The Silent Oligarch: A Novel (25 page)

He was in a camping shop trying on shoes when Webster rang. The phone gave an irritating chirrupy ring that was strange to him, and it took him a moment to realize it was his to answer. He took the phone out of his pocket and looked at it for some time, hoping that voice mail would pick up, but it simply rang and rang, chirruped and chirruped.

“Hello,” he said at last.

“Richard, it’s Ben. How are things?”

“Ben, hi. OK. They’re OK.”

“How are you getting on?”

“She won’t see me.”

“Why not?”

“She says she won’t see anyone from my world. I tried to tell her it wasn’t my world anymore but I didn’t get through.”

“So what are you doing now?”

“Trying on shoes.”

Webster said nothing for a moment. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. It’s snowing like crazy here.”

“Richard, do you want to see Nina?”

“I don’t know. Yes. Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Why don’t you go and see her?”

Lock thought for a moment. Priorities shuffled in his mind. “Would you see her?”

The line was quiet for a moment. Please. I need help.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” Webster said at last. “I’ll text you my plans.”

“Thank you. She might see you.”

“She might. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“Hang in there. We’ll crack it together.”

Lock left the shoe shop with his old shoes in a plastic bag and his new ones dry and tight on his feet. They had jagged soles and made short work of the ice. He felt newly in control, and set off in search of the café where he had eaten the night before. Two nights in the city and already he had worked out a routine. He was too tired to do otherwise.

This part of Berlin was all wide streets and solid apartment blocks. Something about the rhythm of the buildings—the narrowness of the windows, the space between them, the height of the floors—reminded him strongly of Moscow. Their colors too: creams, dirty yellows, grays. And the streets empty of people in the snow, the pavements a slithery mess, the streetlights giving out a harsh blue light. It came to him suddenly and with a panicked chill that this was an eastern city, that he’d been tricked into thinking it was the incorruptible West, that he wasn’t safe here. They could get you here, if they wanted to; it wasn’t so far away. They probably knew he was here already. He could feel his heart beating fast in his chest and his throat felt swollen, unable to swallow.

He walked quickly now to the café, not quite rushing, and when there ordered beer again, and ate soup, and sausages with sauerkraut. He began to calm down, and scolded himself for not having eaten sooner. He wished he’d brought his book. He had his notebook, though, and for a while he sketched in it absentmindedly. First Webster came out, wearing a mac, a trilby and dark glasses, a flower in his buttonhole and a folded newspaper under his arm. Then Lock himself astride a high wall, one arm and one leg in view. He looked at the images for a second, shook his head as if to clear it and opened a fresh page. He would think this thing through. He drew two lines down the page and gave a title to each of the three columns: Cooperate, Return and Run. Then he ruled two lines across, and marked the rows Likely Outcome, Risks, Obstacles. It took him half an hour to fill up the grid with a neat, close hand and he could feel his mind disentangling as he wrote. This was an odd document, he realized; he wondered what someone would make of it if they came across it. It was odd in part, he understood, because nowhere did it address what he wanted. It hadn’t occurred to him to include it, and he wasn’t quite sure where it should go.

So on the opposite page he wrote two things. See Marina and See Vika. He stopped and looked at the words for a while, and wished that he’d known this so clearly five years before. What they told him now was that he had no choice but to wait for Webster and see this out. He shut the book flat with his hand, as if swearing on it. Then he put it back in his pocket next to Marina’s letter, paid the bill and went out into the night.

This was not a lively neighborhood. Shops were shutting around him and between them offices were already dark. Berlin felt empty again. He longed for a bar with young people in it; they had to be somewhere. He stood on the porch of the café for a moment and looked at his map. Schöneberg was close. The guidebook had said something about Schöneberg, he forgot what. He’d try there.

As he walked along Kurfürstenstrasse he passed a man he thought he recognized. He was young, perhaps thirty, and he wore a heavy black cap and a padded raincoat down to his knees. His eyebrows were fair. As he passed he looked at Lock with an air of studied casualness, as if it would be unnatural not to hold a stranger’s eye for a half-second. Lock knew the cap. He’d seen it somewhere. Was it in Moscow? No, it was here, he was sure. He walked along staring at the grimy pavement, looking hard for the answer. At Checkpoint Charlie. He had been reading the screens on the other side of the street and when Lock had crossed over he had turned and walked away. Lock was sure it was him. They were half an hour from there now and this was a big city. This wasn’t chance.

