The hidden man am-2

by Charles Cumming

  ‘D’Erlanger has been to Moscow with Macklin and Tamarov. He must be involved in something out there…’

  ‘Ben…’

  ‘What were you talking to Duchev about?’ Mark came out of the booth. He was frowning.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You guys were talking about something while I was with Vladimir.’

  ‘He’s retiring. He’s bought some property in Spain. He doesn’t like the weather in Latvia and wants to build his own house south of Granada. Why?’

  Instantly, Ben said, ‘Well, you could use that.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You could rob him of his dream.’ In the tight confines ofthe bathroom Ben was rushing on sheer adrenalin, eager to help out. ‘If Randall needs evidence on Kukushkin from within, Duchev would be the man to give it to him. They could recruit him as an agent, threatening to take away the land…’

  ‘What?’ Mark looked appalled. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘Just that. Just what I was saying.’

  ‘Have you done a line, brother?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t done a line. You think I’d do coke before something like this…?’

  Mark was shaking his head, an exhausted, disappointed smile.

  ‘This was a big mistake, bringing you in on this. I didn’t realize how fucked you’d get. I don’t know what I was thinking…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I should never have got you involved.’

  Ben came towards him.

  ‘You got me involved because you can’t do this thing on your own. You need me to help you out, to do it for Dad…’

  ‘No.’ Mark was intractable. ‘I don’t need you to help me out. It’s not safe. I asked you along tonight so you could see the Russians for yourself, to prove to you that Bone’s letter was a fake. I didn’t get you along so that you could start playing I Spy like it’s a game or something. The two of us just being in here is bad enough. You shouldn’t have followed me from the table.’

  Ben turned away, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

  ‘You’re drunk, brother,’ he said. ‘You’re paranoid.’

  ‘I am not drunk, Benjamin. I am not paranoid. You just need to calm down.’ Mark was very careful not to raise his voice. ‘Do you know anything about Duchev? Do you realize how dumb it would be to try to recruit someone like that? This is one of Kukushkin’s most trusted employees. This is a guy who, four years ago, took a leading Moscow mafioso into the countryside in the boot of a car, found a nice isolated spot, chopped off his fingers, hammered out his teeth and then set fire to his vehicle. The bloke was still alive. That was just a job for Kukushkin, a favour. All in a day’s work. That’s what I’m dealing with, brother. This is the kind of person I’m up against.’

  ‘What about Tamarov?’

  ‘What about Tamarov? Go back to your paints and charcoals. He’s just sussing you out. Can’t you see that? He’s sussing both of us out. These guys, they value loyalty and honour above everything else. You make friends with him and he’ll become fucking depraved if he realizes what we’re up to. A man like Tamarov is either your best fucking friend in the world or the worst mistake you ever made. That’s what I need you to bear in mind so that you don’t fuck this thing up.’

  ‘You should get out of this,’ Ben said calmly. ‘I can see you’re not…’

  Mark flashed him a look of contempt.

  ‘Drop it,’ he hissed.

  ‘All I said was that d’Erlanger went to Moscow. That’s all I came in here to tell you.’

  ‘And?’ Mark’s hand was coiled into a fist, leaning on the bathroom sink. ‘You think that’s big news? What do you think MI5 do all day if they’re not tracking — ’

  He did well to stop talking as quickly as he did. The internal door of the bathroom had shifted fractionally in a movement of air created by someone entering on the other side. When Tamarov came into the room his eyes narrowed in the brighter light and he stopped in his tracks. He looked first at Mark, then at Ben, and said, ‘Everything OK?"

  Ben let his brother do the talking.

  ‘Oh, fine,’ Mark replied. ‘Fine. We’re just having a chat about one of the girls. You all right, Vladimir?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ Tamarov said, standing with his back to them at the urinal.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So you like one of the girls?’

  He had twisted his neck round and directed the question at Ben.

  ‘That’s right,’ Ben replied, falling gratefully in to the lie. His pulse was sprinting like rain and he hardly dared look at Mark. ‘Her name’s Ayesha. The one with Philippe. She’s nice, eh?’

