The Silent Oligarch: A Novel (28 page)

“What? You have to tell me.”

“It’s . . .” Elsa took a breath, collected herself. “It’s a photograph of a body. A woman’s body. On a table. Her throat has been cut.”

Webster felt sick. His mouth was dry. He wanted to scream with rage.

“The bastards. The fucking bastards.” He got out of bed, went into the bathroom and smacked the wall hard with the flat of his hand. He looked down at the sink, his forehead against the mirror.

“I’ll have Ike come and pick it up. You shouldn’t have seen that. I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.”

“It’s Inessa.”

He couldn’t say the word at first. “Yes. It’s her.” It was as if they had dug her up. For more abuse. He took a deep breath, and another.

“Are you OK?” said Elsa.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” More breaths. Don’t let them affect you. Don’t let them in. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

“I’ve had enough of this. I don’t want these people in our lives.”

Webster said nothing. His head was full of noise. For a moment neither said anything.

“There’s something else,” said Elsa.

“What do you mean?”

“In the envelope.”

“What is it?”

“A cutting. From the
FT.
‘Russian metals group lists in London.’ ”

GMK. Generalny Metalligurchesky Kombinat. Which still owned the aluminum plant in Kazakhstan, and a dozen like it across Russia and beyond. What was it doing there? What obscure message did it hold?

“You’ve got to come home.”

Not now. Especially not now. He sighed and closed his eyes tight. “I can’t.”

“You’re not serious?”

“I can’t. You know what that says? That poison? It says we know you so well, piece by piece, that we can do what we want with you. It’s meant to make me scared. To lose it. Well, it won’t work. It won’t fucking work.”

“It scares me.”

“I know, baby, I know. But believe me they are not going to do anything. This is easy for them. They just send a letter. There’s no comeback. Nothing is going to happen.”

“They sent it to our home.”

“So that you’ll persuade me to give up. Same with the e-mail. I’ll have someone sit outside the house.”

“I just want it to stop.”

“I’m going to make it stop.”

“Come home.”

“I can’t. Not now. This has to end.”

I
T WAS NOON
and the sun had some warmth in it by the time Lock woke. Webster was outside sitting on a bench by the lake with his eyes closed, his face to the light, his thoughts scattered. He had never seen those pictures. He assumed they were from the morgue in Oskemen; there had never been a postmortem. The package had unsettled him, not because it had scared Elsa, though that was the worst thing about it, but because he didn’t know what it meant. The e-mail had been a simple warning; this was not only darker but less clear. Did it mean that Malin knew what had happened to Inessa? That Webster never would? Perhaps it was merely a display of knowledge and power. Perhaps all it said was: I understand you; I know the pain you have known; I can create more at will.

But it didn’t scare him. Nor did the man who had sent it, or the ease with which he could picture his dead eyes and his dark will, his unnatural world narrowed to a single point of malice. For ten years he had challenged himself to imagine that mind, and now that he was confronted by it, now that he thought he recognized it again, its horror had been robbed of all its force. No. What scared him was his own power to corrupt, to imperil. If it weren’t for his silent obsession, Gerstman would be alive and Lock would be where he once was, compromised but safe. And what scared him more was that even now he couldn’t stop. He still had work in Germany: one last idea.

He heard footsteps on the gravel and looked up. A haggard Lock was making his way slowly toward him.

“Good morning,” said Webster, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

“It is, isn’t it?” said Lock, squinting around him. His eyes were gray shot through with red. “Where are we?”

“Wandlitzsee. I brought you here last night.”

“After the hotel?”

“After the hotel.”

Neither said anything.

“How are you feeling?”

“Awful. My head feels like it’s been minced.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not in the least. I want air. And water.” He sat down on the bench and with effort crossed his legs. He groaned. “What happened?”

“I got hit on the head. You disappeared. Four hours later I get a call from you and you’re in the Adlon with their head of security.” Webster waited for Lock to supply the rest but he said nothing. “I’m sorry. I failed you. I should have realized how serious they were.”

Lock gave a small nod. His skin was gray, dark under the eyes. He said nothing.

“You told me that someone had tried to poison you.”

