Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

“Tea cocktail,” she said, offering the tray.

“Thank you,” said Lock, taking two and passing one to Oksana, who was wearing a sheer silver dress and towering silver shoes. She took it and drank, unimpressed, looking coolly around the room.

“The place looks amazing,” he said to her, taking a large sip of his drink and feeling grateful for it. It was good: vodka, he thought, and bergamot, and something else he couldn’t quite make out. Oksana didn’t reply.

Usually one vast room, the ballroom had become a forest of silvered birch branches, arranged in translucent screens to create airy spaces. In the first, the largest, were ornate samovars on tables and around them divans draped in pink and silver fabric. On each samovar was a label, in silver lettering, describing its contents: black tea, iced tea, apple juice, chocolate milk, strawberry milk, kvass. Human statues in elaborate silver and pink regency dress stood against the walls, already motionless. The ceiling had been lowered and was now dusky pink fabric, lit up by the dozens of chandeliers hanging from it. In a space to the left Lock could see through the branches pyramids of fairy cakes of every color; ahead of him two chocolate fountains, one brown, one somehow pink, gurgled thickly. In the far corner of the ballroom he could make out what looked like a teacup merry-go-round, and beside it a band in silver suits playing surreptitious jazz. He thought simultaneously that as a child his own birthday parties had been rather different, and that nowhere else on earth might one see one quite like this.

They should disappear to the hotel bar for an hour. People were arriving steadily but slowly, and Lock didn’t want to make small talk with Oksana in this sort of mood. He was about to suggest this when he felt a firm hold on his elbow.

“Richard! How good to see you.”

He turned to see a squat, wide man with thick black hair and thick tortoiseshell glasses. At first he couldn’t place him. He was English, and almost certainly a lawyer; or was he PwC? He was grinning; accountants tended not to grin. Then it came to him.

“Andrew. Good evening. Nice to see you too.” Andrew Beresford. Yes, he was a lawyer. For some colossal American firm that Lock for the moment had forgotten. They shook hands.

“Good, good, good. How’s tricks, then?” Beresford continued to pump Lock’s hand for several moments after Lock had loosened his grip, his other hand on Lock’s forearm.

“Fine, thank you, fine. Pretty good.” Lock would have given a large sum to be spirited away.

“This is Katerina,” said Beresford, letting go of Lock and indicating a well-built blond woman in a peach suit. Lock shook her hand and introduced Oksana, who to his surprise was tolerably gracious.

“Some tea party, no?” said Beresford, grinning and looking around at the room. “Not like the parties I had as a child! Christ, no.”

“No,” said Lock, smiling fixedly, “quite.”

“We were lucky if we got a magician!” Beresford grinned at each of his audience in turn. “Actually, Richard, I’m glad I caught you. Can I have a quick word— entre nous, as it were? I’m sure the ladies won’t mind. Won’t take a moment. Excuse us.” His hand returned to Lock’s elbow and he steered him a few feet away. Glancing over his shoulder Lock saw Katerina opening a conversation with Oksana and wondered how long it would last.

“Sorry to tear you away, Richard, but I just wanted a quick word. Hope you don’t mind. It’s just that I couldn’t help noticing the other day that you’re in a spot of bother.”

“I am?”

“Well, you’re not quite the talk of the town yet, but if I know about it, ten to one so does everyone else.” Beresford laughed and touched Lock’s shoulder as if to reassure him. “No, I saw the complaint and it looked quite nasty. Seen worse, but these things are never fun. All I wondered was—well, who’s representing you?”

“Andrew, if it’s all the same to you I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Is it Kesler? I know he does a lot for you. He’s very good but I wonder if he—if he fully understands the Russian component.”

“Andrew, really, we’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will, quite sure. You’ll be fine. It’s just that—I’ve seen how these things can go. Look, Richard, don’t take this the wrong way but—all I’m saying is that if you ever find that you need independent legal advice—for you—I’d be happy to be considered. That’s all.”

Lock felt himself flushing, whether from fear or anger he wasn’t sure.

“Thank you, Andrew. I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Look, Richard—these things often come to nothing. But I’ve seen—being brutally honest about it—I’ve seen people in your position get hurt. You can get—what’s the best word?—squeezed.”

“Andrew, I think I should get back to the party,” Lock said, looking over at Oksana. His throat was dry and sore, and his glass empty.

“Sure, sure, sure. Not much of a party yet though, is it? Apparently the big cheeses have been stuffing themselves all afternoon and are coming on here to lord it over the little people. Anyway, Richard, just bear it in mind. You know where I am.” Still grinning, he gave Lock his card. Lowe & Procter of New York City, London, Hong Kong and just about everywhere else. That was it. Lock found himself putting the card in his wallet.

Oksana had found herself another cocktail and was standing defiantly on her own, watching Katerina and Beresford as they wandered around the room inspecting the samovars.

“Richard, how long do we need to stay? I feel silly here.” As ever Oksana sounded wholly reasonable; Lock doubted he would have been so measured in her place.

“So do I,” he said, giving his empty cup to a waitress and passing up the offer of another. “Let’s go upstairs for an hour and come back. We don’t even need to stay for long. I just need to see Sergei, that’s all. And make sure he sees me. Come on.”

He took Oksana’s teacup, put it down on the nearest table and together they made for the door. The party was a little busier now. People were standing in clusters and the noise of conversation was beginning to dull the sound of the band. A security guard held the door of the ballroom open for them and they walked into the hotel’s lobby toward the lifts.

“Is this them?” said Oksana. Through the lobby’s glass facade Lock could see a black Mercedes pulling up in front of the hotel. Four men in black suits and black shirts got out simultaneously. A moment later a silver BMW pulled up behind the first car and was followed by a cavalcade of discreet German sedans. Three of the men in black opened the doors of the BMW and a man, a woman and a young girl got out. The girl was wearing a tiara and a dress of raspberry and lilac taffeta.

“Shit. Yes, that’s them.”

“She looks sweet,” said Oksana, staring at the group as they came into the hotel. Maria Sergeevna was now flanked by her parents, a pretty, round woman and a strikingly ugly man: his mouth, always open, looked as if it had sheered a little across his face, and behind it small, sharp teeth peeped out. Sergei Galinin was known behind his back as Baba Yaga, the hideous crone of Russian fairy tales. His hair was dark gray with large, stark patches of silver gray and white, like a lynx. He owned a company that made equipment for the oil industry and was famous for his whoring.

“Without the tiara she probably is,” said Lock in English, hastily steering Oksana back toward the party.

Maria and her parents hung back in the lobby while their lunch guests made their way into the ballroom. Galinin was not in the first league of Russian business but his company supplied all the large oil producers and had made him rich, and for these two reasons most of Moscow’s oil aristocracy were present, many of them with their children, the girls in party frocks, the boys in suits, some with brocade waistcoats and bow ties. It took fifteen minutes for them all to amble slowly in, and then, finally, as the band struck up Happy Birthday, Maria made her grand entrance. By this time there were three or four hundred people in the room and they all cheered and clapped as the little girl walked shyly through the party, still holding her parents’ hands and looking timidly back and forth from the smiling faces to the ballroom floor.