by Mark McKay
‘Not exactly. This is Nick and Alix, friends of mine. Why don’t we have lunch, and I’ll explain everything afterwards.’
Lunch took several courses and a couple of hours to complete. There was plenty of Riesling from the estate on hand, to lubricate the conversation. After coffee, Max asked to speak to Heinrich privately.
Magda turned to Alix and Marielle. ‘Would you like to see the estate?’
The ladies left the dining room. Nick had enjoyed lunch, pity it was about to end with a bitter aftertaste.
‘I didn’t realise you were bringing Marielle with you,’ said Heinrich. ‘I remembered her at once. Is there some connection with her and what you want to discuss?’
‘Yes and no. I have a confession to make Heinrich. You aren’t going to like it.’
Count von Essen’s expression darkened. ‘What is it?’
After Max had explained the circumstances of Heinrich and Marielle’s tryst in Berlin, Heinrich seemed very calm about it. He looked reflectively at the table, while absent-mindedly tapping away at an empty wine glass with a fork. He thought for a bit.
‘So, Max. I should be extremely pissed-off at you. And I am, of course. Why me? What could I have that MI6 could possibly want? It’s absurd.’
Max was relieved that he was taking it with such poise. ‘I don’t know, Heinrich. I was just following orders.’
‘Shit Max, I know some old ex-Nazis who would come up with that excuse. This is all very enlightening. The tapes have been stolen, you say. And you think whoever’s got them will blackmail me. I’m afraid they’ll need more than a sex tape to do that.’
‘What about Magda?’ asked Nick. ‘Won’t she be upset if this comes to light?’
Heinrich smiled. ‘It’s true that we’ve been married for a long time. And Magda has all the money. But after we’d been together for ten years or so, we agreed to try a more liberal arrangement. Do you understand?’
‘An open marriage?’
‘Yes. I think if this tape had been shown to Magda just after we were married, then I’d have been in trouble. But not now. So you see, they can try to blackmail me, but I’ll just tell them to go screw themselves.’ He poured himself another Riesling. ‘Who’s doing this?’
Nick and Max exchanged glances. ‘Guess he has a right to know,’ said Nick.
‘Did you ever meet Yulian Dubrovsky? He was attached to the Russian Embassy press office.’
‘Dubrovsky!’ Heinrich exclaimed. ‘That fucking communist. He’s got the tapes? Christ.’
‘Heinrich, they’re not communists anymore.’
‘Call them what you like. They had this estate for 45 years. Communists, kleptocrats, mafia, take your pick.’ He drained the wine glass. ‘He’s the Minister of Culture, now. Yes, I remember him. Fanatic Russian supremacist. Show him one beautiful woman though, and he has an ideology bypass!’ He paused for a moment, to collect himself. ‘I’m sorry. Russians like Dubrovsky aren’t my favourite people. How do you propose to stop him?’
‘I think we should tell you what’s been happening,’ said Max. ‘Nick?’
Nick nodded. Heinrich von Essen listened silently throughout most of it, with the exception of some choice German expletives he uttered when told about the events at the industrial unit in Frankfurt. When Max had finished, he got up.
‘You’re moving to Berlin, to avoid this man. Is that it?’
‘In a nutshell,’ replied Max.
‘You can all stay here for a week or two. I’ll have to talk to Magda, but if you don’t mind repeating your story to her I’m sure she’ll agree. She hates Russians like Dubrovsky even more than I do.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ said Nick, delighted by this offer.
‘Not at all. Just don’t go out after 11pm. I have three Alsatians that run loose till the morning. Best form of security I know. Now, let’s find the ladies.’
Chapter 10
Magda had been happy to let them stay. She was more concerned at how upset Marielle must be about Louisa, rather than the fact Marielle had slept with her husband. It was a long time ago, after all. She didn’t think Heinrich would consider repeating the experience in the present, an observation he clearly took note of. It seemed that they both saw other people, but it was always away from the house. Even an open marriage had some limitations. There was plenty of space on the top floor of the mansion, and by the evening the four new arrivals were officially in residence.
