The Silent Oligarch: A Novel (13 page)

He paused, looking at Webster with his plainest expression. “So you didn’t kill him. That’s really important, Ben. I’m not just saying that someone else stabbed him or shot him. What killed him was in his life for years before today.”

“I got overexcited and blundered around. For my own benefit. I set it off.”

“Listen, I told you to go. Right? Sooner rather than later. And I won’t feel guilty if Prock turns out to be right. Which, by the way, we’ll probably never know for sure, the way these things go. And you know why? I didn’t introduce Dmitry Gerstman to Konstantin Malin. I didn’t bully him into taking a job that compromised him the moment he took it. I didn’t encourage him to think he could leave that behind. That’s what killed him.” Hammer smiled. “If, of course, that’s what killed him.”

Webster heard keys turning in the front door lock and at the same time his phone rang. Number unknown. He looked at Hammer and answered it.

“Hello,” said the voice on the other end. “This is Istvan.”

Webster put his hand over the phone, told Hammer who was calling, and left the room. He managed to smile at Mary as he passed her in the hall, and took himself into the dining room. Ten minutes later he returned to Hammer’s study and reported.

At 2:37 a.m. Dmitry Gerstman had fallen from the roof of the Hotel Gellért in Budapest and died instantly. Cause of death had not been formally established but superficial examination suggested he had been killed by the fall. He had not been staying at the Gellért but at the Four Seasons. He had checked in there on Friday morning, and was due to check out on Tuesday—he had a flight booked back to Berlin at 6:55 p.m. on that day. He appeared to have fallen from the roof itself rather than from one of the rooms, although tests to determine how far he had fallen would confirm that. Police had found no sign of any struggle at any of the points from which he could have fallen. None of the hotel staff on duty remembered seeing him enter the hotel; in fact, no one remembered seeing him in the hotel at all. Guests had not been systematically interviewed. He had left no note, but had e-mailed his wife from his BlackBerry half an hour before he died. The message had simply read, “Good-bye. I’m sorry. Dmitry.” When the German police had informed Mrs. Gerstman of her husband’s death at around 8:30 a.m. Berlin time, she had already received the message and had been trying to call him on his phone and at the Four Seasons. She had notified the German police. The BlackBerry itself had been found smashed in his inside jacket pocket. He had been wearing a suit but no coat, even though it had been a cold night.

“Why was he there?” said Hammer.

“In Budapest? That’s a little garbled. The Germans have been speaking to his wife and to Prock but I think something’s being lost in translation. He had two clients in Hungary, one in Budapest, the other in Miskolc. He had dinner with one of them on Friday but it’s not clear which one. He had meetings in his diary for Monday and Tuesday but that’s all I know.”

“And what was he doing that night?”

“They don’t know yet. They’re trying to put his movements together now. I’ve asked Istvan to keep an eye on it.”

They sat for a few moments in silence. Webster realized that, ridiculous though it was, Hammer’s conclusion was important to him. It held the promise of absolution.

“Does that sound like suicide to you?” asked Hammer.

Webster sighed. “No. No, it doesn’t. Might you e-mail your suicide note? I suppose so. The coat seems strange but if you’re going out to kill yourself maybe you don’t think about coats. I don’t know. A hotel just seems an odd place to choose. Particularly when you’re staying in another hotel. Why not just throw yourself out of your own window?”

“Maybe he’d had a bad experience at the Gellért.”

“Thanks.”

“Sorry. What about him? Was he the type?”

“He wasn’t exactly cheerful but . . . I don’t know. He was fit. Obviously fit. Like a serious runner or a rower or something. But more than that he seemed driven. Purposeful.”

“Depressed?”

“Not at all. He was scared about something, clearly, looking back, but not depressed. No, I’m fairly sure.”

Hammer chewed on his pencil. Then he got up, rooted around on the mantelpiece, found some matches and crouched to light the fire. It took a single match to get the rolls of newspaper burning. He stood up and watched the kindling begin to crackle and take.

“Should have done that when you arrived. Sorry. Do you want to take your coat off? No?” Sitting back in his chair he looked at the ceiling for a moment and closed his eyes. He sat like that for perhaps a minute, then looked at Webster.

“Why was it for your benefit?”

“What?”

“You said you got overexcited. What about?”

Webster looked away and watched the fire for a moment, taking off his watch and rubbing his wrist. This wasn’t something he had wanted to discuss with Ike, but he hadn’t stopped to consider why. Now he knew: it was foolish, and he felt faintly ashamed.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Is it that article?”

Webster nodded. “It’s been hard to leave it alone.”

Hammer waited for Webster to look up. “You’re not thinking straight. You’ll never know who killed her, unless someone tells you. Was it Malin? He’s a candidate, sure. But it’s gone. It’s too long ago. You’ll never know. But on this case—you’d have seen Gerstman anyway. The job is to finish Malin, whatever he might have done ten years ago. That’s the best justice you’re ever likely to get.”

