You Will Never Find Me (34 page)

‘Bobkov was making himself unpopular with the FSB by investigating something they didn't want him to,' said Papadopoulos. ‘That's all I'm going to say.'

‘And you think Zlata might have been planted by the FSB?'

‘Or a criminal gang.'

‘You'll never be able to disentangle that; the two are so enmeshed,' said Olga, driving her fingers into a tight clasp. ‘You remember that MI6 guy found dead in a dodgy position in the wardrobe in his flat? Made to look like some kinky sex game gone wrong? All the Russian expats here knew it was the mafia. But, you see, the mafia employ a lot of old KGB people who still maintain their friends in the FSB. They found out that this guy had been developing some software for tracking mafia money laundering in London. Their FSB friends find out who he is, where he lives and the mafia go in there and kill him. Now what would you call that? Criminal gang or FSB?'

‘If you were changing the password on your computer, that sounds like you suspected Zlata . . . or had someone told you to suspect her?'

Olga sat back, drank some more wine. The waiter took away the meze platter and brought a steak for Papadopoulos and chicken for Olga. He opened a bottle of Malbec. The two didn't take their eyes off each other. Papadopoulos stretched his neck, his collar getting tight, couldn't ignore the stirring in his trousers.

‘When I told Mr. Tipalov that Mr. Dudko had taken her on he was O.K. to start with,' said Olga. ‘It was only when he heard about the diamond contract going through that he told me to keep an eye on Zlata.'

‘The diamond contract?'

‘Too long and boring to go into. It was a running joke. Dudko was always talking about it in meetings, saying it was nearly, nearly there. He was just about to bring it in. Land the big fish. Then suddenly it happened, and nobody was more surprised than Mr. Tipalov.'

‘So he put Zlata Yankov and the diamond deal going through together and decided it was suspicious enough for you to watch her.'

‘I wish I'd had the steak now,' she said, nodding.

Papadopulos cut off a piece, forked it over to her with some Béarnaise sauce.

‘He told me to start following her and to draw up a list of all the places she was going to outside the office, which was O.K. when Dudko was out, but impossible when he's in, because then he likes me to be his personal assistant—it makes him feel all important.'

‘What was she doing outside the office so much?'

‘She said she was going to meetings but most of the time she was looking at property, as far as I could see.'

‘To buy?'

‘Rent.'

‘But she was living in low-rent DLT accommodation.'

‘
And
she never talked to me about it,' said Olga. ‘If you're in an office and you're looking for property that's all you ever talk about. And Zlata didn't say a word, but almost every day she went out to look at something.'

‘And when you reported this to Mr. Tipalov what did he make of it?'

‘Nothing. He wasn't interested. What he wanted to know was if she went to see people. I think he was more worried that she would steal our clients, that she was involved in some sort of industrial espionage.'

‘And you?'

‘She was definitely snooping. She was always interested to know where everybody was. Where's Tipalov today? What's Luski doing? Has Dudko come back from Paris? More than once I found her at my computer, which was why I changed the passwords so she couldn't get into my email accounts.'

‘How did Tipalov react to that?'

‘He told me to misinform—not just her, but everybody. He didn't even want Dudko to know where he was going.'

‘So when you told us he was in Siberia . . . '

‘As far as I know he's been in Moscow all the time and taking the occasional flight out to places not so far away, like Kursk and Leningrad.'

‘Anything to link those places?'

‘I don't know. Maybe clients. I don't know the ins and outs of his work.'

‘When did you last hear from Mr. Tipalov?'

‘This morning, eight o'clock. He called me at home before I left for work.'

‘Where was he?'

‘He'd just landed in Smolensk.'

‘What time was it there?'

‘Eleven
A.M.
'

‘What about all the property Zlata was looking at. Did you see any of that?'

‘Not everything,' she said. ‘But I did find out the spec.'

‘How?'

