Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

Lock sat down, hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck until a red mark appeared on the skin. He took the phone from his ear, looked at it without expression, and disconnected the call.

“There was never anything to doubt,” he said to the empty room, and lay back on the bed.

WEBSTER ASKED HIS TAXI to stop in the street behind Lock’s hotel and walked the final few hundred yards; from habit he never left a taxi right outside his destination. From the air Germany had looked plain and neat, black lines of trees stretching across spotless white fields, the city a jigsaw of red roofs and straight roads, but down here on the ground nothing was immaculate. With one leg still in the car Webster stepped carefully over the frosted puddle in the gutter, struggling not to slip on the icy snow that had been cleared from the other edge of the pavement. He could feel the easterly wind blowing up his flapping suit trousers, and knew that his thin London coat would be no defense against this cold.

He wondered which Lock he would find waiting for him: the plausible lawyer or the frightened escapee. He had sounded distraught on the phone. Not for the first time Webster asked himself whether he was pushing Lock too hard, and again the answer came back: you’re his only way out; his other choices are worse; not long now. And a response in turn: I hope you’re right.

It felt strange to be making intimate decisions about the life of a man he hardly knew. He had at once a strong sense of him and no sense at all: an idea taken from press articles and company records and court documents and unreasonable assumptions. The Lock he had met in Enzo’s had surprised him. He had expected him to have the arrogance of those who gain power without earning it; to have a thicker shell; to be fond of himself in a way that he clearly was not. Sitting in his coat across the table, Lock had seemed already fallen, less bumptious middleman than sinner seeking absolution, as if he knew too well what he had done and how much was at stake. And, after all, wasn’t he a victim of the same disorder that had finished Inessa, the same desperation to keep the truth hidden? Webster didn’t know whether to be comforted or unnerved by this: it made his own role less significant, but his responsibility to Lock much greater. Responsibility to do what? he asked himself. Find a way out for him; give him a second chance. Keep him alive.

For the first time since Turkey, Webster craved a cigarette.

At the Daniel he explained that he was a friend of Mr. Green. Room 205, second floor. He walked up the stairs and found the room at the end of a dark corridor, a single lamp giving out a dim light. He knocked gently on the door, and heard movement inside. The spyhole darkened and Lock opened the door, only enough at first for him to see down the corridor and know that Webster was alone.

“Come in.”

Webster walked past him. Lock shut the door, and for a moment the two men looked at each other, neither having the right small talk for this very particular occasion. Lock looked harrowed. His hair was greasy and uncombed and he had a small sore, purplish red, at the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t shaved since London. Webster scanned the room: the bed unmade, the ashtray half full, the bottles of Scotch on the bedside table, one nearly empty. The window was closed and the air smelled of smoke and sleep and whisky.

“You have the chair,” said Lock. “I’m afraid we don’t stretch to two.”

“How are you doing? Why don’t we go and get some lunch? I’m hungry.”

Lock walked to the window and looked out, standing a foot or two from the glass and leaning back. He turned to Webster. “I’d like to talk here if we can. There’s been… I’m not feeling very safe.”

“Why not?”

Lock told him about the hairs on the doors and the man with the cap. Webster kept his expression steady but felt a short sting of anxiety: either Lock was beginning to imagine things or this was alarming, and what made this so difficult was that both were credible.

“Perhaps it was housekeeping.”

“The room wasn’t made up. I had the Do Not Disturb sign out.”

“Then we shouldn’t talk here. If you’re right.”

It took Lock a moment to understand. “Shit. Yes. Of course. God, I hate this business. I don’t know how you put up with all this crap.”

Webster smiled but it was clear Lock wasn’t joking.

IN AN ALSATIAN restaurant in Mitte they sat on wooden chairs at a plain wooden table and ordered food. Lock drank beer, Webster water. They took a table toward the back of the long narrow room, Webster facing the door so that he could reassure Lock that no one threatening had entered. Walking there Webster had looked for a tail and seen nothing.

Lock was uneasy; he didn’t eat. Webster quizzed him about his movements since London: had he followed the plan? Had he driven straight from Rotterdam? Where had he stopped along the way? What had he done since he was here? When Lock got to the point where he contacted Nina, Webster thought he understood. Someone was listening to her phone. It was even possible they were monitoring Marina’s line. He didn’t tell Lock what he was thinking.

“And since Nina?”

“Since the call? I went and bought these shoes. Not far from here. Then I went and had dinner—and noticed the man in the black cap when I was leaving. I did what you said but he didn’t follow me, not that I could see. Then I went back to the hotel.”

“And you stayed there till when?”

“Till this morning. I left at about seven-thirty to get breakfast. I didn’t sleep well. And when I got back, about eleven, the hairs weren’t there. Then I called Malin.”

“You called Malin?” Webster struggled to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“Yes.”

“Why on… What for? I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t think about it. I just wanted to tell him to leave me alone.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He tried to persuade me that I’d be safe in Moscow. That… that in a year’s time all of this would be forgotten.”

“What do you think about that?”

“I don’t want to see Moscow again. And I don’t believe him. I have a feeling I’ve crossed the line.” Lock looked detached, almost curious, as if he could picture the line somewhere behind him and wondered why he hadn’t seen it before.

“What did you call him on?”

“That.” Lock pointed to one of his dismantled phones on the table.

“Well, we can throw that away. And if he wasn’t following you he will be now.” Webster sat and chewed for a moment. “Tell me about Nina.”

“There’s not much to say. She told me to sod off. Nicely but firmly.”

“How well do you know her?”

“I’ve had dinner with her three times. I think it’s three. We got on but I wouldn’t say we bonded.”

“All before Gerstman left Malin?”

“Yes.”

“So she sees you as Malin’s man?”

“She does. For sure.”

Webster took a drink of water and tried to decide how to get Nina to open the door to him. She knew that they wanted the same thing: Malin exposed. He was sure of that. The question was whether she would engage.

“All right. I’ll talk to her. If she’ll see me. If she thinks you’re a wanted man she may soften. Let’s go.”

“We can take my car.”

“If you’re right they may have seen it. We’ll get a cab.”

WEBSTER HAD THE DRIVER PASS Nina’s flat slowly, Lock lying down across the backseat. He couldn’t see anyone. It wouldn’t be easy to keep a watch here. The street was one-way and her building halfway down, which meant that you couldn’t rely on a car alone. And this was the sort of place where neighbors were observant and vocal. He kept one eye on the cars that lined both sides. They were all empty. It was still possible that Lock was imagining things; he was no longer the most reliable witness.