by Alex Dryden
Time was nothing to him. Time, he once told Finn solemnly, was invented by the devil to clog the smooth-running machine that was God’s natural world. ‘And that,’ Finn had told me, ‘was when he was sober.’
‘Well?’ Finn says. ‘What’s new?’
‘Nothing’s new, you fucking idiot. That’s the point. What do you want?’
‘Maybe this is a good place to start,’ Finn says smiling and looks down at the front page of the Zürcher Zeitung.
Jean-Claude orders a large brandy the second time around, as if the single one hadn’t really done the trick, and he orders two more coffees and then he remembers he’s forgotten he’s out of tobacco and walks over to the counter and buys another pouch. When he is comfortably surrounded by these props, he looks at Finn balefully.
‘Stelzer’s the best chief prosecutor this country’s ever had,’ he says. ‘So what do they do? Intrigue against him. They’ll have him out by the end of the year. He’s prosecuting the wrong sort of people. Rich crooks, in other words. He’s trying to clean up this sewer of a country. The burghers are aghast. Stelzer’s been stopping dirty money coming over from the East. Russia itself; Kazakhstan and the other central Asian republics; the Caucasus. Tens of billions of laundered cash is getting held up by Stelzer from joining all the other cash that the world’s murderers and half-mad potentates and mafiosi and intelligence creeps like you wish to deposit in our beautiful vaults. Two weeks ago Stelzer said to the parliamentary financial committee–in other words, interested bankers who run the country–that if we accept all these huge, unprecedented sums of black money, we’ll choke on it. They didn’t listen then and they aren’t now.
‘Last week was the final straw. Stelzer had four men arrested coming over the border from Liechtenstein with nearly four billion dollars’ worth of bonds. And you know what they’re saying down at the border post? That Putin himself is a nominee for some of it. I don’t believe it, I can’t believe it. Are they that brazen in the Kremlin? Anyway, Stelzer had them all arrested, along with that Russian mafioso Mikhas, and locked them up and photographed everyone, as well as the documents.’
Jean-Claude puffs his cigarette, which has gone out a while before. ‘Walking over the fucking border!’ he says, amazed.
Jean-Claude takes a delicate sip from his brandy glass, a gesture that is somehow inappropriate next to his brutal verbal assault.
Jean-Claude only ever drinks less than half of what he buys or what he pours. He simply likes to know it is there.
‘And do you know what I know?’ Jean-Claude demands. ‘Of course you don’t. They’ll replace him with Hutzger. You know Hutzger. Harvard Business School, the Swiss Economic Committee, then the Principality’s financial adviser in Liechtenstein. He’s been in charge of hushing up their criminal activities in Vaduz–perfect training for Switzerland. You know Hutzger, Finn?’
Finn pauses and looks at the surface of the table, as if at some imaginary stain. Hutzger is the name he’s heard from Dieter a year before, the man who laid the false trail for the German intelligence services in their investigation into Exodi.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what do you know about him?’ Jean-Claude asks sourly.
‘We believe he has contacts with the KGB,’ Finn says.
For the first time, Jean-Claude looks wrong-footed.
‘What did you say?’
Finn doesn’t reply.
Jean-Claude replaces the brandy glass on the table and stares at Finn.
‘Show me that’s true,’ he says at last.
‘Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. But with your help I can do a lot more than that. Putin’s personal funds are a sideshow. I need you, Troll. I need your help.’
There is no indication of assent or otherwise.
‘I have a friend in the mountains,’ Jean-Claude says. ‘He makes one wristwatch a year. Just one. He spends ten, twelve hours a day perhaps, for a whole year and makes one watch. Then he sells it for two or three hundred thousand dollars. I love this man. He’s a perfectionist, there is madness in him. Switzerland is a perfectionist country, if you hadn’t noticed. It has perfected the art of looking after other people’s money. There are more people employed in Switzerland with the sole purpose of hiding money than there are coal miners in Ukraine. The Swiss are genetically programmed to hide things. The lines of banks along the lake and all the ones dotted around the cantons are just the physical manifestation of what is going on inside their heads.’