‘A girlfriend worked in one of the estate agents Zlata went to. She asked her colleague, although in fact he gave it over to her because Zlata wanted just a three-month let, which wasn't his speciality.'

‘So what was the spec?'

‘A detached house in its own grounds, secure all around with CCTV and electric gates. A garage attached to the house. A basement. A separate kitchen, dining room, living room and at least three bedrooms.'

‘Budget?

‘Up to twenty thousand a month for the three months.'

‘Twenty grand a
month
!' said Papadopoulos. ‘Jesus.'

‘Some people are living in a totally different world,' said Olga.

‘Did you know when she found the property she was looking for?'

‘She started at the beginning of February and it was all over by the middle of March.'

‘What about the estate agents she went to?'

‘I know the ones I saw her go to, but I can't guarantee that's all of them,' she said. ‘I'd really love some more of that steak, you know.'

Papadopoulos loaded his fork, held it out to her. She took hold of his wrist and pulled the meat off with her teeth, maintaining eye contact throughout.

‘Where did you keep your notes on Zlata?' he asked, swallowing hard.

‘On my home computer,' she said. ‘I'd write them up on the office computer, save them onto a pen drive and wipe the file clean in case she managed to crack my password. Then I'd transfer it to my home computer.'

‘Have you got that pen drive with you?'

‘What if I said it was at home?'

‘I'd probably ask for the bill,' said Papadopoulos, holding up his hand.

‘So what do you think the property thing was all about?' she asked.

‘It could be she was looking for a suitable place to hide Sasha Bobkov,' said Papadopoulos. ‘It's the single most difficult thing in a London kidnap: where to keep your hostage where nobody else can see him.'

 

‘I want to write a letter to my mum and dad,' said Sasha.

He was in a strange hiatus. His shoe and sock were still off. The big toe was bandaged and hurting, but they hadn't cut it off. Now he was in this uneasy lull. One of the Russians had stayed behind to play chess with him. He was unnerved by the switch from extreme brutality to near humanity.

‘Why?' asked the voice.

‘I don't know whether I'm going to see them again.'

‘What makes you think that?'

‘You were going to cut off my big toe.'

‘But we didn't. It was just to show your father that he has to take us seriously.'

‘The man who touched me. He said . . . that you were going to kill me.'

‘What did he say? Your Russian's not so good. Maybe you didn't hear him right.'

‘I heard him all right,' said Sasha, and repeated the line in Russian.

‘He doesn't know what he's talking about. He was angry,' said the man. ‘Let's just play the game.'

The man gave him his latest move.

Sasha shook his head. ‘I thought all Russians knew how to play chess.'

‘I'm out of practice.'

‘Do any of you know how to play?'

‘One of us does. You haven't met him yet. He's out.'

‘Can't you see what's going to happen to you?' asked Sasha, almost sad for his opponent.

The man looked at the board for a long time. Sasha gave him his move. The Russian positioned the piece.

‘Do you see it now?' asked Sasha. ‘It doesn't matter what you do, you're dead in three.'

‘Your mother's in hospital,' said the man suddenly.

‘Is she all right?' asked Sasha, listening hard, blinking behind his mask.

‘She's O.K. but she's in intensive care. Why do you care about her so much? She's a drunk. She hasn't looked after you in years.'

‘No, but I look after her and she does her best for me,' said Sasha. ‘She's lonely, you know. And I know what that is. It's horrible.'

The Russian told him the move he'd just made. Sasha instantly gave him his in return.

‘I see it now,' said the man and knocked over his king. ‘Why are you going to kill me?' asked Sasha, legs swinging.

‘We're not going to kill you,' said the man, gently now, knowing that he shouldn't have said anything but unable to stop himself from getting involved. ‘Your father's going to pay us some money and we're going to let you go. Don't take any notice of what the other guy said. Let's play another game.'

Sasha's masked face stared into the man with the blank intensity of a disbelieving prisoner.

‘I'd still like to write the letter.'

