The Silent Oligarch: A Novel (15 page)

“You won’t be prepared for everything. That’s the point. Carry on, Lawrence.”

“And in 2006 Sibirskenergo won how many exploration licenses in that territory?”

“Skip, I don’t see the relevance of this.”

“You will. You do. Carry on.”

“How many licenses?”

“Four.”

“Who had previously owned the licenses?”

“A state-run company called Neftenergo.”

“And how many companies competed for the licenses when Neftenergo decided to sell them?”

“None. Well, one.”

“Only Sibirskenergo?”

“Yes.”

“For state-owned assets.”

“Yes.”

“How much was paid? For all four.”

“I’m not at liberty to say. I don’t recall.”

“Which? You can’t say or you don’t know?”

“I can’t say.” Lock looked over at Kesler, but Kesler merely nodded at Griffin to continue.

“Does it strike you as unusual, Mr. Lock, that four highly valuable licenses should be sold to your company without competition?”

“No. I think that’s quite normal in Russia.”

“Indeed? Even though it contravenes all guidelines for the sale of state assets?”

Lock had no answer.

“Mr. Lock, can you tell me which ministry oversaw the sale of the licenses?”

“The Ministry of Industry and Energy.”

“Where Mr. Malin works?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lock.” Griffin looked at Kesler.

“You see, Richard?” Kesler was somewhere between exasperated and triumphant. “You never told us about those licenses. Can you tell me why?”

“I’d forgotten all about it. It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Now, Richard, right there is something you’re going to have to stop, by the way. Either you forgot or it wasn’t relevant. Either you can’t say or you don’t know. It can’t be both. Say one thing, then stop. Be clear. Understand?”

Lock sighed. He was tired of being scolded. “Yes. I understand.”

“Now what you say, in this situation, is that you can’t recall exactly how much the company paid for the licenses—you’re too important to know such details—but it was a market rate and you believe that the Russian Audit Chamber approved it. If the tribunal requires exact figures you will get back to them.”

“OK.”

“Don’t be afraid to give them less than they want. You’re an important man. You can’t be expected to know all the details.”

Lock felt the USB memory stick in his trouser pocket: a little over a gigabyte of records, transactions, statements, spreadsheets, memoranda. No, he thought, I know lots of details. But always the wrong ones.

A
S THE TRIBUNAL APPROACHED,
Lock greeted with childish relief any respite from Kesler and the unbroken sequence of questions and commands. He wasn’t even safe in his hotel: the Connaught was full and Kesler was staying at Claridge’s. So he had to cherish moments of freedom—breakfast in his room, cigarettes outside, phone calls to Moscow (some real, some invented)—and Sunday morning was luxurious: nothing to do until noon, when he would take a cab to St. Pancras for the train to Paris.

He had spent the evening before with Marina and Vika. His first idea had been to visit their apartment and take Marina for dinner once Vika had gone to bed, but Marina had suggested they all three go to eat, and that had felt right. He had finished at Bryson Joyce’s eerily empty office around six and had met them at Vika’s favorite restaurant in Kensington. The London of neighborhoods was new to him—he was used to the center, to Mayfair, to the City, and to seeing what lay between from the windows of taxis—and he felt privileged to be inducted into its quiet, almost secret pleasures. They had eaten burgers, and teased each other, and watched Vika scooping ice cream from a tall glass with a long spoon. The place was full of families doing the same thing, and for an hour or two Lock had forgotten that the evening would end with him returning to his hotel room.

That was always a wrench. He supposed it was the same for Vika, momentarily, and wondered whether Marina suffered too. He had wanted to talk to her after dinner, about Dmitry, about them, but somehow the chance hadn’t arisen. Marina had said that it was late, Vika should get to bed, and that had been that. He didn’t know which subject she was more keen to avoid. For Lock this was a reverse, but not a serious one. For years he had done his best not to hear Marina when she told him how she felt and now, more and more keenly, if he was being honest, he wanted to know. So he could wait a little longer; he would be here again soon.