They decided it would be faster and more efficient to phone the seven remaining potential blackmail victims in the UK. They were all involved in sensitive businesses; semi-conductors, small arms, pharmaceuticals and security software being stand-out examples. Attractive targets if Dubrovsky wanted to exchange a tape in return for technology, drugs or weapons. It was impossible to know the susceptibility of these men without virtually asking them outright. Max steeled himself for the task and spent the following day tracking them down.
By the evening, he’d spoken to all of them. Some were indignant, some annoyed, some even furious, but none had been approached. Except the last recipient of Max’s calls. Derek Conway, the CEO of Conway pharmaceuticals. And it wasn’t something he was prepared to discuss over the phone.
‘He said he had a phone call from “some Russian” as he puts it. If we want to know more, we’ll have to go and see him,’ said Max to the group of four, as they sat in their upstairs lounge, following dinner. ‘Only lead we’ve got, I’m afraid.’
‘You offered your assistance to everyone, I take it,’ said Nick.
‘Yes, and mostly they said it was the least I could do, under the circumstances. When they finished swearing at me. Anyway, if anyone else gets a phone call from a Russian, they promised to let me know.’
‘We’ll go see Mr Conway, then. Better get online and book a flight.’
The following day, Nick and Max landed at Heathrow Airport, near London. This was Nick’s first time back in the UK since his covert departure, just over a year ago. He wasn’t entirely sure his passport in the name of Nick Webb would pass inspection. There was no reason why it shouldn’t; it had taken him from India to Europe without a hitch. Still, there was something more anxiety-inducing about coming home under false pretences, as it were. At passport control, he handed the forged document over, and waited.
The official scrutinised the passport briefly and handed it back to him. Nick breathed an inward sigh of relief. That particular test had been passed. Max was right behind him. The two of them walked purposefully through arrivals and made their way towards the ticket office of the Heathrow Express train for London. Half an hour later, they were in the heart of the capital.
‘Hope I don’t run into anyone I know,’ said Nick. ‘That could be tricky.’
‘We won’t be here long enough for that to happen. Straight to Conway’s office, then back to Berlin. Don’t get paranoid.’
They took the tube to Richmond. The head office of Conway Pharmaceuticals was located in a white stucco 19th century house, overlooking the Thames. Conway’s office was on the top floor, with the best view. A receptionist took them up and showed them in.
‘Hello, Derek.’
‘Max Blackwood. And Mr Webb, I take it.’ Derek Conway was near to Max in age. He was a big man with the build of a rugby prop forward, who’d let himself go a little. He was just about tall enough to carry the extra weight, though. He had a florid face, with keen, brown eyes. He didn’t look particularly pleased to see them.
‘Forgive me if I don’t offer you a drink,’ he said. ‘I hear nothing from you in god knows how long, and then you contact me to tell me I was filmed screwing some woman in Berlin in 1992. By MI6 of all people. And you’re one of them. Tell me Max, what exactly motivated you to frame me?’
‘I was acting on instructions, Derek. It was nothing personal.’
‘As far as I’m concerned it was extremely fucking personal. I’ve been married to the same woman since 1990. If she finds out about this; me having a bit on the side only tw
o years later, she’ll take me for everything I’ve got. And not only did you sit on these tapes for 20 years, you then went and bloody lost them! Christ, I hope this isn’t a typical example of how you spooks do things. And who are you, Mr Webb? Another spook?’
‘No, I’m not. Just helping Max to fix all this.’
‘I understand your annoyance,’ said Max. ‘We’re going to get these tapes back. What did this Russian want from you? Does he have a name?’
‘He called himself Molotov. Like the cocktail. Doesn’t matter what he says his name is. He’s got this tape, and you calling me only confirms that fact.’
‘What does he want?’ repeated Max.
Conway sat down and motioned the two men to do likewise.
‘We’ve developed a new drug. It’s used to treat a rare condition of the nervous system. There’s not a huge market for it, maybe a few million people worldwide. It’s just coming through stage three trials now and the results are spectacular. Complete recovery in twelve weeks of treatment. He wants enough for three courses of treatment.’