There’s no way they can know that I’m here, he thought. I’ve been so careful. Webster planned it. Maybe it’s one of Webster’s people. But why would he follow me now? And there was something about that cap, something eastern, something Muscovite. It was the sort of cap that half the men in Russia wore come winter.

What had Webster said about knowing if you’re being followed? Lock turned south down a quiet residential street; he was the only person on it. Two-thirds of the way down he stopped and made a show of patting and exploring his pockets. Then he turned and started walking the way he had come. There was no one there. The street was empty. He turned again and, resisting the strong urge to look over his shoulder, forced himself to walk on. Two streets away he saw a taxi, hailed it, and went back to the hotel, wondering all the while about what he had seen.

W
EBSTER’S PLANE WAS DUE
to land at eleven. He had sent a text saying that he would meet Lock at his hotel at noon or thereabouts.

Lock had not slept. All night his mind turned the same questions around and around. Should he stay in this hotel or move to another? Make a break for Switzerland? Sit and wait for someone to pick him up? He had tried to read but the lines had just slipped past his eyes.

By dawn his skin felt scratchy and greasy and he could smell a sour smell of old whisky and sweat rising from his body. The room was stuffy, its curtains closed. A fug hung in the air. Questions still churned in his head. Malin. What had Malin meant when he called Marina? How was he trying to save him? From destroying his soul by betraying Mother Russia? What else could it be?

And what of Webster, coming to rescue him? Could he trust him?

He realized he couldn’t wait in that room any longer. He showered, pulled on a soft new shirt—for a moment felt human—and finished dressing. He pulled the curtains apart an inch and looked out at the street. No movement. No people. He watched for a moment to make sure. Before he left he did something he hadn’t done since he was a boy: he plucked two hairs from his head and licking his finger stuck them across the joins of the wardrobe door and a drawer in his chest of drawers. He took a third and balanced it on the lock of his suitcase; a fourth he smoothed onto the door and the doorjamb, at ankle height, as he left. Then he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle and went out in search of breakfast.

It had stopped snowing, finally, and Lock walked along the canal with the low sun in his eyes. Thin ice had formed over the water; in places it looked thick but by the edges geese still paddled. Few people had walked there and the snow on the path, on the black branches of the trees, on the roofs and balconies and fences was still a pure white. Lock’s new shoes made a crunching sound as he walked. Occasionally, despite himself, he checked behind him, and saw no one. He passed a woman training a dog, a spaniel puppy, and a man in a huge puffed-up coat walking a whippet. That was it.

He found a café serving Frühstück and ordered rolls, ham, cheese, coffee and orange juice. He had brought his book, and now he sat and read it, taking it in, ordering more coffee to justify his sitting there. At ten thirty he paid and set off back to the hotel. This was where he would want to live in Berlin. Quiet. Pretty.

By the time he reached the Daniel he had forgotten about his schoolboy spying ruse. The Do Not Disturb sign reminded him and he checked the door. The hair wasn’t there. A shock ran across his shoulders. He knocked on the door and listened carefully for any noise inside. It was quiet. His heart seemed to rise in his chest. He hesitated for a moment, not sure whether to go on or run. Slowly he turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Still no noise. Then he swung the door open in one swift movement and moved back a step. There was no one there. He checked the bathroom, and that was empty. None of the hairs was in place.

Lock turned the key in the door, sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. Noise filled his head. He would like everyone to leave him alone. For a day. For a day or two.

In his case lay the components of his old Russian phones. He put one of them back together without its SIM card, and copied a number from it into his new phone, asking himself why he was still bothering with this security nonsense. Then he pressed connect and waited. The line rang only twice.

“Da.”

“
When I came to work for you,” said Lock, talking quickly, standing now and looking out the window for signs of movement, “I didn’t agree to be followed everywhere by your fucking thugs. Call them off. Call them off, or I will go straight to the Americans, the Swiss, the fucking Caymanese and happily spend the rest of my days in prison. Happily. I don’t want to see another goon. I don’t want them holding my hand, I don’t want them searching my room. I’m fucking serious, Konstantin, don’t think that I’m not.”

There was silence for the shortest moment.

“Richard, where are you?”

“What do you mean, where am I? You know exactly where I am. What you don’t know is what I want. I thought I’d phone home and tell you. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes.” Malin’s voice was deep and solid, apparently unmoved.

Lock took a breath, let it out through his nose. “We don’t have a future, Konstantin. I definitely don’t. The FBI will have my guts. So my choice, it seems, is life at Her Majesty’s pleasure or at yours. I don’t know which one I prefer. I really don’t.”