  ‘Very beautiful, yes. I could tell you liked her. We are talking, Mark, and your brother is very interesting on the subject of modern art. But his eyes they keep moving to this girl. He cannot take them off her.’ Tamarov laughed, zipping up his flies. ‘But you have a problem, I think. Philippe is very drunk and he is carrying a lot of cash. You will have trouble persuading her to leave him.’

  Ben smiled — though it looked to Mark more like a grimace — and did his best to keep up the charade.

  ‘Oh, that’s OK,’ he said. ‘One dance is enough for me. Besides, I’m married, Vladimir, and that American girl took me a bit by surprise.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tamarov said, washing his hands at the sink. ‘By surprise. Perhaps this is what you were talking about when I came in.’

  There was a dreadful silence, the sound of taps and muffled music, and they left the bathroom together. Mark allowed Ben to walk ahead of them and tried to gather his composure. They were at a set of double doors leading backinto the club when Tamarov took hold of his arm.

  ‘Come with me to the bar,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to you in private.’

  ‘Sure,’ Mark replied coolly. He desperately wanted water, ice, something to take the dryness from the roof of his mouth. They were moving through the darkened VIP area, Ben up ahead and girls on all sides dancing in the laps of half-hidden men.

  ‘What will you have?’ Tamarov asked him at the bar.

  ‘Just something soft,’ Mark replied. He was still irritated by Ben. ‘I have to be up early in the morning.’

  Tamarov ordered two Cokes and jerked his head contemptuously in Macklin’s direction.

  ‘Thomas must also be awake early tomorrow,’ he said, looking across at the table. ‘We have important series of meetings on Saturday, no? But I think he does not care.’

  ‘Oh, Tom’s all right,’ Mark said, thinking that a display of loyalty would play in his favour. ‘He just likes a drink from time to time. Likes to let his hair down.’

  The barman set down two Cokes on the bar and Tamarov paid him with a stiff fifty-pound note. Then he trained his eyes on Mark, saying, ‘What has he told you about me? About who I am?’

  Mark didn’t flinch.

  ‘That you’re a lawyer.’

  ‘But by now you understand how business works in my country? You understand that in order for your operation to succeed it has been necessary for Thomas and Sebastian to make certain arrangements?’

  ‘Sure,’ Mark said casually. ‘I understand that.’

  Tamarov moved his mouth slowly from side to side, like a man tasting expensive wine.

  ‘So I want to speak to you privately today because we have not met before tonight and there are matters on my conscience that I need to discuss with you.’

  ‘On your conscience,’ Mark repeated.

  ‘Let me be clear.’ Tamarov straightened his back and swallowed a mouthful of Coke. ‘Your father was working for Sebastian at the time of his death. I am aware of this. We were all aware of it. This is how business is done.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m following you.’

  ‘What I want to say is this.’ Now he reached out and put his hand on the shoulder of Mark’s jacket. It was like being touched by a priest. ‘When I heard about your father’s murder, I was shocked. It came to me as a surprise. It came to all o
f us as a surprise. Do you understand what I am telling you?’

  For a time there was nothing between them but pop music and distant, idle chatter. Girls in peripheral vision and Mark calculating all the time. Under pressure, he made a decision.

  ‘Vladimir, if you’re trying to tell me that you work for Viktor Kukushkin, that you’re one of his lawyers, then that doesn’t surprise me. I’m a big boy. My father told me about Kukushkin’s organization and, to be honest with you, on my trips to Moscow with Tom, I put two and two together.’

  Tamarov flattened down the dried curls at the back of his neckand seemed relieved to have cleared the air.

  ‘I appreciate your frankness,’ he said. ‘But I am trying to tell you something more than this.’

  Now Mark did not respond. It was something Quinn had talked about at the safe house. Page One, Rule One: If you don’t know what’s going on, keep your fucking mouth shut.

  Tamarov leaned forward.

  ‘I must ask you a personal question,’ he said. ‘I hope that you will not be offended by it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It is only that I hope you do not feel that my client was in any way involved in what happened…’

  ‘Jesus, no.’ Mark could not tell if the lie rang hollow. ‘Christ, that thought never occurred to me. You think I’d still be working for Libra if I thought they had anything to do with what happened? You think I’d drink with you at this bar?’

