by RJ Bailey
I went to YouTube and put the wife’s name in. A couple of videos came up, one of them expensively directed by Vaughan Arnell – and even I knew he didn’t come at a discount – with Mrs Asparov riding a horse along a beach, pursued by a horde of barbarians. It ended with her singing from the balcony of a lighthouse.
Well, I say singing, it was that melismatic scale climbing that has escaped from TV talent shows and started breeding in the wild. Anyway, I wasn’t sure whether Katya Asparov had talent, because the voice was relentlessly Pro-Tooled and auto-tuned. That, I realised, was Paul speaking. I had no idea what those things did. But Paul spent an inordinate amount of time raging about ‘modern music’. Before he died he had switched back to vinyl, so he could enjoy the crackles on his old Neil Young LPs. I would then sing ‘Old Man’ at him in Mr Young’s whiny cat-in-a-mangle voice.
It took a second to pull me back. I knew that I could spend hours replaying such moments with my dead husband, like watching family videos. I did worry that if I didn’t re-run them then, like old film stock, the colours would bleach and the gelatine scratch and Paul would fade from view. But the alternative was to stay trapped in the past with Paul and Neil Young and I couldn’t do that to Jess.
I glanced at the ‘requirements’ page where the client laid out what they needed in a PPO. Someone, I wondered if it was the husband, had said: ‘Must like shopping’. I don’t know how, but those words managed to carry an undertow of wearied resignation. There was also a hand-scribbled addition. ‘Must bring gym wear to interview’. Strange. Maybe that was what Ben had meant when he said the game had changed.
I started on the second client, Malik Sharif, who made his money from importing luxury cars into Pakistan, textiles, property and banking. A significant percentage of the cheap clothes on the high street came from his factories but, I was pleased to see, he was a vocal supporter of workers’ rights and factory safety. His massive mill in Karachi was held up as a model of compassionate capitalism for the whole subcontinent. As I suspected, the wife – there appeared to only be one this time – was barely mentioned. As with Asparov, she was younger than him, but the gap was not so significant, about twelve or so years from what I could make out. I checked the paper files and I was out by two years, but close enough.
The requirements page was a little more fulsome for the Sharifs.
We are looking for an experienced Female CPO/PPO/Driver OR an experienced Driver with a knowledge of security. (The candidate gender restriction is due to cultural reasons.)
• The successful applicant will be driving the new Rolls-Royce Ghost and MUST have previous experience driving luxury cars.
• SIA accreditation essential.
• They will be driving a young girl who is schooled in London and her mother.
• The contracted hours are Monday–Friday 0730–1800 during school term times, with some weekends (flexibility essential).
• There is the possibility during the summer of several weekends in Monte Carlo with possible short trips in the winter months to St Moritz.
• Applicant must have a London base and be flexible to adapt to the family and their needs.
Well, the weekends away might throw up some problems with Jess, but it was par for the course. It isn’t a 9–5 job. Although this was close to it. I suspected with the daughter and wife there wouldn’t be too many late nights. But the Rolls-Royce Ghost? I didn’t like that. Not the car, just its high visibility. As Paul used to put it so succinctly, it’s like driving with your bollocks hanging out. People’ll notice. I hoped they hadn’t gilded that particular lily with a personalised number plate. Don’t much like those, either. People with them always think: smart, witty. Most observers seeing them think: tosser. And they are always easy for someone to remember.
My mobile rang. Nina. I had seen her a couple of times since our initial meeting at Kings Place and we had even trained together. Her tone was bright and breezy. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Good. You got my message?’
‘I did. Your Russian friend has the usual backstory. Local politician. He traded votes for Yeltsin in return for mining interests, which he got for a song. He’s a non-dom. Has shares in Arsenal Football Club and a box there. On wife number three.’
‘I saw. She’s a looker.’
‘Well, almost right. Just change one letter and you’d be there. She’s a pop star of sorts.’
‘What sorts?’
‘The sort that used to hang around Circus or Blast in Moscow, hoping to snare a metals magnate. Andrei pays for the best American, British or Swedish producers to come over and make the album and then probably buys or downloads every copy himself.’