Webster held his watch in his hands and studied the second hand ticking around before putting it back on his wrist, squeezing the clasp shut and sitting back in the chair. Hammer went on.

“For what it’s worth, I’d be amazed if he killed himself. Either way you shouldn’t blame yourself, but you will, for a bit. But that’s not important. What’s important is what happens to Lock. If you put Gerstman at risk then presumably Lock is in danger too. And he’ll know that. He’ll be scared. That may be why Gerstman died. So we have a choice. Do we keep pushing Lock? Or do we leave him, even though we may be the best hope he has of a future?”

Until that moment, Webster hadn’t realized that this, of course, was where the conversation would end: with him agreeing to go on with the case or walking away from it for good. He had come here wanting to hear that Gerstman’s death was not his fault. He hadn’t even thought about his responsibility to Lock.

Hammer waited patiently for his response. I know what he wants me to say, thought Webster. Never back away. Finish what you start.

“I think we should stop work,” he said at last. Hammer, his face lit by the fire, said nothing. “I don’t want to set off any more mines. No more meddling. I think we should have known how big this was. I’m sorry.”

Webster stood up, apologized again, and left the room and Hammer’s house. Outside it was dark. He set off on the walk home, down the hill and west for two or three miles. No more meddling. This reckless campaign was over, its casualties already too great.

T
HAT NIGHT
W
EBSTER DREAMED SHORT
, stark dreams that never resolved. In one, he sat with Lock in a row boat on a narrow river heavily shaded by trees. He had the oars and was rowing with a slow, regular stroke while Lock, opposite him, in a black suit and a floppy red bow tie, talked happily about his life in the South Seas, as if he were Stevenson or Gauguin. Then Lock’s face tensed and he gripped the sides of the boat; Webster felt himself tipping backward as the river fell sharply downward behind him. When he woke the back of his head was wet with sweat.

Seven

A
FTER
G
ERSTMAN’S DEATH
Lock’s imagination began to work again. It had never been energetic but at some point, in Russia, without his noticing, it had simply switched off. He had never really needed it, nor missed it, but when he found out what had happened to Dmitry Gerstman it came irresistibly back to life, resist though he might.

The scene always played backward, in stages. He heard screams from a guest. He saw the doormen stop with bags in their hands. He saw the broken body flat on the flagstones outside the hotel, the dark suit covering it still strangely pristine. He heard the short heavy slam as it hit. But most vivid was Gerstman in the air, falling, not far, about fifty feet, perhaps for only a second or two. The image sat squarely in his mind, and he wondered whether his friend knew as he fell, as any sane man had to suspect, that his death was no accident.

As he set off to his regular meeting with Malin the day after the news this was all that was in his head, vivid and continuous. He had very little to report: from reading newspapers online he had discovered only that Dmitry had fallen to his death, and that alcohol was suspected to have played a part. The police were treating his death as suicide. Lock was not.

Lock’s office was on Kozhevnichesky pereulok, two miles down the Moscow River from the Kremlin and the Ministry of Industry and Energy. Every Tuesday he would go downstairs at 7:15 p.m. and his driver would take him to the ministry. There at eight he would brief Malin on the events of the week, always following the same agenda: Events, Opportunities, Threats. The meeting would last half an hour, sometimes forty-five minutes. There had been a time, before Malin had become the man he had become, when they would have dinner afterward, but for many years now Lock had simply had his driver take him home.

This evening, though, he felt like walking. This was unusual. He was no walker, and Moscow didn’t encourage a casual stroll. But after a day of sitting and worrying his back ached and his head ached and he longed for air and movement. And he had a call to make.

He set off for the river, joining it at Novospassky Bridge, and walked north along its west bank. A frost was beginning to set in, and in his thin raincoat he felt underdressed; he quickened his step to compensate. Beside him queues of cars breathed gray fumes into the air and across the water the low, white, martial walls of the Novospassky Monastery, sparsely floodlit, shone amber in the dark through bare, scrubby trees. But the cold was exhilarating and Lock was reminded that on nights like these, when real cold first steeped the city after its airless summer, even he could find it beautiful.

He took one of his phones from his coat pocket and found the number for his father. It was his birthday today. Lock should have called him that morning but hadn’t. Somehow speaking to his father from the office was too jarring, like calling home from the bed of your mistress.

He pressed the key and after a long pause the line began to ring.

“Hallo, met Everhart.”

“Happy birthday, Father. It’s Richard.” Lock spoke English to his father; his Dutch hadn’t been strong since he was young.

“
Dank u,
Richard. It’s good of you to call.”

