Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

Webster watched her. After some time she looked up at him.

“Frau Gerstman,” he said, “I have friends in Budapest who tell me what is happening with the investigation. I’m happy to share that information with you.” She looked up, and for the first time her eyes, red with tears, looked curious. “Very happy.”

“Thank you.”

With a small nod he indicated that he would keep his word. They sat in silence.

“What did you mean by insurance?” said Webster at last.

“I’m sorry?”

“You mentioned insurance earlier. That Dmitry had taken out insurance.”

“I did not know I said that.”

Webster decided not to push it. Instead he asked her whether she knew Richard Lock.

“Richard? Yes, of course. He sent me some flowers. Why?”

“He still works with Konstantin Malin. I worry that if Dmitry was in danger he may be too.” He had tried this line with Nina’s husband, and as he said it he felt a pang of conscience; back then he hadn’t wholly meant it.

“If he still works for Malin he will be fine.”

“What sort of a man is Lock?”

“A normal man. Dmitry liked him. Mr. Webster, I prefer not to…” The doorbell rang. Nina looked puzzled for a moment and then she seemed to gather herself, as if preparing for an encounter she didn’t relish. “Excuse me.”

Webster stood as she left the room to open the front door. He heard muffled, urgent exchanges in German, followed by a man’s footsteps, heavy and stark on the wood. The man kept talking in a high voice. Webster caught a few words: “ … zuerst die Russen und jetzt die Engländer. Zumindest ist er nicht eingebrochen.” First the Russians, now the English. At least he didn’t break in. He was still standing when a short, florid man, with a twisted mustache and all but bald, stomped into the room muttering, “Wo ist er? Wo ist er?” Seeing Webster he stopped, fixed him with a stare and told him to leave. “Get out. Go on. Leave.”

Nina, right behind him, took his arm and tried to usher him back out of the room, saying something in German that Webster couldn’t make out. The man replied in firm, slightly patronizing tones— “Hat er Dich auch bedroht? Dann ist es nur eine Frage der Zeit” —and she let go of his arm. Has he threatened you as well? Then it’s only a matter of time.

“ Do you know who I am?” he said to Webster.

“I think so, yes.” Webster had seen him with Gerstman on his first visit to Berlin. He was wearing a tweed suit. His accent was almost grotesquely rich.

“I am Heinrich Prock, Herr Webster. Partner of Herr Gerstman, who is now dead. Perhaps, Herr Webster, when I called you I did not make myself clear. Hm? We want this out of our lives. Out. ” Prock was still emphatic, but in person there was something ineffectual about him, something ridiculous, like a well-groomed little dog with a substantial bark. It occurred to Webster that had he spoken to Prock in person that Sunday in the park he might not have taken him so seriously. “ … forever.” He went on. “I do not know who you are working for, or what you want. I do not care. What I care about, Herr Webster, is that this woman is left alone. She has been bothered enough. But you come here, to the flat of a widow, not a week after her husband died, to search for answers of your own. You are no different from the others. Now I would like you to leave before I call the police. Go now, please.” He pointed to the door, an unnecessary gesture.

Nina turned to him and said something in a low voice. Prock responded in an urgent hiss. “Wann kamen die Anrufe? Vor zehn Tagen? Und dann taucht er auf? Woher weißt Du, dass er nicht für sie arbeitet?” When were the calls? Ten days ago? And then he shows up. How do you know he isn’t working for them?

Webster looked at Nina, who stood with her arms crossed beside Prock. She gave a regretful nod, which seemed to say that she would rather this had ended differently, but that he should go.

Walking past Prock he stopped in front of Nina and said, “Thank you. If I hear anything from Budapest I’ll let you know.” She nodded again and he left. As he walked away he could feel Prock’s indignation behind him bursting to be given vent.

AFTER BERLIN Webster spent a day in Paris with a hearty Onder, who had seen Lock and had plenty to report, and then flew back to London for a meeting with Tourna the next day, Friday. Despite himself he could feel the case beginning to pull at him again, teasing ideas out of him, leading him on from one place to the next. Firing his imagination. The good ones did this; they wouldn’t leave you alone. Nina knew something, he was sure of it—sure too that she would part with it if she thought it would truly hurt Malin. He wondered how much of him wanted to find justice for Nina, and how much of him simply had to know.

When he got off the plane from Paris he found a voice-mail message waiting for him from Alan Knight. He had called from his Russian phone, which was unusual.

“Ben, this is Alan. It’s Thursday. Someone’s probably listening but I’m past caring. If they hear this maybe they’ll believe me.” He was quiet and hoarse, as if he was losing his voice. “Just to say we won’t be working together again, Ben. Sorry about that. But life here’s gotten a bit difficult. Seems I can’t get into the country without spending half a day being asked questions about my clients. Twice it’s happened now. I’ve been advised not to work for Westerners anymore, so that’s that. Not much I can do about it. I wish there was. Wish I could do something about the tax police raiding my office as well, but no doubt that’ll be cleared up soon, eh? These things usually are.” There was a long pause. He thought the message had come to an end. “So if you’re in Tyumen don’t look me up, Ben, all right? If it’s all the same to you. Best leave me alone for a bit. Best leave well enough alone.”

He had never heard Knight sound like that. He had complained before about the attention he was given by the security services, about his calls being overheard, but Webster had always assumed that whatever arrangement he had made for himself in Russia was stable. He’d been doing it for so long. He was one of them.

That evening Webster tried to write a progress report for Tourna, and rather to his surprise there was a lot to say. He left out all mention of Inessa. But Knight continued to prey on his mind. He told himself that any one of Alan’s jobs could be behind this, that there was no reason to think that his problems had anything to do with Malin, but every instinct in him cried otherwise.

AT TEN ON FRIDAY MORNING Hammer and Webster sat in the boardroom at Ikertu. Hammer had not run in. This was unusual and Webster wondered what it meant.

“Is he the sort to be late?” said Hammer.

“He was a day late last time.”

“I read the report. You’ve been busier than you think.”

“Yes, that occurred to me too.”

“How was Onder?”

“Enjoying himself.”

“You going to tell me about Berlin?”

“It was good. You were right.”

“I didn’t want you to go.”

“No, I mean about the whole thing. I feel better. I met my accuser, which helped. He burst in and rescued Mrs. Gerstman from me. He was a bit of a buffoon.”

“Good for him.”

“He still doesn’t like me very much, but he said something interesting.”

Hammer waited for him to go on.

“How’s your German?” said Webster.

“Minimal.”

“Mine isn’t what it was, but he said something that caught my ear and clearly wasn’t meant to. I think he said, ‘First the Russians, now the English. At least he didn’t break in.’ And then ‘Has he threatened you as well? It’s only a matter of time.’”