‘So no media blocking needed here?’
‘In her dreams. She’s also a nail ambassador.’
‘For who? B&Q?’ I had this image of an airbrushed supermodel with a comic Russian accent explaining the difference between rounds and ovals to DIY customers.
‘Ha-ha. Poppy Gunn. It’s a top Russian manicure brand.’
‘How’s Mr Asparov’s relationship with the Russian government? I don’t want to come home glowing with polonium.’
‘Good. That is, the regime likes him. Or at least, it doesn’t hate him, which is just as important. But I don’t know why you’d bother with the Russians. Sharif, well, he seems to be an honest-to-God businessman.’
‘Honest to Allah,’ I corrected.
‘Right. Wouldn’t they prefer a female Muslim bodyguard?’
‘They’re pretty rare, Nina. In this country, at least.’ Although rumour had it that at least one hairy-arsed ex-SAS bodyguard on The Circuit enjoyed operating beneath a burka. He claimed you could get away with murder under there. Which we all knew meant he could carry a concealed weapon. ‘Given that most of us are ex-forces or police.’
‘I suppose so. Anyway, no skeletons rattling away in cupboards for the Sharifs that I can find. She’s big in a couple of charities back home. Let me see . . . Sightsavers, CARE, Sadohari Foundation, ORBIS. He’s big in CatSlam.’
‘Cat what?’ It sounded like either a medical procedure or a form of feline torture. ‘Is that a charity?’
‘CatSlam? It’s more a business concept. Catwalk to Islam. If Olivier Rousteing puts feathers on his autumn-winter collection for Balmain, within a week Sharif’s people are offering H&M a salwar kameez trimmed with feathers. Stella McCartney goes all Op-Art, then bingo, they have headscarves and shawls with very similar motifs. There’s even a market for burkas, with the latest patterns embossed black-on-black on the fabric, so they still look like plain sacks from a distance. But the wearer knows they have a designer sack on. The Muslim fashion industry is worth billions.’
‘Who knew?’
‘The Financial Times, last week. Double-page spread. Apparently some of the big fashion houses are talking about copyright and plagiarism issues. Which means they have realised they’re missing out on a slice of that action. That’s about it, though. Good luck.’
‘I appreciate it, Nina. Thanks. I owe you a drink.’ I jumped in before she could say anything about my training regime. ‘And I’ll have the peppermint tea.’
We said our goodbyes and I was glad she hadn’t asked about cigarettes. I was down to two a day, but couldn’t slough off that last pair, one first thing in the morning, the other late in the evening. I finished up and put the folders in the safe in the bedroom. Even thinking about smoking made my throat tighten as my body anticipated the pleasure of the first nicotine hit.
Jess and Laura came back and set about making pasta and pesto. I had an ‘Eat Yourself Thin’ salad to look forward to and the CIA World Factbook on Russia and Pakistan to read.
I had just pulled it from the shelf when Jess came over and handed me a brown envelope. ‘Mum, I meant to say, this came for you while you were out. Laura had to sign.’
‘Sorry,’ mouthed Laura. ‘I should have said.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said.
But, as I soon d
iscovered, it wasn’t OK. It was a long way from OK.
FIFTEEN
Seething is not a good look for an interview, so the next day I buried my anger as deep as I wanted to bury an axe in my ex-husband’s skull. I took a cab to The Bishops Avenue, on Ben’s tab. I was carrying the gym gear as requested. I have never got my head around the appeal of The Bishops Avenue. I had worked there before. It had none of the glamour, shopping or restaurants of West London, just rows of overblown, tasteless mansions, many of them left to fall into disrepair. What it did have was space and relaxed planning permission. As Asparov had discovered, in places like Holland Park and Chelsea you had neighbours whose daily reading was the planning application noticeboard. In The Bishops Avenue you could build Disneyland and no neighbour would complain. Mainly because, for large swathes of it, there were no neighbours. The properties were simply bricks-and-mortar safety deposit boxes, unlived in and unloved.