But for all that, he would rather have been in Holland Park than packing his bag in preparation for two and a half hours on a train with Kesler. They wouldn’t be able to discuss business, that was something, but what would take its place? What did Kesler talk about when he wasn’t talking about work? It took a moment for Lock to acknowledge that Kesler might be wondering the same about him.

Kesler was there at reception as he came down to check out.

“Good morning, Richard. Or is it afternoon? Sleep well?”

Lock said that he had, and asked for his bill. With it came a letter, delivered by hand that morning. His name was written in Marina’s hand on the envelope.

“A billet-doux?” said Kesler.

Lock felt himself redden. “No, no. Just some personal business.” He tucked the envelope inside his jacket and handed his credit card to the receptionist.

On the way to the station, waiting in the business lounge for Griffin to join them (Griffin didn’t get to stay at Claridge’s at Malin’s expense, Lock noted with approval), boarding the train, he could feel the letter against his heart; it seemed to be radiating heat. Only when they had settled in their carriage and the train was well on its way through east London did he feel comfortable enough to excuse himself. He walked through two carriages toward the buffet, sat in an empty seat and opened the letter. It was written in black ink on heavy ivory paper with a distinct grain, the hand delicate but precise, the lines level and evenly spaced. As soon as he saw it he could see all the letters Marina had ever sent him: serious and impassioned before they married; chatty when he was away on some pointless trip; pained and resolute at the end. She had written to him far more often than he had to her; his own letters were inelegant next to hers, and he had always found them hard to write. He wondered whether she had kept them nevertheless, as he had kept hers.

There were three pages, with writing on each side. It was no mere note.

Holland Park

Saturday evening

Dearest Richard

Thank you so much for a lovely evening. I hope you didn’t mind changing your plans. It’s important to me that the three of us can still have fun together. Vika enjoyed herself, but she is always sad to leave you. In a sense, that’s what this letter is about.

When we got home she asked me whether you were happy. I said that yes, you were, but your job was very hard and perhaps you had too much to worry about. I tell you this because knowing Vika she will ask you questions about that, but also because I found myself thinking how much truth there was in my words. The difference between you now and when we saw you in the summer is so marked. There is something new in your face.

I apologize for not talking to you about Dmitry properly. It’s very hard for me. If what you fear is true I have to accept that a man I once respected—the man who brought us together—has become something bad. I do not say that it isn’t true—I have a painful feeling that you are right—but you must understand that it hurts me to believe it.

Whether it is true or not I think it tells you something. The fact that it could be is enough. You are right to be scared. You may not want to hear this again but now you might truly hear it: you work for a corrupt man in a corrupt business in a corrupt country, and it has corrupted you. I do not want it to finish you.

Lock stopped here and for a moment watched the city slowly thinning into countryside. She was right—always, unerringly—and for once he was in the mood to embrace it.

You were once a man of curiosity and everything seemed like a possibility to you. I loved you for this. I loved you for wanting Russia to change. I loved you for not being scared. And I loved you for being funny about it all. All our passions dim, our energy always fades, but your job has done more than that. It has taken most of you, Richard, and it pains me so much.

I fear two things. I fear that one day I will get a call to tell me that something terrible has happened to you, and that I will then have to tell Vika. Since before Dmitry this has scared me.

But more than this I fear that before long it will be too late for you anyway. That everything you once were will be gone. The worst thing they have done to you is convince you that the world is about money and power and oil. That is not you. When I see you make Vika laugh I still know that. This time I thought I saw that you know it too.

When I see that in you, I dare to hope. What a dangerous thing that is. When I imagine the three of us together, I say to myself that I want it because I want Vika to be happy. But it’s because I want to be happy too. It would be easier if you were beyond saving, but you’re not.

There is a point to this letter—a practical point. You have to leave Russia. I know this is difficult but it cannot be impossible. I will do whatever I can to help. The plan has to be yours: make it, and let’s talk about it. When you’re next here. Perhaps I can talk to Konstantin. The spirit of my father is still important to him, I think.

Dmitry’s death is a sign, or a signal. There has to be a way. Please find it. I want my fears to be needless.

With all my love still

M.

He held the letter in his hands for a long time, his eyes wandering over the familiar script, and let her thoughts come together in his mind and settle. Without having to think, he knew that she had captured it, as she always did. It was clear, and simple, and complicated beyond words.

