Charles Cumming - The hidden man

‘Vladimir, if you’re trying to tell me that you work for Viktor Kukushkin, that you’re one of his lawyers, then that doesn’t surprise me. I’m a big boy. My father told me about Kukushkin’s organization and, to be honest with you, on my trips to Moscow with Tom, I put two and two together.’

Tamarov flattened down the dried curls at the back of his neckand seemed relieved to have cleared the air.

‘I appreciate your frankness,’ he said. ‘But I am trying to tell you something more than this.’

Now Mark did not respond. It was something Quinn had talked about at the safe house. Page One, Rule One: If you don’t know what’s going on, keep your fucking mouth shut.

Tamarov leaned forward.

‘I must ask you a personal question,’ he said. ‘I hope that you will not be offended by it.’

‘Go on.’

‘It is only that I hope you do not feel that my client was in any way involved in what happened…’

‘Jesus, no.’ Mark could not tell if the lie rang hollow. ‘Christ, that thought never occurred to me. You think I’d still be working for Libra if I thought they had anything to do with what happened? You think I’d drink with you at this bar?’

‘Then I am very relieved.’ Tamarov swayed back and removed his hand from Mark’s shoulder. ‘This has been a burden for me tonight, and for Juris also. As I was saying to you, your father’s tragedy came as a surprise to all of us in the organization.’

‘Juris also works for Mr Kukushkin?’ Mark asked, because he had to.

‘He is an associate,’ Tamarov replied after a pause. Both men glanced back at the table. Ben, Mark was pleased to see, was now talking to Ayesha in the corner. That would keep him out of trouble. Macklin, Raquel, Duchev and Philippe were laughing amongst themselves in a separate conversation.

‘And your brother?’ Tamarov asked. ‘What does he think?’

‘Ben?’

‘Yes. Ben.’

‘Oh, all brother cares about is paintings.’

Tamarov’s mouth dipped.

‘I like him very much,’ he said. ‘Benjamin is good person. It is not easy for him to live with everything that has happened. I also lose my father, when I was seventeen year old.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘A car crash outside Moscow. He was killed with a friend, coming back from a day of fishing in the country. My mother was very sick and I had to inform my younger sister and brother of this news. They are twins, only ten years old at the time. When I tell them what has happened they are screaming, like animals on the floor.’

‘That’s terrible. I’m really sorry.’

Two girls approached them at a gentle sway but Tamarov waved them off.

‘I remember afterwards, going through his…’ he searched for the word ‘… his possessions. My mother was ill for some time and it was left to me, only a young man in Soviet Russia, to arrange the funeral. This was an intimate thing, you understand, for a boy to go through his own father’s books, his clothes.

Later I read an American author. He says: “There is nothing more terrible than to face the objects of a dead man.” I always remember this.’

‘I had to do the same thing,’ Mark said, and for a moment he was out of the role, alone in Keen’s flat that first time: finding a razor lying beside the bath, clogged with his father’s hair; suits and ties in cupboards, never to be worn again; a Bible in a drawer just a stretch away from his pillow; even an unopened packet of condoms gathering dust under the bed.

‘So we have something in common,’ Tamarov announced.

‘Yes we do.’ And for no better reason than that he was unsettled and short of ideas, Mark picked up his drink and proposed a toast.

‘To the future,’ he said.

Tamarov looked pleasantly surprised.

‘Yes, to the future,’ he responded, and smiled. He appeared to be on the point of adding more when Duchev approached. Acknowledging Mark with a granite nod, he said something quickly to Tamarov in a language which was not Russian.

‘ Es atnacu uzzinat ka klajas. Nu, ka iet? ’

‘ Vies iet labi,’ Tamarov replied. ‘ Esmu parliecinats ka bracli neka nezina.’

Latvian, Mark assumed, and attempted to commit certain phrases to memory. Tamarov had used the word labi, which he knew meant ‘fine’ or ‘good’, but he would struggle to remember anything useful for Randall.

‘Juris is wondering where we get to,’ Tamarov said. ‘I was just telling him that we come back and sit down.’

Again the pair spoke briefly in Latvian, this time with distinct names emerging from the flow of language. Philip. Toms. Something about piedzerussies. Mark noticed that Tamarov dealt with Duchev as a young, successful executive might speak to his foreman or chauffeur: with an authority checked by respect for the older man’s experience and loyalty.

‘What’s happening over at the table?’ he asked. Duchev seemed to wait for permission to speak. Air conditioning had rendered the club almost odourless, but Mark could pick out the strong smell of his sweat.

‘We find out,’ he said.

Together they returned to the group and found Macklin holding court at the table, spittles of champagne now staining his electric blue suit. Raquel, Ayesha, Philippe and Ben were listening with rapt attention to a high-volume monologue about prostitution.

‘Thing about hookers,’ Macklin was saying, ‘is you have to watch out for the fibs. I learned this early on, Benny boy, right from the word go. Brass says she’s seventeen, more than likely she’s five years older, ten from time to time. You go for someone who’s thirty, take it from me she’s getting on for the menopause and it’s like fucking your mum. “Mature” is the same deal. You know what they mean by that, don’t you, Ben? Ropey as fuck. Ditto “Sophisticated”. Don’t make me laugh. About as classy as these birds get is watching Countdown on their coffee break.’

Tamarov did not bother sitting down. A tall black girl with muscular, gym-stiffened arms had caught his eye and he returned with her to the bar. Noticing this, Macklin raised his voice and directed it at Duchev.

‘Good for old Vladimir,’ he shouted. ‘Look at your boss having fun. You wanna get some yourself, Juris, before it gets cold. Bit like the Hungry Duck in Moscow, eh?’

Duchev said nothing, and Macklin turned his attention back to Mark and Ben.

‘So, Keeno, I was just telling your brother here about my life of iniquity and vice.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ There was a layer of gleaming sweat like fat melting on Macklin’s face. ‘Shall I tell you my golden rule, Benny boy, my golden little rule?’

‘Why not?’ Ben said tiredly.

‘If it flies, fucks or floats, rent it, don’t buy it.’

When Ben failed to laugh, Macklin launched a further tirade.

‘Well, look at that,’ he said. ‘He’s like Sebastian fucking Roth, your little brother. Clean as a whistle and tied to the sink.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Ben said, and might have lost his temper.

‘I mean our Seb is too busy kissing government arse to have himself a good time. Spends his nights at the opera with the cream of New Labour, having intimate little dinners with the movers and shakers of Whitehall. God knows why he bothers. Fancies himself for a place in the House of Lords, I reckon. Very ambitious, our Mr Seb.’

‘Easy, Tom,’ Mark said, but Macklin was on a roll.

‘Come on, you know what I’m saying, Keeno. Those trips abroad, we hardly ever see him.’ He started talking directly at Raquel, at Ayesha, at anyone who would listen. ‘Me and Mark, we go off to Moscow nowadays and we have ourselves a right good time. But Seb, no, he keeps his distance, hob-nobbing with his cronies in the Kremlin. Who does he think he is?’