Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

“Very confident.” Lock’s heart stammered. “There is nothing to link anything to you.”

“Look over your network for weaknesses. They will all be all over it soon. If there are weaknesses, let me know them.”

“I can’t think where they could be.”

“Just look. Who do you trust that might talk, knowingly or not? That is what they will be looking for.”

“Understood.”

“It may be that this can still go away. But in the meantime, work with Kesler. Work hard.”

Lock returned Malin’s even gaze for as long as he could, then nodded and looked away.

“Richard, I have always paid you well to prepare for this moment. Justify my faith in you.”

As they walked back to the house in the dusk the security lights clicked on, lighting up the house and the trees and blacking out everything beyond.

LOCK ARRIVED back in Monaco a little after ten. Oksana was not in their room at the Metropole. His calls to her went unanswered.

He stood in the shower, turned it up very hot and then very cold, and thought. He thought about why Kesler hadn’t spoken to him first but had gone to Malin directly. He thought about Malin’s words to him, part pep talk and part threat. And he thought about what he would have to do now, and how little he relished it. The problem, he knew, was not with the nature of the lie, but with the simple fact of it. If anyone looked hard enough (and certainly, they would have to look hard) they would discover that he, Richard Lock, was the richest foreign investor in Russia, the owner of a huge private energy conglomerate. And he had no plausible account of how he had come by any of it.

WEBSTER WAS THE FIRST in his house to wake. The night had been close but now a cool breeze was blowing from the window and he pulled the thin sheet around him; by the light along the edges of the blinds he could tell it would be another hot day. Elsa was still asleep, her back to him. There were planes in the sky; it had to be after six.

If he left now perhaps he could fit in a swim before everyone else was up. But as soon as he had the thought he knew he wouldn’t go; he wasn’t ready to resume the work routine. What did he have today? A mess of things he hadn’t thought about since before his holiday: cases, clients, billing. Briefing Hammer on Tourna, and deciding whether to take his money. That alone might take all day.

He heard a floorboard creak in the room above. Nancy was up. Every morning she came downstairs and stood silent by his side of the bed until something in his subconscious told him she was there. It was a slightly disconcerting way to greet the world.

He lay on his side, facing the door, and closed his eyes. She moved so quietly he hardly heard her come in. He let her stand by him for a moment and then shot out a hand from under the sheet and pulled her up onto the bed, twisting onto his back and leaving her sprawled on his chest. Her feet were cold on his legs.

“Daddy!”

“Did you miss me?”

She said nothing but sat up and drummed a rhythm with her hands on his stomach. He picked her up under her arms and held her horizontal at arm’s length, her face smiling above his, her cheeks full, her dark hair falling down. She was heavy now, but his thumbs still met on her breastbone.

“Did you miss me?”

“Don’t tickle.”

“I’m not going to. Did you miss me?”

Nancy giggled. He gave her the slightest squeeze.

“Don’t tickle! Yes! Yes!”

He let her tumble down.

She raised her head. “Did you get me a present?”

“I was only away for a night.”

“Two nights.”

“I know. Sorry. I had a horrid journey back.”

“Just a little one?”

“Not even a little one. Nothing. Breakfast, if you like.” He pulled himself up onto the pillows and looked at her. “Is Daniel asleep?” She shook her head.

“What’s he doing?”

“Nothing for me?” Elsa was awake. She still had her back to them.

“Morning, baby. No. Not much to buy in Datça.”

She turned onto her other side and raised her head on her elbow. Her eyes were full of sleep. “Tea, please.”

“In a minute.” Nancy was running her finger down his jaw, feeling the stubble.

“How was it?” said Elsa.

“Beautiful. Hot.”

“Don’t. How was your billionaire?”

“Tanned and rich. Though I’m not sure his billions are entirely his.”

“Did you like him?”

“Not much.”

“Hm. Was it worth it?”

“It’s the best case I’ve ever seen.”

“Big?”

“In every way. But we shouldn’t take it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a regime-change case. They’re trouble.”

“Tea.” Elsa inched closer and ran her hand along Nancy’s back.

“Five minutes. When Daniel comes down I’ll give them breakfast.” He looked at her. Her eyes were closed. Somebody had once said that Nancy had his looks and Elsa’s beauty. It was neat but true. “How was yesterday? Sorry I was so late.”

“With Thomas? Terrible. His mother doesn’t want him to come anymore. She thinks talking about it is making him worse.”

“That’s sad.”

“It is.” She glanced at Nancy. “I’ll tell you more later.”

For a moment the three of them lay there, Nancy plucking at the hairs at the base of Webster’s neck, Elsa watching her.

“Which regime?” she said at last.

Webster turned to her.

“It’s not quite a regime. It’s a man. Russia’s most corrupt, I’d say, at a guess.”

“And what would you be doing?”

“Exposing him.”

“You’d like that.”

“Yes, I would. He deserves it.”

TWO DAYS EARLIER Webster had woken before dawn in the spare bedroom, his alarm set to sound as quietly as possible, his bag packed, his clothes for the day hanging from the back of the door. Elsa and the children lay asleep in the still house. He had queued with the holidaymakers at Gatwick and waited half an hour for a taxi at Dalaman. The pilot had said thirty-three degrees; out of the shade, heat radiating off the concrete and the tarmac, it seemed hotter. The only suit he saw all day was his own. It was wool, gray, the lightest he had—a good, English suit, and the wrong thing to be wearing on the Turkish coast in August.

It took three hours more to reach Datça. Sitting upright on the hard rear seat he watched dusty mountains grow green with thick pine as the road bent toward the sea. Turkish dance music played quietly on the radio. The sun bore down on the side of the car, and he could feel the heat in the metal and the glass.

He had been away when the call came in but Webster thought he knew what Tourna wanted. His reputation needed help. His business was oil, gas, copper, iron, gold, bauxite, coal: anything valuable that could be ripped out of the ground in remote places. He would buy the rights to mine it, convince investors that he’d struck lucky and sell out just as it became clear that there was not so much there after all. What’s more, he was a tireless plaintiff who sued anyone who challenged him, usually suckered partners and principled journalists. Webster was sure Tourna would ask him to polish his name; to run the rule over him and find nothing wrong. The one part of the meeting he was looking forward to was explaining that wasn’t how he worked.

After two hours the road dropped onto a wide, sloping plain that rose again in the distance into a range of olive-green mountains, guided either side by the solid blue sea. This was the Datça peninsula. They drove through clusters of square, whitewashed houses and past hot almond orchards, the leaves on the trees sandy and brittle. The driver shaded his eyes from the sun, and the road climbed and fell once more before they reached Datça itself.