Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

This was not a lively neighborhood. Shops were shutting around him and between them offices were already dark. Berlin felt empty again. He longed for a bar with young people in it; they had to be somewhere. He stood on the porch of the café for a moment and looked at his map. Schöneberg was close. The guidebook had said something about Schöneberg, he forgot what. He’d try there.

As he walked along Kurfürstenstrasse he passed a man he thought he recognized. He was young, perhaps thirty, and he wore a heavy black cap and a padded raincoat down to his knees. His eyebrows were fair. As he passed he looked at Lock with an air of studied casualness, as if it would be unnatural not to hold a stranger’s eye for a half-second. Lock knew the cap. He’d seen it somewhere. Was it in Moscow? No, it was here, he was sure. He walked along staring at the grimy pavement, looking hard for the answer. At Checkpoint Charlie. He had been reading the screens on the other side of the street and when Lock had crossed over he had turned and walked away. Lock was sure it was him. They were half an hour from there now and this was a big city. This wasn’t chance.

There’s no way they can know that I’m here, he thought. I’ve been so careful. Webster planned it. Maybe it’s one of Webster’s people. But why would he follow me now? And there was something about that cap, something eastern, something Muscovite. It was the sort of cap that half the men in Russia wore come winter.

What had Webster said about knowing if you’re being followed? Lock turned south down a quiet residential street; he was the only person on it. Two-thirds of the way down he stopped and made a show of patting and exploring his pockets. Then he turned and started walking the way he had come. There was no one there. The street was empty. He turned again and, resisting the strong urge to look over his shoulder, forced himself to walk on. Two streets away he saw a taxi, hailed it, and went back to the hotel, wondering all the while about what he had seen.

WEBSTER’S PLANE WAS DUE to land at eleven. He had sent a text saying that he would meet Lock at his hotel at noon or thereabouts.

Lock had not slept. All night his mind turned the same questions around and around. Should he stay in this hotel or move to another? Make a break for Switzerland? Sit and wait for someone to pick him up? He had tried to read but the lines had just slipped past his eyes.

By dawn his skin felt scratchy and greasy and he could smell a sour smell of old whisky and sweat rising from his body. The room was stuffy, its curtains closed. A fug hung in the air. Questions still churned in his head. Malin. What had Malin meant when he called Marina? How was he trying to save him? From destroying his soul by betraying Mother Russia? What else could it be?

And what of Webster, coming to rescue him? Could he trust him?

He realized he couldn’t wait in that room any longer. He showered, pulled on a soft new shirt—for a moment felt human—and finished dressing. He pulled the curtains apart an inch and looked out at the street. No movement. No people. He watched for a moment to make sure. Before he left he did something he hadn’t done since he was a boy: he plucked two hairs from his head and licking his finger stuck them across the joins of the wardrobe door and a drawer in his chest of drawers. He took a third and balanced it on the lock of his suitcase; a fourth he smoothed onto the door and the doorjamb, at ankle height, as he left. Then he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle and went out in search of breakfast.

It had stopped snowing, finally, and Lock walked along the canal with the low sun in his eyes. Thin ice had formed over the water; in places it looked thick but by the edges geese still paddled. Few people had walked there and the snow on the path, on the black branches of the trees, on the roofs and balconies and fences was still a pure white. Lock’s new shoes made a crunching sound as he walked. Occasionally, despite himself, he checked behind him, and saw no one. He passed a woman training a dog, a spaniel puppy, and a man in a huge puffed-up coat walking a whippet. That was it.

He found a café serving Frühstück and ordered rolls, ham, cheese, coffee and orange juice. He had brought his book, and now he sat and read it, taking it in, ordering more coffee to justify his sitting there. At ten thirty he paid and set off back to the hotel. This was where he would want to live in Berlin. Quiet. Pretty.

By the time he reached the Daniel he had forgotten about his schoolboy spying ruse. The Do Not Disturb sign reminded him and he checked the door. The hair wasn’t there. A shock ran across his shoulders. He knocked on the door and listened carefully for any noise inside. It was quiet. His heart seemed to rise in his chest. He hesitated for a moment, not sure whether to go on or run. Slowly he turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Still no noise. Then he swung the door open in one swift movement and moved back a step. There was no one there. He checked the bathroom, and that was empty. None of the hairs was in place.

Lock turned the key in the door, sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. Noise filled his head. He would like everyone to leave him alone. For a day. For a day or two.

In his case lay the components of his old Russian phones. He put one of them back together without its SIM card, and copied a number from it into his new phone, asking himself why he was still bothering with this security nonsense. Then he pressed connect and waited. The line rang only twice.

“Da.”

“ When I came to work for you,” said Lock, talking quickly, standing now and looking out the window for signs of movement, “I didn’t agree to be followed everywhere by your fucking thugs. Call them off. Call them off, or I will go straight to the Americans, the Swiss, the fucking Caymanese and happily spend the rest of my days in prison. Happily. I don’t want to see another goon. I don’t want them holding my hand, I don’t want them searching my room. I’m fucking serious, Konstantin, don’t think that I’m not.”

There was silence for the shortest moment.

“Richard, where are you?”

“What do you mean, where am I? You know exactly where I am. What you don’t know is what I want. I thought I’d phone home and tell you. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes.” Malin’s voice was deep and solid, apparently unmoved.

Lock took a breath, let it out through his nose. “We don’t have a future, Konstantin. I definitely don’t. The FBI will have my guts. So my choice, it seems, is life at Her Majesty’s pleasure or at yours. I don’t know which one I prefer. I really don’t.”

“Richard. I think you are panicking over a small thing. I was worried that you might and that was why I wanted you to be protected.” He paused. “Your mistake is to think that the Americans are important. Or powerful. They are not. You work for a Russian business and this is a Russian matter.”

Lock snorted a laugh. “Ha. A Russian matter. Konstantin, I don’t think you understand. This is an American matter, a Dutch matter, an English matter. Anywhere our money goes—your money goes—it’s their business.”

“No. That is your mistake.” Malin’s voice was even and forceful. “These people, they can look, they can get excited. They are paid to do this and it makes them happy. But do you think they will find things in Russia? Do you think they will find you there? I am safe in Russia. You can be safe here too. I have paid you well for a long time, Richard. You have been loyal to me but now, when it counts, you run away.” Malin stopped. Lock could hear him breathing, gathering himself, letting him know how grave this really was. “I can protect you for only so much longer, Richard. I have never wished you any harm. Come to Moscow today—or tomorrow, take your time—and I can guarantee you that in a year, maybe two, there will be nothing left of this. Nothing. And you will look back and think how foolish you were to have doubted me. To have doubted yourself.”