Christopher Jones: The Silent Oligarch

“You know Mr. Kesler.” Malin gestured across the table at the older of the other two men in the room.

“Of course. How are you, Skip?”

“Just fine, thank you, Richard. You’re looking well. This is Lawrence Griffin, one of our associates.”

Lock shook hands with both men. “Skip” was in fact Donald, but he preferred to be known as Skip; this suggested a jauntiness at odds with the rest of him. He was a lawyer, a specialist in litigation, and Lock was alarmed to see him here: it meant that what they were about to discuss was serious, as he had feared, since Kesler was not the sort to fly across the Atlantic and spend a client’s money without cause. Everything about him suggested discipline. The younger man, Griffin, had taken out a notebook and was already writing. Both were in suits; both looked hot and slightly grimy, as if they had traveled that day and not yet changed their clothes.

Lock sat on his own at the head of the table. Malin turned to look at him.

“Tourna is making noises again. He is still upset.”

“This is about Tourna? Christ, that man makes so much noise. Can’t we keep ignoring him?” Tourna, Lock thought, was surely not worth a meeting in August.

“Mr. Kesler thinks not. Mr. Kesler.”

“Thank you, Konstantin. Richard, Mr. Tourna will file against Faringdon in New York on Monday, and is drawing on the relevant clauses in his contract to start arbitration proceedings in Paris. The New York complaint alleges that we reneged on our commitments to Orion Trading over the sale of Marchmont. Specifically, it says that Orion was sold an empty shell and that Faringdon took the assets. Hearings in New York have not yet been scheduled, but we’re due in Paris in November.” Kesler always spoke with extraordinary structure and precision, his staccato voice, with a hint of the South in it, beating out all the points. Lock wondered whether he had rehearsed.

“God, he’s an idiot,” said Lock. “What does he stand to gain?” No one spoke. Lock noticed that Kesler’s watch was still on Washington time. “Do we fight it or settle?”

“If all we had to worry about was whether or not we had met our obligations under the contract then, yes, we would either fight it or settle it—a fine judgment and not perhaps worth that much thought.” Kesler’s suit was dark blue, a light wool, with a pinstripe, European in its cut. “This time, however, Mr. Tourna has decided to add a little spice. He is alleging that Faringdon—and you—are part of a criminal conspiracy. More particularly, he is claiming that Faringdon is not owned by its immediate shareholders, but by Mr. Malin, and that it is the central component of, as he puts it, a global money-laundering operation. He puts the damage to him at a billion dollars.”

“A billion? Where does he get that from?” Now Lock understood why he and Kesler were here. “Who is he using?”

“Hansons. Lionel Greene. I’m told he’s very good.” Kesler looked over the top of his glasses at Lock, waiting for more, but nothing came. “This creates all manner of problems. We cannot settle, because the complaint is public, and to settle will imply that we acknowledge the charge. And we can be confident that everyone will soon know about this, because Tourna is never discreet, even when it is in his own interests to be so. And that is not the case here.”

Lock felt a weight bearing on his chest, a long-held fear. “Do we know what he knows?”

“No. The complaint isn’t detailed.”

“He’s fishing.”

“I don’t think so.” Kesler looked from Lock to Malin.

“Then what is he doing?” said Lock. “It seems crazy. Why allege something you can’t prove? And then make sure we can’t settle?”

Again Kesler looked between the two. Malin made the smallest movement of his head and Kesler resumed.

“Because he has no intention of settling? I suspect that Mr. Tourna is truly vexed, and when Mr. Tourna is vexed he doesn’t bottle it up. For this Greek, revenge is best served relatively warm.” Kesler paused, clearly pleased with his words. “I think he is doing this—and we must assume he is doing this—because he wants to hurt Mr. Malin. By now we can also assume that he’s hired investigators and PR and God knows who else to put on an almighty show. When he thinks the time is right.”

Kesler’s sidekick was all the while taking notes. Lock glanced at them and wondered how they could possibly be so voluminous already. The sun was lower now and behind Malin, leaving his face in shadow.

“Look,” said Lock, “if he had proof of something he’d blackmail us with it privately. That’s his style. Which means there’s no evidence.”

“Maybe not,” said Kesler, “but it’s going to be very uncomfortable demonstrating that. I’m here now because we need to start work immediately. Paris is the priority. I’ll be working out of Bryson’s London office to save you traveling to D.C. and me traveling to Moscow…”

“Wait, hang on.” Lock looked puzzled. “Why have an arbitration at all? If he wants to make a noise he can just sue us in New York.”

“That is the most interesting question,” said Kesler. “I don’t know. I simply can’t read that part. But I think that New York may be the sideshow. A lawsuit there will make a lot of noise, but… my guess is he wants to cause you a lot of pain but still give you a mechanism for settling—perhaps you agree to settle if he completely retracts the complaint. Or perhaps he wants to see you on the stand. We can sidestep that in New York, I think, but not in Paris. You have to attend your own arbitration.”

Lock could feel pain in his lower back. This was the moment at which he should be showing Malin that he was confident and full of fight but his body was registering dismay.

“Can we do him some damage first?”

“Fight fire with fire, you mean? Perhaps. I’m seeing investigators in London next week. It may be that Mr. Tourna has something he would rather remain hidden. But it’s not as if his reputation has far to fall. Such an asset.” Kesler gave a wry, irritating little chuckle.

Malin stood up, thanked Kesler, and asked Lock to join him outside. As they walked on the lawn in front of the house Lock could feel the spring of the grass under his feet. Through the cypresses he saw headlands and bays linking into the distance, the cliffs deep red in shadow. His fresh shirt was already damp and cool against his back. He and Malin took steps down to a swimming pool whose sky-blue water spilled endlessly over its far lip, the sea beyond a steady, serious cobalt. They sat at a table, out of the setting sun, where Lock, side on to Malin with his elbows on his knees, continued to gaze at the pool and wondered whether anything could make the scene more placid. He was curious to know whether Malin drew pleasure from it.

Malin extracted a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, took one, and lit it. He spoke Russian now. “Richard, I am concerned about this. Tourna is a little crazy. I think Kesler is right—he is not doing this so that we pay him money.”

“Tourna is nuts. We should never have—”

“Let me finish.” Malin paused. Lock looked from the water to him, indicating his willingness to listen. “Kesler called me about this two days ago. This has given me some time to think. I asked him to come out here to discuss it with us in person. I have asked him as I am asking you to take special care of this so that it does not escalate. I want us to find out what Tourna knows. And I want to know everything about Tourna. That is your responsibility. I will not settle this because I do not trust Tourna to keep it settled.” Again he paused, drawing deeply on the cigarette. “How confident are you that we are protected?”