The Asparov house was in the section near Hampstead Heath, which at least had some life to it, with a far higher percentage of occupancy than the more northerly section. It was also more modest than I expected. True, it had high fences and gates, razor wire and cornets of spikes and CCTV cameras. But this wasn’t one of the bloated monstrosities the area attracted. With its simple pillars either side of a black shiny door, it looked like the kind of place I could live in. If I had a spare two hundred mil and a copper mine in Russia.
I pressed the intercom next to the gate and announced myself. There was a crackle that might have also been a word. I waited for the snick that would let me in. None came. I tried again. ‘Wait!’ was clearly audible now. Wait for what?
I was aware of a buzzing from the grounds of the house, growing louder. It sounded like a fifty-pound bee, and when it burst into view, I wasn’t far off. It hovered above me, maybe twenty feet off the ground, the little props frantically whirring to keep the drone aloft. It described a circle and even above the racket of the little engines I thought I could hear the camera lens zooming in and out. I turned so it got my full face. Once it was satisfied, it darted away and I heard the buzzing fade. The door gave its snick. Well, Ben had said the game had changed. Entryphone cameras and CCTV were clearly no longer enough. The up-to-date oligarch had to have a fleet of drones. And the people to operate them. I stepped into the grounds.
There was a car parked on my right, one of the big Audis. As I passed it, the rear door opened. ‘Welcome. Get in, please.’ The engine purred softly into life.
The voice had a rotund English accent, but with an oddly metallic edge. I crouched down and peered in. There was no driver.
‘It is quite safe,’ said the dashboard.
I glanced up at the house. It was about a hundred metres, if that.
‘Thanks, but I need the exercise,’ I said. With a mosquito-like whine the door closed again with a sulky clunk. Boys and their toys, I thought. Rich boys, that is.
I walked up a gravel path and did a quick recce of the garden. There was a second, wider path that led to the rear of the detached house. Judging by the aperture at the fence end, this was where the cars came and went from the property. There was only one other, apart from the Audi, in sight, a Range Rover with blacked-out windows to one side of the mansion, sitting in front of a low garage that probably accessed the subterranean levels where the cars were stored and serviced. More cameras slowly tracked me as I approached the house, some on stalks emerging from well-kept bushes, and others attached to the walls of the house. I could see small protrusions from the lawn that looked like sprinklers. I would bet at least some of them were motion sensors.
I didn’t have to knock, the door was opened by a butler, gussied up as if he had stepped out of a TV drama. He had a well-fed look, his cheeks reddened as if he had been at the port already, and when he spoke it took me a moment to place the voice. ‘Do come in. You are expected.’
It was the voice from the Audi dashboard.
‘Thank you. Sorry about refusing the lift. My mother told me never to get in cars with disembodied men.’
A flashbulb of a smile went off. ‘Quite right, miss. It’s just one of the newer services we offer. It takes some getting used to.’ I couldn’t be sure, but I sensed there was a whiff of disapproval in there.
There came the click of heels on polished wood as a young woman marched towards me. She was a bleached blonde with a hefty fringe and cheekbones so sharp, she looked as if all the air had been sucked out of her mouth to get the effect. She was dressed in a cream two-piece suit and the sort of steep, vertiginous, spike-heeled shoes that can give you a nosebleed. She looked down at her clipboard, said my name with a Slavic accent and waited for my confirmation.
‘That’s me.’
‘Can I see some ID?’
Not bad, I thought. Some non-electronic security in place already. I handed over my clean passport. She checked the photo, frowned at it – it was about as flattering as every other passport pic I had ever seen – and offered it back.
‘Come.’ She turned and led me down a hallway decorated primarily in red and green, with a big splash of polished walnut from the staircase, and into a side room, where a man in his forties with two wings of greying hair over his temples was sitting behind a desk. The simple modesty of the outside of the house had been left behind here. Picture frames were gilt and ornate and held voluptuous naked women, the fireplace was black marble, veined with gold, with several levels, supported by pillars. It looked as if it was modelled on a wedding cake and you could roast an ox in the hearth. I suspected it wasn’t original to the house, the scale was all wrong. An ormolu clock was on the mantelpiece and if it had been a peacock it would be strutting about, pleased-as-punch with itself. The chairs were thickly padded and looked like Louis XIV reproductions, although I assumed they might not be reproductions, and the intricate cabinets lining the walls were inlaid with ebony and tortoiseshell. Above me the ceiling was freshly gilded rococo, the gold finish still bright and shiny.