  ‘Then I am very relieved.’ Tamarov swayed back and removed his hand from Mark’s shoulder. ‘This has been a burden for me tonight, and for Juris also. As I was saying to you, your father’s tragedy came as a surprise to all of us in the organization.’

  ‘Juris also works for Mr Kukushkin?’ Mark asked, because he had to.

  ‘He is an associate,’ Tamarov replied after a pause. Both men glanced back at the table. Ben, Mark was pleased to see, was now talking to Ayesha in the corner. That would keep him out of trouble. Macklin, Raquel, Duchev and Philippe were laughing amongst themselves in a separate conversation.

  ‘And your brother?’ Tamarov asked. ‘What does he think?’

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘Yes. Ben.’

  ‘Oh, all brother cares about is paintings.’

  Tamarov’s mouth dipped.

  ‘I like him very much,’ he said. ‘Benjamin is good person. It is not easy for him to live with everything that has happened. I also lose my father, when I was seventeen year old.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘A car crash outside Moscow. He was killed with a friend, coming back from a day of fishing in the country. My mother was very sick and I had to inform my younger sister and brother of this news. They are twins, only ten years old at the time. When I tell them what has happened they are screaming, like animals on the floor.’

  ‘That’s terrible. I’m really sorry.’

  Two girls approached them at a gentle sway but Tamarov waved them off.

  ‘I remember afterwards, going through his…’ he searched for the word ‘… his possessions. My mother was ill for some time and it was left to me, only a young man in Soviet Russia, to arrange the funeral. This was an intimate thing, you understand, for a boy to go through his own father’s books, his clothes.

  Later I read an American author. He says: “There is nothing more terrible than to face the objects of a dead man.” I always remember this.’

  ‘I had to do the same thing,’ Mark said, and for a moment he was out of the role, alone in Keen’s flat that first time: finding a razor lying beside the bath, clogged with his father’s hair; suits and ties in cupboards, never to be worn again; a Bible in a drawer just a stretch away from his pillow; even an unopened packet of condoms gathering dust under the bed.

  ‘So we have something in common,’ Tamarov announced.

  ‘Yes we do.’ And for no better reason than that he was unsettled and short of ideas, Mark picked up his drink and proposed a toast.

  ‘To the future,’ he said.

  Tamarov looked pleasantly surprised.

  ‘Yes, to the future,’ he responded, and smiled. He appeared to be on the point of adding more when Duchev approached. Acknowledging Mark with a granite nod, he said something quickly to Tamarov in a language which was not Russian.

  ‘ Es atnacu uzzinat ka klajas. Nu, ka iet? ’

  ‘ Vies iet labi,’ Tamarov replied. ‘ Esmu parliecinats ka bracli neka nezina.’

  Latvian, Mark assumed, and attempted to commit certain phrases to memory. Tamarov had used the word labi, which he knew meant ‘fine’ or ‘good’, but he would struggle to remember anything useful for Randall.

  ‘Juris is wondering where we get to,’ Tamarov said. ‘I was just telling him that we come back and sit down.’

  Again the pair spoke briefly in Latvian, this time with distinct names emerging from the flow of language. Philip. Toms. Something about piedzerussies. Mark noticed that Tamarov dealt with Duchev as a young, successful executive might speak to his foreman or chauffeur: with an authority checked by respect for the older man’s experience and loyalty.

  ‘What’s happening over at the table?’ he asked. Duchev seemed to wait for permission to speak. Air conditioning had rendered the club almost odourless, but Mark could pick out the strong smell of his sweat.

  ‘We find out,’ he said.

  Together they returned to the group and found Macklin holding court at the table, spittles of champagne now staining his electric blue suit. Raquel, Ayesha, Philippe and Ben were listening with rapt attention to a high-volume monologue about prostitution.

  ‘Thing about hookers,’ Macklin was saying, ‘is you have to watch out for the fibs. I learned this early on, Benny boy, right from the word go. Brass says she’s seventeen, more than likely she’s five years older, ten from time to time. You go for someone who’s thirty, take it from me she’s getting on for the menopause and it’s like fucking your mum. “Mature” is the same deal. You know what they mean by that, don’t you, Ben? Ropey as fuck. Ditto “Sophisticated”. Don’t make me laugh. About as classy as these birds get is watching Countdown on their coffee break.’