Eight

I
T WAS
W
EDNESDAY
and Gerstman had been dead for three days. Webster had gone to the office but had done little work, and nothing at all on Project Snowdrop. There were a few small cases that needed his attention: a client was buying a ball-bearing manufacturer in the Czech Republic and wanted to know what he was getting; another was wondering why the manager of its Kiev business was losing so much money (because he had been stealing it himself, was the eventual answer). Webster checked on their progress, thanked providence that his team was so good, and spent the rest of the time in his office, thinking formless thoughts about his responsibilities to others and the risks of trying to improve the world. He felt betrayed by his suspicions, by his enthusiasm, but still his theory sat by him, stronger for Gerstman’s death, at once goading his powerlessness and tempting him to resume work. Hammer took him for lunch and tried to persuade him to turn his mind back to the case. His colleagues kept a distance.

That evening Webster went to the cinema with Elsa:
Tokyo Story
at The Tricycle. Afterward they ate at a Japanese restaurant in Hampstead, a tiny place where he and Elsa would sit at the counter to watch the chef at the hibachi. His hands, calloused and red with heat, moved with endless fluency, placing skewers of pork and chicken skin and quails’ eggs on the blackened grill, salting and turning them, knowing precisely when they were done. Webster looked at Elsa as she read the menu on the counter. In profile, her head bowed, she looked girlish. Her hair, so dark a brown that it was taken for black, not curled and not straight, hung about her face.

They ordered: some skewers, some sushi, sea bream and mackerel with salt. Sake came in square wooden cups with more salt. They touched them together and drank.

“How was lunch?” said Elsa.

“Good. We went to that dreadful Indian he likes.”

She laughed. “Empty?”

“One other table. I don’t know how they survived before he found it.”

She turned on her chair so she was almost facing him. He continued to look down at his sake. “And what did he say?”

“You can probably guess.”

“Anything new?”

“Not really.”

“He wants you to go on?”

Webster nodded. “If I don’t, he will.” He turned to look at her. “There’s a lot at stake.”

“I thought you’d made up your mind.”

“I had.” Elsa didn’t respond. “He was very persuasive.”

“As always.”

He paused. “This isn’t like you.”

“What?”

“To be down on Ike.”

“I’m not down on Ike. You know I love Ike. But he wants different things from life.” She paused while a waitress brought two bowls of soup and set them down on the counter. “He doesn’t have children, for a start.”

Webster gave his soup a stir with his chopsticks. Bright little cubes of tofu swam about in the broth. He frowned, not understanding her. “Where does that come in?”

“I don’t want anyone throwing you off a roof.”

“That’s silly.”

“Two of you had a conversation in Berlin. A few weeks later one of you is dead. Why aren’t you a loose end?”

He laughed. “They don’t kill advisers. They never have. It’s too much trouble. And someone else would just pop up in my place.”

Elsa didn’t say anything. She looked down at the counter, played with her chopsticks.

He put his hand on her back. “Are you worried?”

“I don’t like it. I know you when you get like this. It’s better when you have a case you don’t like.”

“If I thought I was in danger I’d stop. But I’m not. Really. After what happened in Budapest there’s no way they’ll do anything to me. How would it look?”

“Would they care?”

“Perhaps not. But killing an Englishman’s a pain in the arse. The police actually investigate. They’re not used to it.”

More food came. Elsa took a skewer and began to push the meat onto her plate with her chopsticks.

Without looking at him she said, “Don’t you think you should stop?”

“Yes and no.”

“For decency’s sake.”

He hesitated. “I found an article that Inessa wrote about him. Two months before she died. I never knew about it.”

“So?”

“With him it all makes sense. He had enough to lose. And friends all over government. He could have done it.”

“You think he killed Inessa?”

“He’s a candidate.”

Elsa shook her head and sighed. “This is new. But familiar.”

“It’s not important, in a way.” He watched her raise her eyebrows in response. “I know I’m never going to know. It’s not a crusade.”

“No. It’s a quest. For some sort of absolution.”

“I shouldn’t have just left. You know I regret that.”