He looks directly at Finn. ‘Apart from my house, have you ever been invited into the house of a Swiss out in the mountains?’
‘No.’
‘You see. They hide everything, even when there’s nothing to hide except IKEA furniture. They can’t help it, it’s a disease.’
‘And where there are perfectly hidden things there are also people who are perfect at finding them,’ Finn says.
‘Exactly,’ the Troll says proudly. ‘You make one thing and you make its opposite at the same time. That is normal. Bullets and armour; missiles and radar; tax laws and tax evasion; life and death.’
‘That’s why I want your help.’
‘But will you hide things from me too? I know you and your profession.’
‘You’ll have everything I have.’
‘Then I’ll help you.’
He doesn’t question Finn’s word.
Jean-Claude rummages in his knapsack and takes out a videotape.
‘There,’ he says. ‘That’s my documentary which Swiss TV has refused to broadcast. Look at it soon. But you must go to Liechtenstein. Speak to Pablo in Vaduz. You know Pablo?’
‘I’ve met him with you.’
‘He has an interesting story about Hutzger.’
‘Is Pablo like us?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. I think he can’t help playing both sides. That’s his disease.’
‘Thank you, Jean-Claude.’
Once again the Troll looks at Finn in amazement. He has no concept of gratitude.
‘I need something very specific from you, Troll,’ Finn says. ‘There’s a set of companies. They’re called Exodi, and there’s one of them here in Geneva. I want to know whatever you can find for me about Exodi in Geneva.’
‘Exodi?’ the Troll murmurs. ‘No. I don’t know it. Call on me in a week and we’ll see where we are.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Finn says.
Finn sits on a stone bench by the neatly landscaped quay reserved for Lake Geneva’s pleasure boats. Here the lake narrows to the width of a bridge span and runs off through a lock and into the Rhone.
He watches the man in the light brown polo shirt and Burberry slacks who ushers two small children in front of him and on to the ferry. Sergei must have seen the strip of black tape on his car screen within an hour of Finn leaving it there.
The Russian has been waiting on the far side of the road from the quay, buying ice creams and balloons for the kids until the ferry is almost ready to depart. He joins the end of the now-depleted queue, so he will know there is nobody boarding behind him- or, if anybody does board, he will have a picture of a face clearly in his mind. And he will know to abort.
But nobody comes on behind him and the ferry churns the water with its bow propeller and, crablike, leaves the quay in a white wash, heading up the lake for several stops on the way to Vevey.
Finn notes the ferry’s destination again, folds the tourist map he’s needlessly carrying, stands up and tucks it into a back pocket. He walks across the intersection of three roads that filter towards the bridges that join Geneva’s two parts at the lake’s apex and picks up the one taxi that stands at the rank.
They wind out of Geneva to the east and pass through its satellite towns and villages that dot the lake. He pays off the taxi a few miles before his destination and takes a bus the rest of the way.
The restaurant stands on a sloping lawn that meets the lake in a grass beach. Nearby is a quay where the ferry stops on the way up the lake. There is a large worn-out p
lay area administered by two young women, probably itinerant workers from Eastern Europe. There is plenty of brightly coloured plastic equipment to amuse the children while their parents eat or drink in a modest wooden building that opens only in the summer.
Sergei sits by the window, facing towards the road with the beautiful lake view behind him.
‘You were quick,’ Finn says, and sits down.
‘You were slow,’ Sergei says. ‘We don’t have a lot of time. Life here isn’t so safe for me any more. Not since Dobby’s been in power.’
Sergei uses the insulting KGB nickname for President Putin, a name taken from Harry Potter’s goblin.
Sergei had come up through the Forest’s training school at the same time as me. In 1992 he started a trading company in Moscow which imported sugar at first, then branched out into other foodstuffs. He became acquainted with the trading floors of Western Europe, made his millions and then moved to Geneva.