  Tamarov did not bother sitting down. A tall black girl with muscular, gym-stiffened arms had caught his eye and he returned with her to the bar. Noticing this, Macklin raised his voice and directed it at Duchev.

  ‘Good for old Vladimir,’ he shouted. ‘Look at your boss having fun. You wanna get some yourself, Juris, before it gets cold. Bit like the Hungry Duck in Moscow, eh?’

  Duchev said nothing, and Macklin turned his attention back to Mark and Ben.

  ‘So, Keeno, I was just telling your brother here about my life of iniquity and vice.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ There was a layer of gleaming sweat like fat melting on Macklin’s face. ‘Shall I tell you my golden rule, Benny boy, my golden little rule?’

  ‘Why not?’ Ben said tiredly.

  ‘If it flies, fucks or floats, rent it, don’t buy it.’

  When Ben failed to laugh, Macklin launched a further tirade.

  ‘Well, look at that,’ he said. ‘He’s like Sebastian fucking Roth, your little brother. Clean as a whistle and tied to the sink.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Ben said, and might have lost his temper.

  ‘I mean our Seb is too busy kissing government arse to have himself a good time. Spends his nights at the opera with the cream of New Labour, having intimate little dinners with the movers and shakers of Whitehall. God knows why he bothers. Fancies himself for a place in the House of Lords, I reckon. Very ambitious, our Mr Seb.’

  ‘Easy, Tom,’ Mark said, but Macklin was on a roll.

  ‘Come on, you know what I’m saying, Keeno. Those trips abroad, we hardly ever see him.’ He started talking directly at Raquel, at Ayesha, at anyone who would listen. ‘Me and Mark, we go off to Moscow nowadays and we have ourselves a right good time. But Seb, no, he keeps his distance, hob-nobbing with his cronies in the Kremlin. Who does
he think he is?’

  ‘Tom, leave it,’ Mark said again, and this time his tone was more forthright. Duchev had turned away, but was surely processing every word.

  ‘Fine,’ Macklin replied. ‘Fine. I’m only telling you the truth. Way I see it, Benny boy, man like you wants to give himself a treat from time to time. I saw you when I came in here, Raquel giving you the once over. You were loving it, mate, loving it. Wasn’t he, sweetheart?’ Raquel smiled obligingly. ‘I’ll tell you this for nothing. I had a Thai bird last night, fucking unbelievable. Nipples like indoor fireworks. You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  Ben lit a cigarette. At that moment he would rather have been anywhere else in the world but listening to Macklin talking about his sex life.

  ‘Philippe’s been there, haven’t you, mate?’ D’Erlanger, who had been quiet for some time, looked awkwardly at the table. ‘Don’t be shy, Hercule, don’t be shy. Down the Caymans, wasn’t it? You and Timmy Lander went retail. He told me all about it.’

  Neither Ben nor his brother could prevent the looks of shock that sprang on to their faces.

  ‘Timothy Lander?’ Mark said quickly.

  ‘That’s right.’ Macklin’s hand was scraping up Raquel’s back. ‘Night on the tiles, wasn’t it, Poirot?’

  ‘Do I know him?’ Mark asked. ‘From Libra?’

  ‘Tim?’ Macklin frowned. ‘Don’t think so, mate. Top bloke, though. Old friend of mine from college; runs a diving school out there.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. Philippe was going out a while back and I asked Tim to — how shall I put this delicately? — show him a good time.’ Macklin appeared to be affected by a memory, pleasure briefly leaving his face. ‘Matter of fact, I tried to hookyour old man up with him, Keeno, when he was planning a holiday out there. Told me he wanted to do some diving out in the Caymans, so I gave him Tim’s number. That was just before the, er, accident, you know. Sorry about that. Here, have another drink.’

  39

  ‘Timothy Lander is a fucking diving instructor.’

  ‘I knew that.’

  ‘You knew that?’