“Not at all. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you.” Everhart tended to terseness on the phone. He saw it as a device to exchange information, no more.

“Did you get my card?”

“I did. Thank you.”

There had been a time when Lock, newly rich, would buy his father expensive presents: a watch, a fountain pen. After the third year his father had told him that he didn’t need anything and had asked him to stop.

“Have you had a good day?” Lock’s hand, exposed to the northerly wind that whipped down the river, was already stiff with cold.

“Yes. I walked to Zandvoort.”

“Not there and back?” Zandvoort was at least a dozen miles from Noordwijk.

“I took the bus back. It was a beautiful day.”

“Good, I’m glad. What about this evening? Are you doing anything?”

“Maartje is coming to cook for me.” Maartje lived in Noordwijk. Lock got the impression that she and his father saw a lot of each other.

“Good. Well, happy birthday.”

“Thank you for calling, Richard. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

For a moment Lock felt that faint, residual sadness he felt whenever they spoke. He had no idea whether the call he had just made would please his father or sadden him too. It was this unknowability that was so wearing.

It wasn’t enough to distract him, though, from what had occupied him all day: Gerstman and Malin. Questions pressed against him, but one kept returning. Why would he want Gerstman dead? Why would Malin, so powerful, so safe in Russia, want his former underling dead? Dmitry had left years before, and had never done anything to suggest he was a threat. He was too clever for that.

After twenty minutes, as he crossed the river, his face now stinging with cold, the immense, impassable red wall of the Kremlin came into view. So much of Moscow felt fortified. The whole city could seem like a castle, the Kremlin the keep, the rest a vast bailey of peasants paying homage. Perhaps, he thought, despite that precise sense of dread in my stomach, Malin had nothing to do with this. After all, no one really knew what Dmitry had been doing in Berlin; he had had time enough to make enemies there. By the time Lock arrived at the ministry, an entirely nondescript building behind the gaping space that had once been the Rossiya Hotel, he had convinced himself that it made no sense for Malin to have killed Gerstman. It wasn’t logical, and Malin was always logical.

In the lobby he stated his business to a security guard behind a glass screen and surrendered his passport. He walked through a metal detector and was accompanied by another guard to Malin’s office, up two flights of stairs and along a broad, bare corridor. He knew the guard, and all the guards knew him.

He was a little early. He sat in his usual seat in the anteroom to the office and waited, making halting small talk with Malin’s secretary. At twenty-five past eight Malin’s door opened and a slight, canny-looking man came out carrying a briefcase. He had a mild stoop and his neck looked unnaturally taut from the effort of looking up.

“Alexei.”

“Richard.” They shook hands. This was Alexei Chekhanov, Lock’s opposite number. If Lock was offshore, Chekhanov was Russia. He ran Malin’s business there; he had no title, but his job, in effect, was chief executive of Malin Enterprises ZAO. As Lock had come to understand it through observation over the years—it had never been explained to him—Chekhanov made money for Malin in Russia and oversaw how that money was invested. When a foreign oil company paid over the odds for an exploration license, Chekhanov set the price and handled the arrangements. When the resulting profit needed investing, Chekhanov saw that it was wisely spent. When that investment threatened to go awry, it was he who made sure that it did not. He was the more important man by far but had the decency to treat Lock as an equal.

“That was a long one,” said Lock. “How is he?”

“We had a lot to discuss. This is a busy time.”

“You too? All good, I hope?”

“Yes, everything is good. I need to see you soon. There are things we need to discuss.”

“Anything interesting?”

“It is always interesting. A company in Bulgaria. Maybe something to sell in Kazakhstan. We will see.”

“Fine. Call me.”

“Very good. You should go.”

“I should. Good to see you, Alexei.”

Lock held his hand out, a little awkwardly, and they shook again. He knocked lightly on Malin’s door and went in. It was not a large or opulent office. Malin was reading some papers laid out on his desk, which was otherwise bare: a glass of water, a row of pens, no computer. On the wall behind the desk were two photographs: in one he was shaking hands with Yeltsin, in the other with President Putin. A third frame held his Order of Merit for the Fatherland, an eight-pointed star with a double-headed eagle in gold at its center.

“Good evening, Richard.” Malin did not look up. “Please, sit.”

Lock watched him read. Was this an evil man? Behind those blank eyes what was there? Blackness? A cold hatred? Efficiency, thought Lock. A single-minded commitment to an end. What end, he had never known.

Malin finished reading and put the document lightly to one side.

“How are you, Richard?”

“I’m fine, thank you. A little shaken. You know. But fine.”

“It was a great shock. He was young and it was not his time. It is never pleasant when this happens.” Malin paused and looked at Lock, who despite himself looked down at his lap. “I have heard no more since yesterday.”

