Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

The driver thought they were mad and said so. He let them out two blocks away in a street parallel to Nina’s. Webster paid him and looked at Lock standing by the cab. There was fear and expectation in his eyes. He looked crazed, a mess. Have I done this to him? At best I’ve accelerated it. When we’ve seen Nina he can start to recover himself.

“We need to make you presentable. Can you do something about your hair? Smooth it down a bit. Maybe button your coat right up. OK. That’s better. Come on, let’s go.”

The icy channel worn through the snow on the pavement wasn’t wide enough for both of them and Lock walked slightly ahead, Webster carefully scanning the cars and the houses.

Ahead of them, ten yards from the turning into Nina’s street, a man was crouching down on the pavement next to a car. With one gloved hand he was taking the plastic covers off the wheel-nuts; in the other he held an L-shaped cylindrical spanner. As they approached, he stood up, took a step backward and looked down at his work. He was tall and wore a gray overcoat. Webster put his hand on Lock’s shoulder to slow him down. He heard a step behind him, the faintest crunch on the ice, and before he could turn felt his knees buckle under him. As he slumped a dull crack sounded in his head. Pain shot behind his eyes. He fell forward on his knees, the ice and grit stinging his hands. Another crack and then darkness.

HE HEARD VOICES FIRST. When he opened his eyes he saw gray snow, the wheel of a car beyond. A strip of bright pain ran from the bridge of his nose around to the back of his skull. There was cold against his cheek and in his clothes. He closed his eyes again.

These were German words. Some of them he knew. He raised his head and the pain seemed to flow to a point, like water. A hand touched his shoulder and he turned on his side and looked up, squinting into the light.

“Sind sie verletzt?”

“Was ist passiert?”

An arm reached around him and pulled him up until he was sitting. His trousers were wet against his thighs and there was the taste of iron in his mouth. He reached up and felt his forehead, his temple. Above his ear the hair was warm and clumped. He took his hand away and looked at the blood, frowning.

Lock. Christ. Lock.

He tried to stand but his feet couldn’t find purchase on the ice.

I have to find him.

“Bewegen Sie sich nicht. Wir haben einen Krankenwagen gerufen.”

There were three people. A man was squatting by him and two women stood close by, their faces full of concern. He put his arm around the man’s shoulders and pushed with his legs. The man stood with him.

“Wirklich. Er kommt gleich.”

Webster looked down at himself. His body didn’t feel like his own. His head reeled and he fought the urge to be sick. I have to move. For a moment he stayed leaning on the man for support and then set off in the direction of Nina’s flat, moving each leg with deliberation, his hand outstretched to find the wall.

There were protests behind him.

“Danke,” he said, turning. “Hat jemand gesetwasehen?” Did you see this? The three looked blank and shook their heads. “Dankeschön,” he said. “Danke.” He walked away and raised a hand, as if to say thank you, please stop.

Nothing was happening in Nina’s street. No police cars. No Russians. No Lock. As he shuffled slowly toward her flat one thought filled his head, louder than the nausea, sharper than the pain. This cannot happen again.

BY HER BUILDING he looked back; at the corner of the street his three helpers were watching him. He turned into the doorway, slumped against the wall and pressed the button for her flat. His reflection stared slackly at him from the glass doors; his coat was grimy and his tie pulled down but otherwise there seemed to be little damage. But when he checked his face in the silver intercom panel he saw that one side of it was red with blood—smeared across his forehead, thick and crimson over his ear and down his neck.

He went to press the button again. Please be in. For his sake be in.

“Hello.”

“Frau Gerstman, it’s Ben Webster.” The words were thick in his mouth.

Nina said nothing. He turned from the microphone and spat blood and dirt. He waited for her to speak but she wasn’t there. He buzzed again.

“I do not want to see you, Mr. Webster. Unless you have news for me.”

He closed his eyes in pain and frustration. “I have to speak to you.” His voice was earnest now, urgent. “I was with Richard Lock. He’s been taken.”

“Please, Mr. Webster. Go. I have had enough.”

“Here, in your street. They knocked me out. The same men who broke into your home.”

Nina was silent.

“The same men who are calling you.”

The door buzzed, just long enough for him to take his weight off the wall and push against it.

Nina met him on the landing again, looking straight at him as he opened the gates to the lift, her arms crossed. She was still in black.

“Jesus.”

“It’s OK. It’s not that bad.”

She gave him a long, steady look and then without saying anything turned and went into her apartment. Webster wiped his feet on the mat and followed her down the corridor, the damp soles of his shoes still loud on the wooden floor.

Before the sitting room she turned left into a bathroom, more modern than the rest of the flat, all marble and glass. She took a towel from a rail, wet it under a tap and handed it to him.

“Sit on the bathtub.”

He pressed the cloth to the side of his head and felt the cold sting against the wound. It came away vivid with blood.

“I let them take him. It’s happening again.”

“Wait.” Nina took another cloth from the rail and ran it under the tap. “Here.” She stood by him and dabbed at the blood on his forehead, wiping it away.

“Thank you.”

“What happened?”

“We were coming to see you.” He shook his head and felt the pain rolling inside it. “I don’t know where they came from. I never saw them. I never saw them.”

“Shouldn’t you call the police?”

“They won’t find him. I have to find him.” He turned and looked her in the eye. “I need to bargain with them.”

She said nothing, then broke his gaze and leaned in to him, cleaning blood from the side of his face. He pulled away.

“Nina, I heard what Prock said to you. When did they break in?”

She shook her head, threw the towel into the bathtub and walked out of the room.

“Nina.” He followed her down the corridor. The afternoon had clouded, and the light in the sitting room was lowering. She turned on a floor lamp and sat in her chair, staring at the ground. He took a remote control from the coffee table and switched the television on, turning up the sound so that voices and music filled the room.

He crouched by her chair and looked up at her, speaking softly. “Nina, listen. I’m scared. You know what’s happening. I need to know what Dmitry knew. Otherwise Richard is dead.”

“I don’t know what he knew.”

“These men have been in your flat. They’ve been calling you. They were out there this afternoon, watching. Christ, others may be there now. Until they’re convinced, they will go on. Give it up. When they know you don’t have it, they’ll stop.”

She sighed abruptly, almost a sob.

“I don’t want to remember him like this. Being chased for what he knew.”

I have to get going, thought Webster. There isn’t time for this.

“Nina, tell me something. Why do you want to hold on to it? What good will it do you?”

“Dmitry didn’t want them to have it.”

“Without Dmitry it means nothing.”

Nina was silent. She looked down at her lap.