Lock looked past Webster at the lake and shook his head slowly. “Christ. I hardly remember anything. That guy changing his tire, then nothing. I can remember a man with a mustache, and me telling him that I was very drunk. And being in a hotel. Jesus.” He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Was it Malin?”

“I assume so. An hour and a half after you called Nina two men booked themselves on that night’s Aeroflot flight to Berlin. Both Russians. One was thirty-one, the other thirty-five. Does that sound like them?”

“They were Russian.”

“Hammer’s working on them.”

Lock nodded faintly. “Did you rescue me?”

“I wish I had. You did it yourself.”

Lock laughed, a pained chuckle. “Really? That’s a first.”

Webster smiled and glanced down at his hands. “I got you some things, from town. I didn’t bring your stuff from the Daniel.”

Lock scratched the back of his head. “I am feeling a little vagrant.” He took a deep, deliberate breath. “It’s nice here.”

“We’re safe I think. The only way they’ll find us is if they find the taxi driver, and it would take an army to do that.”

“What about the hotel?”

Webster smiled. “My boss arranged the hotel. We’re honored guests. Herr Maurer has been told that you are an important English businessman suffering from a rare nervous complaint and a nasty scandal back home. You were staying in some fancy place just outside Berlin but the English press found you and now you’re hiding here. He’s happy because we’re paying him four times what everyone else here is paying. If anyone calls he’ll let us know.”

“Shouldn’t we just go? Back to London? Isn’t it over?”

Webster turned and looked at the lake. It was frozen to about forty yards out now, and where the ice met the water ducks played. Nothing else was moving.

“Nina gave us what we wanted,” he said, turning back to Lock, still shielding his eyes.

“The files?”

“He kept them in a hotmail account. From the looks of it he’d save a new batch of documents there once a month.”

“You’ve seen them.”

Webster nodded.

“Well? What are they?” Lock’s eyes, tired before, came alive.

Webster looked down before meeting Lock’s stare. “They’re not what we thought they were.”

“Jesus.” Lock pushed his hand back through his hair. “Not what
you
thought they were. Fuck. I knew I shouldn’t . . .” He closed his eyes and sighed, a long, sad sigh. “What are they?”

“I looked at them this morning. They’re all the purchase agreements between Langland and the companies that sell it their oil. Every one, all the time he was there. They’re conclusive proof that Langland makes a turn on every trade, and that the Russian producers suffer.”

“I don’t understand. That sounds good.”

“It’s not bad. Journalists would love to see it. But it’s never going to convict Malin of fraud. Companies can sell to Langland at any price they like. You’d have to prove collusion. Which means finding a Russian executive prepared to say it’s going on. Which isn’t going to happen.”

Lock turned away from Webster and folded his arms. “I’m freezing.”

“Let’s go inside.”

“And go on with this? To what purpose? To earn you a fee?” Lock stood up and looked down at Webster, blocking out the sun. “You should ask yourself why you’re in this game, Ben. Are you helping me? Screwing Malin? Or just enjoying yourself? Which is it?” Webster didn’t respond. “I think we should go. I’d go and pack my case but I don’t have any fucking things.” Lock turned and walked slowly toward the hotel.

“Richard.” Webster got up and followed him. “Richard, wait.” Lock carried on walking, his feet now crunching on the gravel. “That was the bad news.”

Lock stopped and turned, his face dark. “If there was any good news you’d have told me by now. What is it?”

“Malin tried to kill you. In Germany.”

“That’s good?”

Webster looked around him, hesitating, then back at Lock. “I have an idea. It could finish him.”

“You’re serious?”

“It’s a serious idea. But you need to decide whether it’s good. I’m not pushing it.”

“No, you’re not. Christ. What sort of a world do you live in? Is every day like this?” He stared at Webster. “Running around, dreaming up plans? Let me ask you something. When do you start to play? Or do you just move the pieces around?” Webster didn’t reply. With a will he held Lock’s gaze. “Tell me. If I’d have died, what would you have done? Found another me? Sent someone else off to the front line? Fuck, Ben, if it wasn’t for you I’d still be in Moscow and none of this would be happening. Would that be so bad? So Malin’s bent. So what? So the fuck what? Everyone’s bent. Tourna’s bent, Jesus. He’s worse. And all those blue-chip companies, you think they haven’t got someone like me to hide things, help them avoid tax? They’ve got legions of them. I’m just one man. And I’m not fucking dispensable, all right?”