W
here the hell did we go last Saturday night?' asked Jaime. ‘We started with drinks at Le Cock,' said Jesús. ‘After that . . . it would be the usual places. Charada. Joy. Kapital . . . maybe the Palacio de Gáviria too.'

‘Right, where do we start?'

‘Maybe we should call El Osito first? Tell him what we got,' said Jesús. ‘That's the important stuff.'

‘It might be to you and me, but I know El Osito, and what's more important is how the Englishman found him, because if Charles Boxer could find him anybody can,' said Jaime. ‘The answer is in these clubs somewhere. Somebody told him they saw his daughter with El Osito. And we've got to find the guy before the police do.'

‘But the police already know Charles Boxer; they can ask him.'

‘Jesús.'

‘What?'

‘You think Boxer is going to tell them anything after what he did to El Osito?' said Jaime. ‘Boxer went in there to kill him. The only reason he didn't was because El Osito hit the panic button.'

‘You know, we—'

‘Don't say it,' said Jaime. ‘I know. We should have ignored the call. It would have saved us all this shit and we'd have got rid of El Osito.'

The brothers walked into Puerta del Sol. The square was quiet because it was cold and spitting rain.

‘Well, seeing as we're here, we might as well start at the Palacio de Gáviria and Joy in the Calle del Arenal.'

The Mexicans knew almost all the doormen at every club. They tipped them heavily so their dealers could get in easily to sell product. They were careful. First they asked the doorman which nights he'd been on. The guy at the Palacio was new, so they moved straight on to Joy. The doorman there had been on duty the whole of last weekend and was one of their regulars. Jesús stood in for him while he took Jaime inside to a room behind the old theatre box office where he kept his clothes. He looked at the passport photocopy of Boxer, nodded.

‘He came in here on Tuesday night asking for one of the DJs, David Álvarez. David warned me he was going to show so I called one of the girls and she took him up there. Don't know what it was about.'

‘Is David working here?'

‘Not tonight. I don't know where he is. Hold on.'

The doorman took out his phone, went onto Twitter and checked out Álvarez's tweets.

‘He's doing the first set at Kapital, starting at eleven o'clock.'

‘Do you know where he was on Saturday night?'

The doorman scrolled down on his mobile. Nothing. He called someone on the internal phone, waited, asked the question.

‘Friday and Saturday he does a set from one until three at the Charada on Calle de la Bola.'

Jaime shook hands with the doorman, clapped him on the back.

‘So what's it all about with David?' asked the doorman.

‘We're going to have a party,' said Jaime. ‘We need a DJ. We like David's music but, you know, we're looking at others too, so don't talk to him.'

‘He's great. Very nice guy,' said the doorman.

Jaime held the doorman by the biceps and looked him in the eye to make sure he knew what he meant: if David disappears we know who to come looking for, and if things turn out badly for David you can always persuade yourself it was nothing to do with you.

Jaime let him go, went out onto the street, pulled Jesús away with him, told him what he'd found out as they moved off. The doorman came out onto the pavement, watched the two Mexicans walk away, let his eyes fall back onto the young hopefuls in the queue, shook his head.

Jaime and Jesús trudged up Arenal in silence, turned right past the Opera Metro station and headed towards the Plaza de Oriente. They were both thinking the same thing. They were brothers and this was a tendency. What they were doing now was not work. All they were doing was controlling the risk to which El Osito had exposed their operation: tying up loose ends. And in Jaime's experience that was a never-ending process. Loose ends had split ends.

‘You thinking what I'm thinking?' asked Jesús.

‘Only I'm three steps ahead.'

‘So what are you going to do about it, before it all gets out of control?'

‘You ask me that when we've only just found out what the fuck we're dealing with? Give me a break, Jesús.'

‘You the one who's three steps ahead.'

‘The police are on to it and they've got the five-kilo weights to think about,' said Jaime.

They were walking past the Opera Gym.