‘Is that all? Sounds quite reasonable, all things considered.’
‘No, Max. It isn’t reasonable. For one thing it isn’t approved yet. And for another, it’s expensive. One course of treatment will set you back £100,000. And he wants three.’
‘Is it for him?’ asked Nick.
‘No idea. We didn’t go into specifics.’
‘What are the symptoms of this condition?’
‘Begins with loss of co-ordination. Periodically at first. Then it gets progressively worse as the disease attacks the nervous system. You end up in a wheelchair, with limited to no movement and neural damage.’
‘And what did you say to him?’
‘I agreed, Max. He wants it in two days from now, or else he’ll ensure that my wife sees the tape. Can you recover it for me by then? I don’t think so.’
‘We can’t guarantee anything,’ said Max. ‘How is he going to do the swap?’
‘There’s an exhibition of modern Russian sculpture in London, beginning in two days. At a private gallery in Mayfair. I’ve asked a private security firm to handle the swap for me on the evening of the first day. They’ll send someone with a hold-all, with the drugs in it. The Russian will then approach that person and the swap will take place.’
‘So you’re prepared to pay him off, then. If that’s your decision, there’s not a lot we can do to help.’
‘Not as far as my tape goes. But you could get a look at this Russian. Follow him perhaps. I won’t ask my security firm to do that. The less they need to know, the better.’
‘Yes, it’s a lead,’ said Nick. ‘We could loiter, discreetly. Do you know which Russian sculptors are exhibiting their work?’
‘I printed off a brochure. Hang on.’ Conway searched through a pile of documents for a second. ‘Here it is. Only one sculptor. Name’s Dubrovsky. Minister of Culture, apparently.’
Nick and Max raised their eyebrows as one.
‘I think I should be your courier,’ said Nick. ‘Don’t tell him that. But insist on having a VHS machine present, so the tape can be verified.’
Conway considered this change of plan for a while. ‘Alright. I can bring the drugs to wherever you’re staying.’
‘Good. Once we’ve done the handover, I’ll bring you the tape while Max tails our Russian. How does that sound?’
‘Agreed. Maybe we should have that drink after all.’
‘Let’s wait till later,’ suggested Max. ‘Meanwhile, can I take that brochure? I’ll make sure the date’s in the diary. Looks like our stay in London has just been extended.’
On the afternoon of the exhibition’s opening day, Conway arrived at the hotel, as promised. He brought with him nine bottles of the new drug.
‘One per month,’ he explained, opening the bag so they could see the packaged contents. ‘Each bottle contains 90 tablets, three tablets a day. Make sure you tell whoever collects this bag. There are no known side effects, either.’
The bag had a picture of a caduceus on it, the ubiquitous medical symbol showing two snakes entwined around a winged staff.
‘Security on the door have been briefed to let you through. They’ll look in the bag, but they won’t ask questions. And whoever’s got my tape is looking for a bag like this one.’ He indicated the caduceus. ‘So keep it facing outwards.’
‘I will,’ said Nick. ‘What time are they expecting me?’
‘Around 8pm. Don’t be late. When you get the tape, bring it to Richmond. I’ll be there till midnight.’
With the arrangements confirmed, Conway departed.
‘We have a few hours,’ said Nick to Max. ‘Would you mind doing some shopping before I leave?’
‘Shopping for what?’
Nick told him.
Max considered for a minute, before answering. ‘It could be problematic, not too far down the line.’
‘It’s intended to be. Not for us, though.’
Max made some notes on a sheet of hotel stationery and then went out shopping, as requested.
Nick arrived on time. The gallery was spacious, but not huge. One of the two security men on the entrance door checked his bag and let him through without comment. He walked inside.
