Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to talk to someone.”

She put the glass down on the draining board and turned to him. “You woke Vika.”

“I’m sorry. Is she still awake?”

“I told her to go back to sleep.” Marina moved past him and shut the kitchen door. “What are you doing here?” She went back to the sink and stood against it, her arms crossed.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Richard, I didn’t even know you were in London. Why didn’t you call?”

“It’s not been an easy time.” He moved toward the table, rested his hands on the back of a chair and dipped his head so that his chin almost touched his chest. “I’m sorry.” When he looked up again there were tears starting in his eyes. Marina watched him, worried. “I wanted to see someone who didn’t want anything from me. That’s all.”

Neither said anything for a moment. Lock looked down at the table. “Can I have a drink?”

“I don’t have much. There’s some vodka. How much have you had?”

“Not a lot.” He looked up and smiled, his charming smile. “I managed the stairs.”

Marina went to the freezer, produced a frosted bottle and poured the thick liquid, like syrup, into a tumbler.

“We don’t have proper glasses.” She handed it to him and he sat down at the table.

“Will you join me?”

“It’s late, Richard. I was in bed.”

“Please.”

“No. Thank you.”

“Well, sit, at least.”

Marina pulled out a chair and sat across the table from him. She rested her chin on her thumbs and watched him take a sip of the vodka. The bags under his eyes were heavy and gray.

“What is it? Has something happened?”

He took a moment to respond, as if trying to frame everything right.

“Outside,” he said, gesturing to the window with his glass, “are two ugly Russians in a Volvo. They go everywhere with me. I’ve just been to Cayman with them, and they’ll be going back to Moscow with me tomorrow. They’re a new feature. They daren’t leave me alone. I should be flattered.”

Marina looked at him with serious eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“They’re here to stop me making good my escape. They’re Malin’s. When I went back to Moscow after Paris they were waiting for me. I think they’re here to make sure I don’t fall off a hotel roof. Or that I do. I can’t work it out.”

“You look terrible.”

“I’m tired. Some of it’s jet lag. Some of it’s thinking about Dmitry.” He drank again, a gulp this time. “And I’m sure that… when we went for dinner—with Vika, before Paris. God, Paris. That’s another story. But that night, when I walked you back here I’m sure I was being followed. Sure of it. There was a car outside the restaurant and as we turned into your road it pulled past us and into the next street.” He put his glass down and ran his hand through his hair. “My phone squawks all the time. I think they’re listening to it. And Ivan and bloody Igor at my side all day. I can’t stand it. It’s driving me nuts. And meanwhile, Christ… That’s just the Russians, but meanwhile I’ve got the FBI, the FB fucking I—sorry, I’m sorry. I’ve got the FBI wanting to know who I am and what I’ve been doing for that vicious fat crook for the last fifteen years, and investigators turning up in my bloody hotel room. I can’t stand it, Marina.”

Marina pushed her chair back, stood up and moved around to sit next to him. He looked at her with his head resting on one hand and she put her hand on his forearm.

“Come here,” she said.

Lock turned in his chair so that they were facing each other and close. He put his head on her shoulder, his hands on her back, and for a minute they sat like that, a little awkward, Lock gently jolting with sobs. When he sat up to look at her his eyes were bloodshot and full of tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to come here and collapse.” He dried his eyes on the sleeve of his sweater. “It’s just…”

“Tell me everything,” said Marina, and stood up. She came back to the table with a glass, and poured more vodka for Lock and some for herself. “I want to know.”

So Lock did. He told her about Paris. He told her what he had learned about Gerstman’s death. He told her about the reception waiting for him on his return to Moscow, about his failed attempt to steal himself some insurance, about Cayman, and the FBI, and Webster. And about Webster’s card. He talked fluently and forcefully, and in explaining it to Marina some things began to make sense to him. He steadily drank the vodka. Marina listened gravely, sipping at hers, alive to every word.

“I can’t go back to Moscow,” he said when he was done. “You’re right. It sucks me dry. There’s nothing there anymore. Do you know what I feel like? I feel like an informer, and everyone knows, and it’s just a matter of time before they come to lynch me. And I haven’t said anything.” He gave an abrupt, sarcastic laugh. “I haven’t said anything to anyone.”

“Maybe it’s time you did.”

Lock sighed. “The problem is, I don’t have much to tell. That’s the hell of it.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know. Stay here forever?” He looked at her steadily. She was still pale. Still beautiful. She didn’t respond. “Can I stay tonight, at least? I’d like to. I miss you.”

Holding his gaze Marina took his hand in hers. “Richard, no,” she said. “I hate what you’re going through. But we are the same, for now. You and I. That hasn’t changed.”

“Even after the letter?”

“That’s not what the letter meant. You have to get out. Otherwise nothing can happen.”

Lock nodded, the slightest movement of his head. “Thank you, though. For writing. I read it sometimes. It’s about the only company I have.”

For a second Marina looked at him and in the deep green of her eyes—still clear, still intense—he saw some trace of her love for him, not yet extinguished, communicated to him so sharply in that instant that even he, his instincts withered almost to nothing, could not mistake it.

He broke the silence. “Can I sleep on the sofa? I’ve had enough of hotels.” He smiled. “Not something you’ve heard me say before.”

“No, Richard. It’s not good. Not for Vika. One day, but not now.” This time he didn’t nod; he just looked at the flowers on the table. Marina watched him. “Maybe you should talk to Webster.”

He lifted his head and looked at her.

“Maybe he does mean what he says,” she said.

“For the last three months he’s made my life a misery. Now it suits him to finish me off. No.”

Marina thought for a while. “He’s the only person who wants what you want. Something that will hurt Konstantin.”

Lock shook his head. “No. I don’t want to hurt Konstantin. I just want him to go away. I want to be left alone. I want a new life. I want my family back.” He paused to see her reaction; she took his hand and held it in hers. “I do. I really do. I can’t believe how blind I was to this. To you. You cannot imagine how much I want to wake up here with you next to me tomorrow morning. With Vika in our bed. That’s punishment enough. I shouldn’t be going through this.”

Marina got up from her chair and stood over him, her hand on his shoulder. “Richard, I think you should go. Go and sleep. Maybe stay a day or two in London. Come and see us. After school tomorrow.”

Lock sat with his head in his hands and his elbows on the table. That sounded good. But it was just a delay. The last freedoms of a dying man.

“How do you get into your garden?” he said at last.

Marina looked puzzled.

“Do you have access to your garden?” he said.