After Yeltsin had made Putin his prime minister and when the various KGB clans rivalled each other to put their man in position to win the elections, Sergei was working on behalf of one of Putin’s opponents, one of the KGB’s four or five chosen candidates to win the elections, before the list was finally whittled down to Putin. Sergei ended up funding a losing candidate.
A successful businessman, now worth several hundred million, Sergei continued his work as a KGB informer and reported directly to the KGB’s officer at the Russian delegation of the United Nations in Geneva. Sergei was riding high in Geneva for several years, making millions from KGB-backed trading contracts and his own private business. But his one mistake- a mistake that was to cost him and many others dear- was that he had backed the wrong horse. His candidate was now an ordinary MP in the Russian Duma and Putin was president.
‘Things will pass,’ Finn says. ‘Just ride it out, Sergei.’
‘I don’t know if I’m under surveillance but safe, or on the list and not safe,’ the Russian replies. ‘That’s how they like it best. Keeping everyone in fear.’
‘How bad is it?’ Finn says.
‘Terrible. The Petersburg clan are triumphant in their victory last year. Putin himself, Ivanov, Sechin–the lot of them. And now they’re ironing out their enemies-or anyone they feel like ironing out. Not just in Moscow either. They’re already turning to the outside world. Putin’s Petersburg clan-these damn Peterski-they’re even more ruthless than we thought.’
Sergei gulps from a plastic glass of transparent liquor.
‘They’re putting out contracts, for Christ’s sake,’ he continues. ‘It’s not enough that Putin’s won, now they want to erase anyone who’s got under their skin. I put nearly five million dollars on the losing ticket in the election campaign and now my whole fucking body’s above the parapet.’
Sergei drinks heavily again from the plastic tumbler and leans across the table to Finn.
‘I’m glad you’re here. You know, I may want to come over. Maybe it’s my only choice now.’ He sits back. ‘I hear you’ve left Moscow. You’ve got trouble too?’
Finn thinks about suggesting that Sergei go to the Americans as a safer haven, rather than the British. But he needs Sergei where he is for now, in the field, not in some CIA safe house in Connecticut on a two-year debriefing.
‘No, no trouble,’ Finn says. ‘Just a change of job.’
A waitress comes and takes Finn’s order for a glass of wine and another vodka for Sergei.
‘We can take you in, of course,’ Finn lies. ‘But now’s not a good time. Give it a few months when we can demonstrate more clearly what Putin’s doing. Then my people in London will really appreciate your value. But I need your help for that. Right now you’ll be coming up against my government’s love affair with Putin.’
‘I can’t last much longer like this,’ the Russian says plaintively, and Finn watches the alcoholic self-pity well up in his face. ‘They’re watching me, sticking pins in me, hounding me. An article appeared in Izvestia, naming me in some scandal. Inspired, of course, by the dogs in Putin’s clan. There are people in his clan who hate me in Moscow.’
‘But, as you say, Sergei, they’re putting the frighteners on everyone, not just you. What they want you to do is run. That will prove your treachery. And then they catch you before you can get to safety.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I’ll help you when it’s time,’ Finn says, lying easily again. He has no power to help Sergei or anyone else.
‘Putin has spent a year gathering Russia’s money,’ Sergei continues. ‘It’s going to be a great harvest. He’s put all his own people into the state economy, the state oil companies, where they drain a fat percentage for themselves on the inside. And the oligarchs, our once-new independent businessmen, are now cap in hand. They’re all afraid, even the most powerful. Putin has told them they must share their wealth. Share it with the KGB, with the Forest, of course, but not with the country. Geneva, you wouldn’t believe it! It’s crawling with operatives. Back in Moscow they’re activating agents who’ve been asleep for years. There are sting operations against certain banks…’
‘Which banks?’
‘Which ones? There are half a dozen. All old KGB sympathisers who have long fallen into disuse. Asleep.’
Finn says nothing.
‘A month ago,’ Sergei says, leaning in towards Finn again, ‘the president of the Banque Leman was invited to Moscow. He has a weakness from a long time back. But this time they photographed him indulging in this weakness–for underage girls–in an apartment in the city. Now they use the pictures to tell him what to do.’