“Richard. I think you are panicking over a small thing. I was worried that you might and that was why I wanted you to be protected.” He paused. “Your mistake is to think that the Americans are important. Or powerful. They are not. You work for a Russian business and this is a Russian matter.”

Lock snorted a laugh. “Ha. A Russian matter. Konstantin, I don’t think you understand. This is an American matter, a Dutch matter, an English matter. Anywhere our money goes—your money goes—it’s their business.”

“No. That is your mistake.” Malin’s voice was even and forceful. “These people, they can look, they can get excited. They are paid to do this and it makes them happy. But do you think they will find things in Russia? Do you think they will find you there? I am safe in Russia. You can be safe here too. I have paid you well for a long time, Richard. You have been loyal to me but now, when it counts, you run away.” Malin stopped. Lock could hear him breathing, gathering himself, letting him know how grave this really was. “I can protect you for only so much longer, Richard. I have never wished you any harm. Come to Moscow today—or tomorrow, take your time—and I can guarantee you that in a year, maybe two, there will be nothing left of this. Nothing. And you will look back and think how foolish you were to have doubted me. To have doubted yourself.”

Lock sat down, hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck until a red mark appeared on the skin. He took the phone from his ear, looked at it without expression, and disconnected the call.

“There was never anything to doubt,” he said to the empty room, and lay back on the bed.

Fourteen

W
EBSTER ASKED HIS TAXI
to stop in the street behind Lock’s hotel and walked the final few hundred yards; from habit he never left a taxi right outside his destination. From the air Germany had looked plain and neat, black lines of trees stretching across spotless white fields, the city a jigsaw of red roofs and straight roads, but down here on the ground nothing was immaculate. With one leg still in the car Webster stepped carefully over the frosted puddle in the gutter, struggling not to slip on the icy snow that had been cleared from the other edge of the pavement. He could feel the easterly wind blowing up his flapping suit trousers, and knew that his thin London coat would be no defense against this cold.

He wondered which Lock he would find waiting for him: the plausible lawyer or the frightened escapee. He had sounded distraught on the phone. Not for the first time Webster asked himself whether he was pushing Lock too hard, and again the answer came back: you’re his only way out; his other choices are worse; not long now. And a response in turn: I hope you’re right.

It felt strange to be making intimate decisions about the life of a man he hardly knew. He had at once a strong sense of him and no sense at all: an idea taken from press articles and company records and court documents and unreasonable assumptions. The Lock he had met in Enzo’s had surprised him. He had expected him to have the arrogance of those who gain power without earning it; to have a thicker shell; to be fond of himself in a way that he clearly was not. Sitting in his coat across the table, Lock had seemed already fallen, less bumptious middleman than sinner seeking absolution, as if he knew too well what he had done and how much was at stake. And, after all, wasn’t he a victim of the same disorder that had finished Inessa, the same desperation to keep the truth hidden? Webster didn’t know whether to be comforted or unnerved by this: it made his own role less significant, but his responsibility to Lock much greater. Responsibility to do what? he asked himself. Find a way out for him; give him a second chance. Keep him alive.

For the first time since Turkey, Webster craved a cigarette.

At the Daniel he explained that he was a friend of Mr. Green. Room 205, second floor. He walked up the stairs and found the room at the end of a dark corridor, a single lamp giving out a dim light. He knocked gently on the door, and heard movement inside. The spyhole darkened and Lock opened the door, only enough at first for him to see down the corridor and know that Webster was alone.

“Come in.”

Webster walked past him. Lock shut the door, and for a moment the two men looked at each other, neither having the right small talk for this very particular occasion. Lock looked harrowed. His hair was greasy and uncombed and he had a small sore, purplish red, at the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t shaved since London. Webster scanned the room: the bed unmade, the ashtray half full, the bottles of Scotch on the bedside table, one nearly empty. The window was closed and the air smelled of smoke and sleep and whisky.

“You have the chair,” said Lock. “I’m afraid we don’t stretch to two.”

“How are you doing? Why don’t we go and get some lunch? I’m hungry.”

Lock walked to the window and looked out, standing a foot or two from the glass and leaning back. He turned to Webster. “I’d like to talk here if we can. There’s been . . . I’m not feeling very safe.”

“Why not?”

Lock told him about the hairs on the doors and the man with the cap. Webster kept his expression steady but felt a short sting of anxiety: either Lock was beginning to imagine things or this was alarming, and what made this so difficult was that both were credible.

“Perhaps it was housekeeping.”

“The room wasn’t made up. I had the Do Not Disturb sign out.”