“They threw you out.”

“I mean Russia.”

Elsa nodded. “So this is about justice.”

Webster could feel his ground crumbling. “I don’t know.”

“You attack the big Russian and hope he was responsible.”

“He deserves it anyway. And what if he was? It looks like he’s capable of it.”

“What if he wasn’t? What do you have? An article and a hunch?”

“If he goes down, things will come out,” he said. “He won’t be protected anymore. It could all come out.”

“And how likely is that?”

Webster was quiet. One of the things he loved about Elsa, but didn’t always enjoy, was that she allowed him no space to deceive himself. Only in this respect did her work spill over into their lives. She was a psychologist who worked with families, and her commitment to honesty never waned.

A waitress came to clear their bowls and asked if they would like more sake. Elsa smiled distractedly and politely told her no.

“Sweetheart,” she said, leaning in to him and resting her hand on his arm, “you don’t owe him anything. Gerstman. Just like Inessa. Ike’s right about that.”

“I think I do.” He picked up his cup, saw it was empty and set it down again. “It would be nice if someone was held to account. Just once. If not for Inessa then for everyone else.”

Elsa said nothing. He went on. “Look, I’m going to go to Berlin and see his widow. I have to. And then I see the client next week. He may put a stop to it in any case. We haven’t gotten very far.”

Elsa nodded slowly. “OK. OK.” She looked him in the eye. “But you have to promise me that if it gets worse, you stop. If you think even for a second that you’re in danger, you tell me, and you stop.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

“I’m serious, Ben.”

“I know. I love you for it.”

She laughed, relenting, shook her head, and looked around for the waitress. “We need another drink.” She turned back to him. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be a baker, or a gardener, or a bank manager? Don’t you think? Something simple?”

“I’ve been thinking just that. All week.”

N
INA’S STREET WAS NARROW
for Berlin, the buildings tall, and dotted along it were a handful of discreetly expensive shops. You had to look carefully, thought Webster, to realize just how exclusive a neighborhood this was; not showy, but solid, and moneyed. Webster paid his driver, found number 23 and posted the letter through Nina’s letterbox. He had little to do now except wait. He decided to walk back to the hotel. In a few minutes the arbitration hearing will begin in Paris, he thought, and wondered whether he should be there.

This time he took in the city. The day was cold and icy gray and cast a dull, even light over the wide streets. He walked from Charlottenburg, where the wealthy lived in their town houses, through the old western center, shabby now, a mess of trams and cars and roadworks, and up to the Tiergarten, where the silver birches had lost all their leaves and reminded him of Russia, of walking in Izmailovsky Park with Inessa and her friends. She would have come here, he thought; she would have seen Nina. Inessa had never knowingly left a story unfinished.

By five he was beginning to think that he wouldn’t hear from Nina that day. Perhaps she had left early that morning for the university and hadn’t seen his note. He had made no clear agreement with himself about how long to stay in Berlin. He was due to fly to Paris to see Onder the following evening but he might well change it; the arbitration would go on all week and Onder would be there for much of it. If Nina didn’t respond should he see Prock? Against every instinct he probably should. He decided that he would write another note, and deliver it to Prock’s office so that he would have it the following morning. He delivered it that evening on his way to dinner.

A little before nine his phone gave a short chime to tell him that he had a text message.
Mr. Webster. Please come to my apartment at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. Thank you. Nina Gerstman.
So she was there. He realized at that moment that he would find it far easier to talk to Prock.

H
E WOKE EARLY.
By eight he had showered, shaved and dressed in a dark navy suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. Today was a day to look as grave as possible. As he left the room he looked at himself in the mirror. Was that the face he deserved? It looked honest enough to him, but he could hardly judge. His eyes were brown and candid, with specks of green and black; his hair, silver for years now and cropped short, suggested serious, responsible. There were enough flaws in his face to make it somehow convincing: a short scar on his chin where his beard didn’t grow, the nose not quite straight. He was plausible, certainly. But it was one thing to convince people that you were trustworthy, and quite another to deserve their trust.