‘What’s new?’ Finn says.
‘This is what’s new. The regime isn’t only interested in funding the Forest’s operations abroad any more. It has very big plans, very big money from business, mafia sources, billions. There are accounts being opened up in the Banque Leman in the name of foreigners who hold very senior positions in the West. So they say. Bribe money is bottomless. That’s just one bank. There are others.’
‘Why’s it different from their normal Forest operations?’ Finn says calmly.
‘This time they plan to use their vast capital like the West does,’ Sergei says. ‘They’re in a no-limit poker game with the markets as the pot.’
The small children Finn has seen with Sergei on the quay earlier run into the restaurant and look at Finn.
‘What’s the name of this bank’s president?’ Finn says.
‘Naider. Clement Naider.’
‘Can you get me the pictures, the photographs with these underage girls your side has of him?’ Finn says.
‘You ask too much,’ Sergei says. ‘I tell you, I’m watched.’
One of the boys tugs his arm and his brother comes in to join them.
‘I’m taking too big a risk just by being here. I have to go,’ Sergei says. ‘You will help me?’
‘Soon. When it’s time. I need the pictures, Sergei,’ Finn says. ‘Naider and the girls.’
‘No more now please.’
Finn stands up as Sergei does. ‘I’ll help you if you do this,’ Finn promises. ‘We’ll have you in a nice big house in Surrey, near Boris, all yours, with a brand new passport.’
‘There isn’t much time for me,’ Sergei says, and drinks back the tumbler of vodka. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Finn leans in to the Russian.
‘No one’s interested in helping you, Sergei,’ Finn says harshly. ‘Not us, not the Americans. They’re in bed with Putin. If you want me to get you out, find the pictures.’
Beads of sweat break out across the Russian’s forehead. Then he takes the boy’s hand and leaves the restaurant without a word.
Finn watches the small boy looking back at him. Who’s that man, he seems to hear him say. They step out on to the warm lawn, and Finn wonders how much grace Sergei really does have left with the Kremlin.
20
I WAKE EARLY the next morning unable to sleep, the worst night since Finn disappea
red ten days ago. It is Thursday, the beginning of the third day since my arrival in Tegernsee, and outside the town fills with market shoppers.
At first I don’t know where I am, then I see Finn’s journal and then the mountains beyond the window. My first thought is of Finn, and then of Mikhail.
Apart from the pink house, Mikhail was the one secret Finn had kept from me, and I thought the clue to Finn’s disappearance might lie not just here in Tegernsee, but in the identity of Mikhail.
Somewhere down in the cellar, I am sure, Finn would have left something that explained Mikhail. Until I have searched for this, the deepest secret of Finn’s, I know I can’t concentrate on anything else.
I take the book back down to the cellar, lock everything, and leave to find breakfast. There is nothing to eat or drink in the house except some half-empty liquor bottles. I walk to a small café, up near Schmidtke’s house on the Graubstrasse, a few hundred yards away, and try to eat a croissant, but eventually I can’t postpone my sense of rising anticipation. I take the croissant and a cup of coffee and return to the house, buying a few supplies on my way back.
I descend to the cellar again, shutting everything up behind me, and light the oil stove. First I take the pile of Finn’s books that I have yet to read and flick through them, but I don’t expect Mikhail to be so easily discovered. Mikhail would be special, separate, if Finn had acknowledged Mikhail at all in his records. Mikhail would not be someone anyone could discover when they eventually found the pink house. How would Finn leave a record of Mikhail?
The cellar contains very little: a table where Finn seems to have edited some of the books before depositing them here, a small, empty metal filing cabinet, a rolled-up carpet that looks as if it hasn’t been moved for years, some odds and ends from a plumbing job- offcuts of plastic pipe and a tub of hardened white paste–a waste-paper basket filled with screwed-up paper, a rickety chair with a reed seat, dust, endless dust, and an empty picture frame.