“Then we shouldn’t talk here. If you’re right.”

It took Lock a moment to understand. “Shit. Yes. Of course. God, I hate this business. I don’t know how you put up with all this crap.”

Webster smiled but it was clear Lock wasn’t joking.

I
N AN
A
LSATIAN
restaurant in Mitte they sat on wooden chairs at a plain wooden table and ordered food. Lock drank beer, Webster water. They took a table toward the back of the long narrow room, Webster facing the door so that he could reassure Lock that no one threatening had entered. Walking there Webster had looked for a tail and seen nothing.

Lock was uneasy; he didn’t eat. Webster quizzed him about his movements since London: had he followed the plan? Had he driven straight from Rotterdam? Where had he stopped along the way? What had he done since he was here? When Lock got to the point where he contacted Nina, Webster thought he understood. Someone was listening to her phone. It was even possible they were monitoring Marina’s line. He didn’t tell Lock what he was thinking.

“And since Nina?”

“Since the call? I went and bought these shoes. Not far from here. Then I went and had dinner—and noticed the man in the black cap when I was leaving. I did what you said but he didn’t follow me, not that I could see. Then I went back to the hotel.”

“And you stayed there till when?”

“Till this morning. I left at about seven-thirty to get breakfast. I didn’t sleep well. And when I got back, about eleven, the hairs weren’t there. Then I called Malin.”

“You called Malin?” Webster struggled to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“Yes.”

“Why on . . . What for? I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t think about it. I just wanted to tell him to leave me alone.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He tried to persuade me that I’d be safe in Moscow. That . . . that in a year’s time all of this would be forgotten.”

“What do you think about that?”

“I don’t want to see Moscow again. And I don’t believe him. I have a feeling I’ve crossed the line.” Lock looked detached, almost curious, as if he could picture the line somewhere behind him and wondered why he hadn’t seen it before.

“What did you call him on?”

“That.” Lock pointed to one of his dismantled phones on the table.

“Well, we can throw that away. And if he wasn’t following you he will be now.” Webster sat and chewed for a moment. “Tell me about Nina.”

“There’s not much to say. She told me to sod off. Nicely but firmly.”

“How well do you know her?”

“I’ve had dinner with her three times. I think it’s three. We got on but I wouldn’t say we bonded.”

“All before Gerstman left Malin?”

“Yes.”

“So she sees you as Malin’s man?”

“She does. For sure.”

Webster took a drink of water and tried to decide how to get Nina to open the door to him. She knew that they wanted the same thing: Malin exposed. He was sure of that. The question was whether she would engage.

“All right. I’ll talk to her. If she’ll see me. If she thinks you’re a wanted man she may soften. Let’s go.”

“We can take my car.”

“If you’re right they may have seen it. We’ll get a cab.”

W
EBSTER HAD THE DRIVER PASS
Nina’s flat slowly, Lock lying down across the backseat. He couldn’t see anyone. It wouldn’t be easy to keep a watch here. The street was one-way and her building halfway down, which meant that you couldn’t rely on a car alone. And this was the sort of place where neighbors were observant and vocal. He kept one eye on the cars that lined both sides. They were all empty. It was still possible that Lock was imagining things; he was no longer the most reliable witness.

The driver thought they were mad and said so. He let them out two blocks away in a street parallel to Nina’s. Webster paid him and looked at Lock standing by the cab. There was fear and expectation in his eyes. He looked crazed, a mess. Have I done this to him? At best I’ve accelerated it. When we’ve seen Nina he can start to recover himself.

“We need to make you presentable. Can you do something about your hair? Smooth it down a bit. Maybe button your coat right up. OK. That’s better. Come on, let’s go.”

The icy channel worn through the snow on the pavement wasn’t wide enough for both of them and Lock walked slightly ahead, Webster carefully scanning the cars and the houses.

Ahead of them, ten yards from the turning into Nina’s street, a man was crouching down on the pavement next to a car. With one gloved hand he was taking the plastic covers off the wheel-nuts; in the other he held an L-shaped cylindrical spanner. As they approached, he stood up, took a step backward and looked down at his work. He was tall and wore a gray overcoat. Webster put his hand on Lock’s shoulder to slow him down. He heard a step behind him, the faintest crunch on the ice, and before he could turn felt his knees buckle under him. As he slumped a dull crack sounded in his head. Pain shot behind his eyes. He fell forward on his knees, the ice and grit stinging his hands. Another crack and then darkness.