There were a lot of well-dressed people here this evening. It seemed as if there was a mini-reception in progress. A couple of smiling blond waitresses were circulating with trays of wine, and a table along one wall was laid with an assortment of things to nibble on. Nick felt slightly under-dressed in jeans and jacket. He took a circumspect look at the people around him. Plenty of them were speaking what sounded like Russian to him, but he didn’t see any Russians he knew. He turned his attention to the sculptures on display.
There were single heads set on plinths and a couple of musicians with violins. But most of the work was of women, in various poses. Some were obviously ballet dancers, and others featured seated figures looking wistfully into the middle distance. All done in bronze, and well done in Nick’s inexpert opinion. It looked like Dubrovsky might be Russia’s answer to Degas; a few of the pieces resembled the Frenchman’s portrayals of ballerinas at work. For a moment he forgot why he was here and lost himself in the exhibition.
‘Excuse me,’ said a voice at his side.
Nick looked up, a little startled. A young woman, small and slim with jet-black hair tied into a bun, looked back at him.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘You came to deliver something, is that correct?’ Her English was accented, it sounded Russian to him.
‘That’s correct. And you have something for me, too.’
She nodded. ‘Come with me, somewhere private.’
It wasn’t till she began to move that he saw the walking stick. There was a subtle twitch in her left leg as she lifted it and she had to lean on the stick to compensate. She moved fast enough, for all that. She led him into a small office, just off the gallery entrance.
It was just the two of them. There was probably back-up of some kind not too far away, he thought. The office was bare except for a desk, two chairs and a TV hooked up to a video-player.
‘You want to see it?’ she asked him.
‘Yes.’
She switched on the television. They were both seated now, and he passed her the bag.
‘Check it out.’
She hit ‘play’ on the video-player before she opened the bag. While he watched Liesa and a younger version of Derek Conway on the screen, she opened a bottle and looked briefly inside. He told her about the dosages. She seemed satisfied.
‘Seen enough?’ she asked.
He nodded and she stopped the playback. She ejected the video and gave it to him.
‘Thank you, whoever you are,’ she said. ‘Are you staying?’
‘I’d like to, but I must get this tape back to someone. Tell me, is the sculptor here tonight?’
‘Yes, he’s mingling. Is that the right expression? Talking to everyone.’
&n
bsp; ‘I see. I won’t interrupt him.’
He took a last look at her, noting the pensive expression and the sad, oval eyes. She looked remarkably like some of the works on display.
‘You go first,’ she said.
He closed the door behind him as he stepped out. If there’d been anyone in this little corridor keeping an eye on them, he or she had disappeared. He walked directly to the entrance, only stopping to look back into the interior of the main gallery.
Through a crowd of people, he saw Dubrovsky. Casually dressed this time, and looking more relaxed as well. He was chatting with a middle-aged couple, wine glass in hand. He must have felt Nick’s stare, because he looked up almost immediately. Nick saw the look of surprise before it was quickly replaced by one of studied indifference. They locked eyes for a moment. Nick thought briefly about taking the man out there and then. He knew that it was totally impractical, but allowed himself a moment of self-indulgence, anyway. He turned away and walked swiftly out into the night.
They decided there was no point in tailing Dubrovsky. After Nick had delivered the tape they went straight to Heathrow to get the last flight of the day to Berlin. They reclaimed the BMW from the airport car park and headed back to von Essen’s estate. It was 4am when they drew up outside the gates, which were still shut for the night. Heinrich had given Max a remote control unit to open them. They waited, as the gates slowly swung open.
‘We need to get inside the house without those bloody dogs tearing us to bits,’ said Nick. ‘I don’t think they go off duty till 6am.’
‘Just drive up to the house. I’ll keep a look out.’
They parked, twenty yards from the stairs leading to the front door. Nick cut the engine. They were about to get out when suddenly two Alsatians appeared, trotting towards them from the side of the house. They sat down a few yards away between the car and the stairs, just looking.
‘There’s one behind us,’ said Nick, after looking in the side-mirror. He opened the door slightly. Three dogs snarled softly, in unison.
‘Shut it,’ advised Max.
Two hours later, Heinrich emerged and called the dogs off. He tapped on the driver’s window, to wake the two men up.