At nine he stood outside Nina’s building and rang the doorbell for Flat 12. The sky was still dull. While he waited he looked through the glass doors into the entrance hall, cupping his hands around his eyes to keep out the light. Stone stairs, an art nouveau balustrade, an intricate tiled floor, marble lining the walls up to shoulder height. A woman’s voice asked him who he was and buzzed him in. An old lift in its iron cage took him up to the fourth floor and as he pulled the concertina gate back Nina was waiting for him.

She wasn’t what he had expected. His research had discovered that she was an academic, a physicist who lectured at Humboldt University, and he had pictured her as small and somehow scientific—glasses perhaps, mousy hair and practical clothes. In fact she was tall, almost his height, and dark, her eyes black and childishly full in a narrow face. She stood with her legs slightly apart, her calves full, her feet turned out like a dancer, and she wore black: a black skirt, black stockings and shoes, a black cardigan over a gray blouse. Webster realized that he hadn’t been with someone in mourning since his grandfather had died ten years earlier.

“Frau Gerstman.” He found himself giving a slight bow of the head.

“Mr. Webster.”

“Thank you for seeing me. I hope I’m not intruding.”

Nina said nothing but gestured for him to follow her into the apartment. They walked down a long corridor with doors on either side, all closed. The floor was golden parquetry, and on the walls hung a series of color photographs of the modern buildings of Berlin: the Neue Nationalgalerie, the revived Reichstag, several buildings that Webster didn’t recognize. They were good, and he wondered whether Nina had taken them. Or Gerstman.

The corridor opened into a bright sitting room at the far end of the apartment with large windows on two sides. Here there were no photographs but many paintings, abstracts and portraits, hung in clusters.

“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Webster?” asked Nina. Her voice was low and dry. Webster thanked her, but no, he was fine. She sat down, quite upright at the front of a deep sofa, and Webster sat opposite in an armchair. On the glass table between them were sales catalogues for auctions of modern art in London and Paris. His chair was low and he struggled to find an attitude that seemed appropriate.

Nina looked at Webster. I wonder what she sees, he thought. In the light her face was pale but for the skin under her eyes, which was a deep purple gray.

“Thank you for seeing me. I’m grateful,” he said.

“I wanted to see you.”

“I wanted to say first how . . . how sorry I was to hear your news.” The words sounded thin and brittle as he said them.

“Thank you.”

“I heard it from your husband’s partner. He called me. He told me that . . .” He hesitated. “He suggested that my meeting with Dmitry might have brought about his death.”

Nina said nothing.

“It wasn’t my intention to cause anybody harm.”

Again, Nina didn’t reply, but looked at him steadily all the while. She was composed; Webster felt wholly uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell whether she was resigned or calmly furious. Eventually she said, “I don’t know why he died, Mr. Webster. I would like the Hungarians to tell me but I think they will not.” She paused. “Why do you think he died?”

“In a sense I barely knew him. I’m probably the last person who should say.” Webster shifted his position.

“But what do you think?”

“I have a sense that he was murdered.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because of what I hear from Hungary. Because it was a very strange way to . . . to end it. Because the Hungarians seem to have been quick to make up their minds.”

“I have the same sense. But I would like to know.”

“So would I.”

Nina had her hands clasped in her lap. She loosened them and scratched her forearm lightly.

“That is what I want to know from you, Mr. Webster. Why you want to know. In a way this is not your business. You met Dmitry once. You did not know him.”

Webster had anticipated this. He had an answer prepared, but now it hardly seemed adequate. As he began, a mobile phone began to buzz across a table in the corner of the room.

“Excuse me.” Nina stood and went to pick it up. “Gerstman.” She walked into the corridor, speaking softly. Webster could still make out what she was saying. The person on the other end of the call talked more than she did.
“Ja,”
he heard her say.
“Nein, nicht jetzt. Ich bin nicht allein. Ja.”
A long pause.
“Das geht Sie nichts an. Ich wollte ihn sehen.”
Webster’s German was still good enough to make some of this out.
That’s not for you to say. I wanted to see him. “Ja, mir geht es gut. Morgen vielleicht. Oder Mittwoch. Ja. Auf Wiedersehen. Auf Wiedersehen.”