“This was always going to happen.”

“What?”

“This was always going to happen. You can’t keep stuff like this hidden. It comes out.”

“And you just help it along? Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

Lock laughed, a hard, sharp laugh. “That’s great. That’s noble of you. Ben, we both work for crooks. We play our parts, and that’s it. And if we didn’t, someone else would. That’s the world.”

Webster put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the ground. He didn’t feel like defending himself; didn’t feel that he could. Lock was right. It was time he stopped dressing this up.

He sighed and looked Lock in the eye. “Look. I’m sorry. I underestimated Malin. That was my mistake. Perhaps you . . . you could take Dmitry’s files to Malin. To show your loyalty. You’d be back in the fold.”

Lock shook his head. “No. No. That’s not what I want. Christ, Ben, you can’t lead me this far and then send me back. I’m not the same man. I can’t do it anymore.”

Webster was quiet.

“Is that the idea?” said Lock.

“No.”

“How risky is it?”

“I told you. That’s for you to decide.”

“No. You’re in this too. Let’s go inside. Christ knows I’m in no hurry to get in a car. We decide together.”

W
EBSTER SAT DOWN
in an armchair in the corner of his room and reached into his briefcase. He took out his phone, a straightforward Nokia, and pressed a combination of keys. Lock sat on the bed and watched. Webster put the phone down on the coffee table in front of him. A voice started playing over its speaker.

“Thank you for seeing me. . . . I wouldn’t have . . . This isn’t for pleasure, you understand. I think we may be able to help each other.”
A pause. Lock looked at Webster.
“You’ve been busy these last few weeks. . . . I’m beginning to wish that we’d hired you first.”
Another pause.
“But what concerns me is that after Paris there’s . . . there’s no clarity.”

As the words continued to play Lock said, “What is this? Is that me?”

Webster nodded.

“. . . I think the best ending for everybody will be agreed outside court. Except for the lawyers, perhaps.”

“How did you do that?”

“. . . hurting my business and costing Aristotle money. A fortune if his fees are as bad as ours.”

Webster leaned forward and picked up the phone. He pressed a button and the voice stopped.

“When people find out what I do they want to know if I have any gadgets. I always say no. This is the only one. A man in Belgium made it for me. Gave it to me, actually. He was rather pleased with it.”

“I should have frisked you.”

“You wouldn’t have found anything. This was on the table.”

Lock shook his head. “Can I see?”

Webster handed the phone over. “When you take the battery out, it starts recording. When you put it back in, it stops. It’s a brilliant idea. Mossad had it first, apparently.”

Lock held the phone in his hand and inspected it closely. “What I could have done with this.”

“Exactly. That’s my idea.”

Lock looked up. “This?”

“Part of it.” Lock waited, still toying with the phone. Webster went on. “What’s the worst thing Malin has done?”

“We don’t know. That’s the point. Unless you count destroying my life.”

“Quite. He tried to kill you. And we’re fairly sure he killed Gerstman. But the only evidence we’ve got is you, and the note that they left.”

“What note?”

“A suicide note. They left it in your hotel room.”

“Jesus. What did it say?”

“That you’d lost your family and your reputation, and that Dmitry’s death had sent you over the edge.”

“Do you have it?”

“Yes, I took it from the room and left a dummy in its place. It may have fooled them.”

Lock nodded.

“Do you want to see it?” Webster said, leaning forward as if to get up.

“Like seeing your own obituary,” said Lock, as if to himself. He shook his head.

Webster sat back. “But it won’t be enough. We can probably prove it’s not your handwriting, but there won’t be fingerprints and even if there were they wouldn’t help.”

“So?”

Webster collected himself. “Malin wants the dossier. He also wants you. If you go back to Russia we’ll never see you again. So we bring him here, control it very carefully, and you talk to him. You ask him why he tried to have you killed.”

“He’ll never say anything.”