I wanted to go back into academia you wouldn't have asked any questions. It's only because these people are promising to pay you money that you're listening."

  "I can't give you a reference in good faith when I know you've been involved in bribing government officials."

  "You know no such thing. All you have is Eduardo Ross's word, that's all! This sponsorship comes with strings, and the first string is to ditch me. Your first commercial sponsorship deal, and within a day you're letting it compromise your independence!"

  Russell held up his hands. "Now calm down, Nick. Let's talk about this Surrey post, shall we?"

  "Forget it!" I said, and stormed out.

  I pedaled back to Primrose Hill in record time, ignoring the pain in my aching back and leg. Russell's reaction was all too predictable but nonetheless severely disappointing. Since he had become head of the department three years ago, he had made conunercial sponsorship the central plank of his strategy for preserving the funding base of th
e department. Until now, he'd had little concrete success. His position internally within the School was not yet secure. And he was ambitious. So why give it all up for some promising Russian lecturer who still hadn't got his Ph.D. under his belt? Because that would have been the right thing to do!

  Because he was my friend and supporter. Because the School of Russian Studies wasn't Dekker Ward.

  Bastard!

  So why had Dekker done it? Was I really that important to them that they wanted to shell out a million or two to keep me out of work? I supposed it was an intelligent move on some level. The School of Russian Studies did have good contacts and knowledge of Russia that Ricardo could tap. And of course, all Russell had at the moment was promises; Dekker would have plenty of opportunity to back out before they actually put up hard cash.

  I stopped at the pub just around the comer from my flat and bought a pint and a ham sandwich. I thought practicalities. It would be very hard to get a job teaching Russian in a university now. And I probably couldn't get another job in the City even if I wanted it. I still had six months or so to go on my Ph.D., not including the three or four months it would take just to get me back to where Fd left it. I should probably get my head down and finish that. I had three thousand pounds in my bank account, mostly the residue from the money Ricardo had lent me for clothes. I would try to live on that.

  The mortgage payments on my flat were once again going to be impossible to meet. There was still no chance of selling it for more than the amount of the loan. I looked at the ham sandwich in front of me. I wouldn't be able to eat out like this in future.

  And what future? I looked toward it with an almost total lack of interest. If Isabel was around, or even if I knew she was alive, things would be different. But the uncertainty surrounding her disappearance weighed on me, dragging me down into a sort of pessimistic apathy. I was losing the ability to believe in her survival, and without that, the future looked unbearably gray.