Charles Cumming - The hidden man

‘Well, that’s assuming the Cayman courts agree,’ Quinn said, swallowing a glass of water in three loud gulps. He sat down. ‘Any foreign authority would need conclusive evidence linking Macklin to the Pentagon accounts and to the criminal activity in London.’

‘But we have evidence, Paul,’ Taploe said. ‘More than enough, in fact.’

‘Course we do,’ Quinn tried. ‘But will Elizabeth and her merry men be sharing it with their new pals down in the Caribbean? Somehow I doubt it.’

Dulong caught McCreery’s eye and he dug her out of a tight spot.

‘You needn’t have any concerns about that, Paul,’ he said, collecting his stick from the wall. ‘The boys in Cayman are pretty keen nowadays to be seen to be cleaning up their act. They’ll comply, believe me.’

‘And then wonder why we haven’t asked to have Macklin extradited.’

‘Well, let’s worry about that one later, shall we?’

Quinn collapsed into a slouch. This was self evidently a fait accompli. He wished, not for the first time in his career, that he were ten or fifteen years older, not just the bright, straight-talking Cockney whose views were eventually expendable.

‘Macklin would also be disbarred from practising law in the UK,’ Dulong said, almost as if she were trying to cheer him up. ‘He won’t be able to gain registration with any foreign law society or enjoy rights of audience in a foreign court.’

Wearily, Quinn contested even that assertion.

‘Not true,’ he said. ‘Macklin was dual-qualified. He’s a member of the Florida Bar. Did a degree in Miami nine years ago.’

This was a revelation too far for McCreery and Dulong, both of whom looked stumped.

‘Then we’ll just have to have a word with our American friends, try and sort something out,’ McCreery offered. He kept a straight face while saying it.

‘And what happens to Libra Moscow?’ Taploe asked, as if it was pointless to dwell on the frank impossibility of Macklin’s or Tamarov’s arrest. Better just to wrap things up and try to salvage his career.

‘Well, that was one of the things Sebastian and I talked about this morning,’ Dulong said gratefully.

‘Roth’s in London?’ Taploe asked.

‘That’s correct.’ She took a plastic clip out of her bag and used it to pin up her hair. ‘At this stage he thinks the club will most probably be franchised to a local entrepreneur in Moscow. Gradually Libra will sever ties. He’s going to stay in London for the foreseeable future and take hands-on control of the London operation. There may even be a stock-market float.’

‘I see, I see.’ Taploe smiled, sickening Quinn with the speed of his compliance. A queasy mood of settled business had suddenly pervaded the room.

‘And Kostov?’ he said. Quinn had noticed they had left the Russian out.

McCreery cleared his throat.

‘Well, there at last there’s some good news. While we’ve been sitting here our colleagues should have finalized plans for Kostov’s extradition.’

Quinn stirred.

‘How does that work?’

‘Very simply.’ McCreery clasped his hands together and produced a punchy smile. ‘Kostov has been tracked to one of Kukushkin’s properties. He’s been under surveillance for several days.’

Taploe was confused.

‘He was working for Viktor Kukushkin?’

‘Not exactly. Dimitri does some very occasional work for the organization, but only as a favour to keep him in rubles. Kukushkin and Kostov are old friends, you see, from school and university. Grew up in the same Moscow suburb. Twenty years ago, Kukushkin was a big player in the Party machine so, like a lot of ex-KGB, Kostov was able to maintain some very strong links with organized crime. He was farmed out to Byelorussia after the Mischa fiasco, but Kukushkin kept an eye on him. And when he started to benefit from Gorbachev’s reforms, he brought him back into the fold, found him somewhere to live, that sort of thing.’

Taploe stretched. ‘What sort of work does Kostov do for him?’

He might have been enquiring after the time.

‘As I said, very little. We don’t really know much beyond the fact that Kukushkin has always looked after him. Some instruction, perhaps. The odd tip-off. A lot of Kostov’s breed worked euphemistically as “consultants” of one kind or another, though it’s unlikely he would have been all that effective. Kukushkin was heavily involved in strong-arming government ministers into transferring state money to privatized brokerage houses in the early days of Yeltsin. We’re fairly sure Kostov helped out on that. He was always best when operating as a bit of a thug…’

‘… and eventually he came across Keen’s name because of his work for Divisar?’ Taploe said.

‘Almost certainly,’ Dulong replied. ‘Not that Kukushkin knew anything about it.’

Quinn sensed they were concealing something, and challenged them on it.

‘You said Kostov was under surveillance.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Who from? Moscow law enforcement?’

Dulong bought herself some time by wiping her nose on a small white handkerchief concealed in her bag. McCreery looked uncertainly at the floor and knocked his wedding ring against the table. Quinn realized he had found the lie. Their eyes had gone.

‘Come on, out with it. Who’s watching him?’

‘ We are.’ McCreery spat the confession as if it had been taken under duress. ‘SIS are watching the apartment block.’

‘He’s not under police arrest?’

‘No.’

And thus the full picture emerged. All loose ends tied. Quinn’s mouth slackened in disbelief as he recognized that McCreery’s little problem had been resolved with a grim sleight of hand.

‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he whispered. ‘Fuckin’ hell. Six have talked to Kukushkin, haven’t they? You’ve struck a fucking deal.’

Dulong balled the handkerchief under the sleeve of her blouse and indicated to McCreery that she would be prepared to answer the question.

‘We have channels in Moscow,’ she said. ‘The quid pro quo involves Kostov’s handover…’

But Quinn did not let her finish.

‘In return for what?’

‘In return for the conditions we have already outlined. Prosecution immunity for Tamarov, d’Erlanger, Macklin and Duchev. Total withdrawal of UK operations. Surely the latter is of some comfort to the Service after all your hard work?’

Taploe stepped between Quinn and Dulong as if he felt a professional obligation to speak on behalf of MI5. Quinn looked up at his pale, exhausted features — a man failed now, surely beyond redemption — and felt that his whole future would depend on Taploe’s response. If he caved in to the SIS plan, he would quit; if he showed some semblance of disgust, they could at least walk away with a moral advantage. Taploe briefly touched his moustache.

‘I have to say first and foremost that I don’t admire what has happened here today.’ This seemed encouragingly unequivocal. ‘To negotiate with criminals, to strike deals with members of a recognized organized crime syndicate makes me feel very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable indeed.’ Quinn inched forward. Perhaps it was going to be OK; perhaps there were standards after all. ‘Nevertheless, I can understand why such a decision has been taken and, although I do not condone it, I recognize that, at the very least, the Kukushkin organization cannot now, at least in the medium to long term, flourish on the UK mainland…’

For a large man Quinn stood with surprising speed, his hands raised up as if to blockout Taploe’s charade. Twisting to gather his notes, he folded them under one arm and moved towards the door.

‘Paul? Where are you going?’ Taploe said.

‘Into the private sector.’