The Silent Oligarch: A Novel (23 page)

Twelve

W
EBSTER CAME HOME
a little after midnight. He undressed in the bathroom and got into bed as quietly as he could, sliding under the duvet and lying on his stomach. Elsa was already asleep. He lay there for a moment listening to her breathing, slow and deep. She was on her side, facing him, and he could feel her breath on his neck.

“Is it over yet?” she said in a low mumble.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was.”

“Sorry. No. He went to his wife’s. Ex-wife’s. He’s still there.”

“I wonder if they’re asleep.”

Webster kissed her on the forehead, turned onto his side and watched the light from the street lamps creep in around the blinds. Lock would be in bed by now, lying awake, no doubt, and considering his choices. He had to be.

The next morning he woke early, before Nancy and Daniel, who were surprised to see him up when they came down for breakfast. He made them French toast with honey and ate two pieces himself. His phone sat on the kitchen table, fully charged and ready for another day of precise little messages from George Black. There had been one this morning, sent at half past six: “Refreshed team. Subject still at wife’s residence. Unknown surveillance in place with same team and car.” Last night the mysterious Ford had followed Lock to Holland Park, to an address Webster recognized as Marina Lock’s, and George had sat discreetly behind it.

Then nothing for hours. Webster walked the children to school across the park. The rain was now falling as a soft drizzle, and their bright coats shone in the gray light. He didn’t want to go to the office. There was little point in being there. He could go to Holland Park, to be close to events, but there was no good reason for that, either. In the end, rather aimlessly, he set off walking into the city, wondering whether Lock’s reunion with his wife was a good or a bad thing. If he was trying to engage with his old life that was surely good. Webster realized with surprise that he was pleased for him.

It was half past ten and he had reached New Bond Street when his phone rang.

“George, good morning. How is it?”

“We’re not sure, Ben. We think we may have had a loss.” Christ. He checked the urge to shout.

“Go on.”

“Well. You’ll appreciate, Ben, there’s a lot of activity in the vicinity. There’s us watching the Ford and the Volvo and we’ve had to stay a long way back to make sure we’re not detected. Luckily it’s a nice wide-ish street with a sweep to it otherwise I’m not sure we’d have caught it at all.” George waited for comment but Webster said nothing. “So, nothing happened all night. We assumed he’d emerge some time around eight or nine, and we changed the team early to be ready. But there was no movement. Then at 10:13 one of the men from the Volvo, one of the bodyguards, got out and went up the steps to the house. He stood on the porch for thirty seconds or so and then he went inside. A minute and a half later he ran out of the house and down the stairs, into the Volvo and off onto Holland Park Road, heading west. The Ford followed, and we had the bike on them. But they turned off up Ladbroke Grove, and halfway down they timed the lights beautifully, took a right and there was no way we could make it. In short we lost them. From the way they did it I’d say we’d been compromised.”

“The Ford made you?”

“Yes.”

“So where are you now?”

“I’m outside Claridge’s. Our two subjects from the Volvo are in there now.”

“And where the hell is he?”

“I don’t know, Ben. There’s no way he could’ve gotten out the front door. Not with all those eyes on him. Through people’s gardens perhaps? Or over the wall into the park.”

“Holland Park?”

“Holland Park.”

Webster thought for a moment. He could be anywhere. He could be on a train to France or seven miles above the Atlantic. “Keep an eye on the Volvo. Make that your priority. Have someone at the wife’s house in case he comes back. What else?”

“Nothing useful.”

“All right. Stay in touch.”

“Sorry, Ben.”

“That’s OK. Listen, George, there’s one thing you can do. See if you can find out what card Lock’s using to pay his bill.”

He hung up. Christ, this was finely balanced—and agonizing with it. If Lock had run, that was good because he needed somewhere to run to. But if they couldn’t find him that was useless; and if Malin found him first that would be worse. He dialed the travel agent. Richard Lock hadn’t booked himself on any flights that morning. That was something. Then he rang Yuri.