“I haven’t found out a great deal, I’m afraid. He fell from the roof of the Hotel Gellért in Budapest, apparently. The police think it was suicide. I don’t know much more than that to be honest. I’m waiting for a call from Colonel Bashaev.”

Malin considered the information for a moment.

“If Dmitry had a failing,” he said at last, “it was that he was emotional about business. He was emotional about all things.”

Lock didn’t know what to say. This seemed unfair to Gerstman, who had always seemed, if anything, a zealous rationalist.

“Did you send flowers?” Malin asked.

“Yes,” said Lock. “To his office.”

“Good. Good. I was sorry to lose Dmitry. He was an effective worker. But in business it is important to keep one’s head, and he did not, I think. He did not.” Malin shook his head slightly, a gesture of considered regret. “This you must remember, Richard, especially now.”

Malin’s gaze seemed to deepen. Lock, lost in it for a moment, managed to respond only with a weak “Yes.”

“Do you understand?”

“I understand. You know I do.”

“I know you do.” Malin let Lock shift in his stare for a further second or two, then asked, “When is Paris?”

Paris. God, he had forgotten about Paris. A day or two of lying under oath. With an audience.

“It’s next week. I go to London tomorrow to have a final run-through with Kesler.”

“How is Mr. Kesler?”

“Good, I think.” He had spoken to Kesler three times in the previous week, each time to talk through some new materials that had to be absorbed before he gave testimony. In fact, Kesler, for the first time since Lock had known him, was beginning to sound exasperated; his last words had been that they had a great deal of work to do in London. Had he told Malin this directly? “He seems to think we can convince the tribunal that Tourna’s claim is vexatious. Let’s hope so.”

“But he is expecting that you will be questioned about the facts?”

“Almost certainly, yes.”

“And your position will be that I do not exist?”

“Our position—my position will be that I own Faringdon.”

Malin made a soft, low noise, something between a snort and a grunt.

“How did you come by it?”

“Faringdon? Well, you can trace the history back through the companies, all the way back to Arctec. My name is on everything. Ostensibly I own the lot anyway, always have done.”

Malin propped his elbows on his desk, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them. He thought for a moment.

“This makes you a big man in Russia.”

“They can’t prove that I’m not.” Lock knew what he meant. Who would believe such a thing? “That’s the point.”

“All right. All right. Any more on Tourna?”

“Nothing interesting. I’m going to see the London guys this week. Bashaev is promising me good stuff for when I get back.”

“It would have been good to have something before Paris.”

Malin pinched the skin on his chin with his thumbs. Then he sat back and looked hard at Lock. “You have worked hard for this, Richard, for a long time, but in one moment so much can be undone. A whole life can be undone. For you and for me.”

Lock didn’t respond.

“I think that’s all now, Richard. Concentrate on Paris. Do not let Dmitry’s death distract you.”

Lock said that he would not, got up from his seat, agreed to see Malin in a fortnight and left. As he walked out of the office he could feel Malin’s eyes on his back and a chill ran across it. A life undone.

B
ASHAEV CALLED
L
OCK
in his office the next morning. He confirmed what Lock already knew and added some new, jarring details. A post-mortem had revealed that Gerstman had had a blood alcohol level of 0.4 percent, enough to render him more or less senseless. At midnight, about two hours before he died, he had been seen in the Black Cat, a gay bar ten minutes from the Gellért. He had seemed crazed: according to one witness, “beside himself.” No one was with him. The police hadn’t been able to establish when he had left the club, or what he had done between there and the Gellért. He had e-mailed his wife a suicide note five minutes before he jumped. The police were now convinced that he had died as a result of suicide or misadventure and were not expecting to investigate further.

For Lock, who had spent a dark night dwelling on Malin’s words and convincing himself again that now more than ever he was indispensable, this news was disabling. Dmitry didn’t drink. He never had. Lock had never seen him drink so much as a single beer. He was famous for it throughout Malin’s team. Could he have been gay? He had never been at home in Moscow, that was true: whenever Lock had seen him there people had ribbed him about his running, about his sharp suits, about not drinking vodka. Lock imagined that others who had known Gerstman would nod their heads when they heard the news and congratulate themselves on knowing all along. But he and Nina had always seemed real. They were close, natural—Lock had seen it. Could you fake that?

In the end, thought Lock, I’m not subtle enough to think this through. What I do know is that in Russia there are few accidents. I’m wise enough to know that. And I can’t simply wait for one to happen to me.

T
HAT EVENING,
before leaving for London and Paris, Lock took Oksana to dinner at Café Pushkin. On his way to meet her he thought about something Kesler had asked him: if you wanted to prove Malin was corrupt, where would you look? That, surely, was what the whole thing was about. If Malin had ordered Gerstman dead, it wasn’t because he objected to his drinking habits or his sexual preference. Gerstman must have known something. That much was clear.