H
E HEARD VOICES FIRST.
When he opened his eyes he saw gray snow, the wheel of a car beyond. A strip of bright pain ran from the bridge of his nose around to the back of his skull. There was cold against his cheek and in his clothes. He closed his eyes again.

These were German words. Some of them he knew. He raised his head and the pain seemed to flow to a point, like water. A hand touched his shoulder and he turned on his side and looked up, squinting into the light.

“Sind sie verletzt?”

“Was ist passiert?”

An arm reached around him and pulled him up until he was sitting. His trousers were wet against his thighs and there was the taste of iron in his mouth. He reached up and felt his forehead, his temple. Above his ear the hair was warm and clumped. He took his hand away and looked at the blood, frowning.

Lock. Christ. Lock.

He tried to stand but his feet couldn’t find purchase on the ice.

I have to find him.

“Bewegen Sie sich nicht. Wir haben einen Krankenwagen gerufen.”

There were three people. A man was squatting by him and two women stood close by, their faces full of concern. He put his arm around the man’s shoulders and pushed with his legs. The man stood with him.

“Wirklich. Er kommt gleich.”

Webster looked down at himself. His body didn’t feel like his own. His head reeled and he fought the urge to be sick. I have to move. For a moment he stayed leaning on the man for support and then set off in the direction of Nina’s flat, moving each leg with deliberation, his hand outstretched to find the wall.

There were protests behind him.

“Danke,”
he said, turning.
“Hat jemand gesetwasehen?” Did you see this?
The three looked blank and shook their heads.
“Dankeschön,”
he said. 
“Danke.”
He walked away and raised a hand, as if to say thank you, please stop.

Nothing was happening in Nina’s street. No police cars. No Russians. No Lock. As he shuffled slowly toward her flat one thought filled his head, louder than the nausea, sharper than the pain. This cannot happen again.

B
Y HER BUILDING
he looked back; at the corner of the street his three helpers were watching him. He turned into the doorway, slumped against the wall and pressed the button for her flat. His reflection stared slackly at him from the glass doors; his coat was grimy and his tie pulled down but otherwise there seemed to be little damage. But when he checked his face in the silver intercom panel he saw that one side of it was red with blood—smeared across his forehead, thick and crimson over his ear and down his neck.

He went to press the button again. Please be in. For his sake be in.

“Hello.”

“Frau Gerstman, it’s Ben Webster.” The words were thick in his mouth.

Nina said nothing. He turned from the microphone and spat blood and dirt. He waited for her to speak but she wasn’t there. He buzzed again.

“I do not want to see you, Mr. Webster. Unless you have news for me.”

He closed his eyes in pain and frustration. “I have to speak to you.” His voice was earnest now, urgent. “I was with Richard Lock. He’s been taken.”

“Please, Mr. Webster. Go. I have had enough.”

“Here, in your street. They knocked me out. The same men who broke into your home.”

Nina was silent.

“The same men who are calling you.”

The door buzzed, just long enough for him to take his weight off the wall and push against it.

Nina met him on the landing again, looking straight at him as he opened the gates to the lift, her arms crossed. She was still in black.

“Jesus.”

“It’s OK. It’s not that bad.”

She gave him a long, steady look and then without saying anything turned and went into her apartment. Webster wiped his feet on the mat and followed her down the corridor, the damp soles of his shoes still loud on the wooden floor.

Before the sitting room she turned left into a bathroom, more modern than the rest of the flat, all marble and glass. She took a towel from a rail, wet it under a tap and handed it to him.

“Sit on the bathtub.”

He pressed the cloth to the side of his head and felt the cold sting against the wound. It came away vivid with blood.

“I let them take him. It’s happening again.”

“Wait.” Nina took another cloth from the rail and ran it under the tap. “Here.” She stood by him and dabbed at the blood on his forehead, wiping it away.

“Thank you.”

“What happened?”

“We were coming to see you.” He shook his head and felt the pain rolling inside it. “I don’t know where they came from. I never saw them. I never saw them.”

“Shouldn’t you call the police?”

“They won’t find him. I have to find him.” He turned and looked her in the eye. “I need to bargain with them.”

She said nothing, then broke his gaze and leaned in to him, cleaning blood from the side of his face. He pulled away.

“Nina, I heard what Prock said to you. When did they break in?”

She shook her head, threw the towel into the bathtub and walked out of the room.

“Nina.” He followed her down the corridor. The afternoon had clouded, and the light in the sitting room was lowering. She turned on a floor lamp and sat in her chair, staring at the ground. He took a remote control from the coffee table and switched the television on, turning up the sound so that voices and music filled the room.