Yuri was a Ukrainian who had once worked for the KGB and then for the SZRU, Ukraine’s foreign intelligence agency. He had retired from government service years before, and now ran a small intelligence company in Antwerp specializing in what he called on his Web site “technical solutions to information problems.” Much of what he did was bug things: cars, offices, houses, hotel rooms. Today Webster wanted him for something else. Yuri had a means of locating mobile phone signals, to within any particular cell, anywhere in Europe and most of the Middle East. Webster used it only in emergencies, and this qualified. He had no idea how it worked, and didn’t particularly want to find out. He gave Yuri Lock’s telephone number, a Moscow mobile, told him it was urgent and asked him to see what he could do.

As he hung up his phone immediately rang.

“Hello.”

“Ben, it’s George. We’ve checked at the hotel, discreetly, and he hasn’t checked out of his room. One of the bodyguards went off in the car. The other one’s still in there. We decided to stay put. I’m working on the credit card.”

“That’s fine.”

Webster ended the call and held the phone in his lap. After twenty seconds it rang again. He picked it up without checking the number.

“Hello.”

“Is this Ben Webster?” A voice he didn’t recognize.

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Richard Lock.” Webster felt his heart quicken. He didn’t say anything. He took the phone from his ear for a moment and looked at the screen: it was a London number, a landline. “I thought . . . I thought it might be useful to talk through our positions.” Lock’s voice was smaller than it had been the night before, but businesslike.

“Yes,” said Webster. “I’m sure it would.” He paused to let Lock talk.

“I’m concerned that we may be missing opportunities for a settlement.”

“Where are you calling from? You’re still in London?”

“Yes. How did you . . . yes, I’m in London today.”

“The number showed up on my phone. Shall we meet?”

Lock hesitated. “Er, yes. Yes. I have meetings this afternoon but I’m free now for an hour or two. Somewhere neutral, perhaps.”

“Claridge’s?”

“Probably better somewhere we won’t be seen.” Of course.

“Yes.” Webster thought for a moment. He was slightly unprepared. He needed somewhere entirely out of the way. He should have planned this. “Let me see. OK, I know. Take a cab to Lisson Grove, and get out where it meets Church Street. There’s a café on the left about a hundred yards down. I can’t remember its name but no businessman has ever been there. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Church Street. I may be a little longer. How will I know you?”

“I’ll be wearing a suit. See you shortly.”

Webster turned and with new purpose walked north, looking over his shoulder for taxis. He called George, and Hammer, who was entertained.

“What are you planning to do with him?”

“Get him to see the light.”

Hammer laughed. “I’d say he’s already seen it.”

C
HURCH STREET
was five minutes north of Marylebone but somehow a different London altogether. This was a place where people lived rather than worked. It was lined with stalls selling fish in polystyrene boxes, fruit and vegetables in one-pound plastic bowls, women’s coats tightly packed on circular racks, floor polish and dish-washing liquid in plastic crates. One stall was given over to gloves in black leather or wool of every color, another to earrings and bracelets strewn across a table in cellophane packages like squares of ice. It was dry now but a cold wind blew steadily down the street and the market was quiet. Webster ducked between two stalls to the row of shops behind and found the café. Enzo’s Market Café. Its window frames were painted pale blue and chipped in places to a dull gray beneath, and in the windows themselves pictures of food, all yellows and oranges and reds, displayed what you could eat if you held your nerve and went in.

Inside, Enzo’s was thick with the smell of frying and old oil. Webster ordered himself a mug of tea, took it to a Formica table fixed to the far wall and sat facing the door, busying himself with his BlackBerry so that he would look occupied when Lock arrived. By the window an old man wearing a shapeless brown tweed jacket was closely inspecting a newspaper that he had spread out over the whole table; against the other wall, by the door, two women in thick quilted coats, propped up straight in their chairs, talked about the fortunes of the market. They were the only people there apart from the young man behind the till who looked as if he must be Enzo’s son. Lock would make six.

He arrived ten minutes later, self-conscious, his forehead sweating. Webster stood up to greet him. This was Lock, but not the Lock of the magazine pictures he had seen. He was tall, six feet or thereabouts—the pictures had made him look shorter. He was wearing a well-cut overcoat in heavy navy wool but he was anything but smart: he had a day’s growth of sandy beard, his shoes looked damp and his gray flannel trousers, badly creased, had light sprays of dried mud around the ankles. He seemed less fleshy than in the photographs, less smooth, and his eyes were tired.