Three televisions showing financial channels were mounted on the walls, and there were two computers on the desk, flanking my interviewer. He motioned for me to sit down. I examined his square face, the eyes set just a little too close together, the well-muscled neck, the elegant hands with a better manicure than mine. This wasn’t Andrei Asparov.
‘I was expecting to see Mr or Mrs Asparov.’
‘Sit down, please.’ His English was lightly accented and when he smiled the face lost its slightly forbidding aspect. ‘Mr and Mrs Asparov had to go to Moscow. Mrs Asparov was offered a slot on Good Morning Russia, to perform her new single.’
‘Too good an opportunity to miss,’ I said, my voice idling in neutral.
‘Indeed.’ He held out a hand and I took it. Firm did not do the grip that clamped over my hand justice. ‘I am Gregor Mitval. I am head of the residential security team. You would be reporting to me anyway. Please, sit,’ he repeated.
I did so and put the gym bag to one side. ‘Reporting how?’ I asked.
‘Just the usual. If you get the position, then I like to see all your pre-deployment tactical notes for every day and then a detailed de-brief document at the end of the day.’
‘So you need to know where Mrs Asparov is going and where she has been.’ The job was PPO-cum-spy, then. The phrase ‘conflict of loyalties’ popped into my head and I parked it in a prominent position.
‘Precisely. There will be times when we need to send a team with you as back-up.’
‘Such as?’
‘Film premieres, launch parties, fashion shows, personal appearances.’
There came a whirring noise and I thought, for one moment, that the drone had entered the room. But I turned to see all the artworks disappear from their frames. I had heard of security devices that remove valuable paintings from the walls if the house alarm is triggered, sliding them into a metal safe hidden in the cavity. But this wasn’t that. A fresh set of paintings, these more twentieth century and abstract, appeared in place of the Ruben-esque
nudes. ‘The afternoon art collection . . .’ he offered, as if it were entirely normal for all the paintings in a house to be electronically rotated and replaced.
‘How many changes are there?’
‘Only three. Morning, afternoon, evening.’ I looked as a very average Picasso – so probably only worth a hundred million – slotted into place. I’d almost forgotten that in this world, art and money had a commensal relationship, intertwined like two voracious creepers and as impossible to tease apart.
He pointed to an empty cup on the desk. ‘Coffee?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Are you sure? It’s Sumatran Kopi Luwak. Three hundred pounds a cup.’
I’d come across it before. I’d rather have the cash, I thought. ‘The one where the civets eat the beans and the farmers collect them?’
‘It’s delicious.’
It’s also bollocks. There is more fake and adulterated Kopi Luwak out there than there are Louis Vuitton bags. It was just another way of demonstrating to the normal world you had too much money.
‘I’ll pass.’
He shrugged, disappointed. Maybe it would have been his excuse to have another three hundred quid cup himself.
‘Now, I have your CV here,’ Mitval continued. He put on a pair of black-framed glasses and peered at one of the computer screens. ‘Army trained, I see. That’s good. Combat experience. Medical training, also very good.’ He held up his iPhone. ‘Technical. Not so fine. You know about RSCA for the cars?’
I nodded, not having a clue what he was talking about. This was no time for weakness. I hazarded a guess. ‘That’s how the Audi is controlled?’
‘Indeed. We are just bedding the system in. You tried it?’
I shook my head. ‘I still prefer a human behind the wheel.’
‘Me too. But this is the future. All this is very good. Very impressive CV.’ He indicated the paperwork. ‘You trained with the Colonel himself?’
I nodded. Everyone on The Circuit knew Colonel d’Arcy. He was based in Geneva, but twice a year ran PPO courses in the UK, which he modestly dubbed masterclasses. He was in his seventies, but you still wouldn’t fancy your chances in a fight or a car race against the wily old fox. His masterclasses were twice the price of any other training scheme, but worth it.