“Mr. Webster.” He held out his hand.

“Mr. Lock.” Webster took it. It was cold and dry. Lock looked hard at Webster for a moment, as if to establish that they were there as equals and that he shouldn’t assume otherwise.

Webster broke the silence. “What can I get you? I’m afraid this isn’t quite what you’re used to.”

“No. That’s fine. A cup of tea, please.”

Webster ordered and they sat, Lock keeping his coat on.

“Do you have a phone, Mr. Webster?” Webster nodded. “Could I ask you to switch it off and take out the battery? It’s probably silly but in Russia you get used to doing it.”

Webster was used to this with Russians; no one else seemed to do it. He told Lock that was fine, and spent a moment trying to slide the back off his BlackBerry. Eventually it gave; he removed its battery, did the same with his regular phone, sat back and let Lock start.

“Thank you for seeing me,” said Lock, scratching at the beard on his chin. His breath was rich and stale, as if he had been eating too much meat. “I wouldn’t have . . . This isn’t for pleasure, you understand. I think we may be able to help each other.” He paused. “You’ve been busy these last few weeks.”

Webster kept a solemn face and said nothing.

Lock smiled an unconvincing smile. “I’m beginning to wish that we’d hired you first.” Webster gave a little nod of acknowledgment. “But what concerns me is that after Paris there’s . . . there’s no clarity. Too many courts, too many bloody lawyers—charging more than you, I should imagine. I think the best ending for everybody will be agreed outside court. Except the lawyers, perhaps. This thing is hurting my business and costing Aristotle money. A fortune if his fees are as bad as ours. But I’m finding it hard to get through to him. That’s where I thought you could help.”

Webster nodded again, slowly. This was good: Lock was talking too much, offering too much. “And you think Tourna wants a settlement?”

“If it’s the right amount, yes. That’s how it works.”

“I’m not sure. I think he wants revenge. I’m not sure he cares about getting his money back. I may be wrong.” Webster took a sip of thick brown tea. “And Malin? He wants one?”

“Wants what?”

“A settlement.”

“That’s irrelevant. It’s my business. My dispute.”

“Mr. Lock . . .”

“Richard.”

“Richard. With respect, we won’t get anywhere with a settlement if you won’t be straight with me. I’m not wearing a wire. There’s no one else here.” He looked around the room and then back at Lock. “These are not my people.” A pause. “Anything you tell me stays with me. You have my word on that. I’m not here to trick you.”

Lock scratched the beard on his cheek again, shaking his head. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Webster. I have a business. When someone attacks that business it’s mine to protect. I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Richard, I think you do. You asked for this meeting and I’m happy to be here, but if we can’t be open with each other I’ll leave. I know a lot about you now. But I knew how you and Malin worked long ago—before I took on this case. I know Russia. I know how it works. Malin is the player, and you’re his bagman.” Webster stopped for a moment to let Lock react. Lock had turned his head to one side and was looking down at the floor, his chin cupped in his hand, his elbow on the table. He didn’t want to hear this. We’re close. “Richard, I also know that that man outside your hotel room is not a bodyguard.” Lock looked back at him. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have had to run away from him last night.”

Lock said nothing for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve been following you. I’m sorry. We saw you go to your wife’s house but we never saw you leave. Just now—what, an hour ago?—your two bodyguards or whatever they are had a word with your wife and then tore off. You haven’t been back to the hotel. We’ve checked.”

Lock held Webster’s eye. Webster could see resentment in there but resilience too.

“Richard, your time’s up. Every relationship like this, every one I’ve ever seen—you can’t break it. Konstantin can’t. He needs you as much as you need him. But the outside world can. The FBI can. They’re itching to tear you two apart.” Lock had stopped looking at Webster. He was gazing at the table, appearing not to hear, but Webster went on. “Only, the final act, that tends to be down to the Russians. The guys like you always hang on too long. And when the Russians don’t trust them anymore, you know what happens. I don’t need to tell you this, do I? You know it better than I do.”