Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

“Do you want some water?”

With his eyes shut Lock frowned tightly and shook his head. Webster filled a glass from the bathroom tap and set it down on the bedside table. He left the bathroom light on and the door open between their two rooms.

For some time he sat in his room in the dark, looking out the window at the moon and the lake. He should go downstairs and borrow Herr Maurer’s computer to look at Gerstman’s files. He should call Hammer. He should call Elsa. More than anything else he should work out how to make this end well. There was a way, he was sure, slowly forming in his mind.

He looked at Lock. What was going through his head at the moment? Nonsense, with any luck. Or nothing. He went to the bathroom and inspected his wound. A patch of brown hair stuck down gave it away; otherwise you wouldn’t notice. It would wait till tomorrow, and so would everything else.

ELSA WOKE HIM. Through his dreams he slowly made out the buzz of his phone as it skittered across the bedside table. He answered it full of sleep.

“Hello.” There was pain behind his eyes. He remembered his head.

“You’re there. Why didn’t you call last night?”

He sat up a little against the pillows. There was a small patch of dried blood on the sheets.

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t get in till late. I thought you’d be asleep.” Through the curtains he could see sunshine. It must be late.

“Then send me a text.” A pause. “I called but it went straight to voice mail.”

“That’s strange.”

“I was worried.”

“I know. I’m an idiot. Sorry.”

Neither said anything. Webster could hear voices in the background, the radio. He should have called; that was stupid.

Elsa spoke first. “When are you coming back?”

“I wish I knew. Could be today. Could be as late as Tuesday. I think I’ll know today.”

“Are you OK?”

“Everything’s fine. How is everyone?”

“Playing upstairs. Nicely for the time being.” Elsa was quiet for a moment. “You’ve had a strange letter. It’s addressed to St. Benedict Webster, care of the Websters. It’s sitting staring at me.”

“How big is it?”

“A4, a normal envelope.”

“Where’s it from?”

“Oslo. Sent yesterday.”

“Odd. I don’t know what that is. I’ll deal with it when I get back.”

“I don’t like it. It’s like an unexploded bomb.”

“Unless it’s big and fat it’s not a bomb. You’re going nuts.” He paused. “Send it to Ike.”

“I’d rather open it.”

“OK, that’s fine—open it.”

He heard her put the phone down. He began to think about the day; he had to look through Gerstman’s documents, talk to Hammer, talk to George. He should get up. The line was still quiet.

“What is it?”

“Jesus, Ben. Oh, Jesus.” Her voice caught as she said it.

“What is it? Tell me.”

“I knew there’d be more of this shit. Why are they sending this here? Who the fuck is doing this?”

“What? You have to tell me.”

“It’s…” Elsa took a breath, collected herself. “It’s a photograph of a body. A woman’s body. On a table. Her throat has been cut.”

Webster felt sick. His mouth was dry. He wanted to scream with rage.

“The bastards. The fucking bastards.” He got out of bed, went into the bathroom and smacked the wall hard with the flat of his hand. He looked down at the sink, his forehead against the mirror.

“I’ll have Ike come and pick it up. You shouldn’t have seen that. I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.”

“It’s Inessa.”

He couldn’t say the word at first. “Yes. It’s her.” It was as if they had dug her up. For more abuse. He took a deep breath, and another.

“Are you OK?” said Elsa.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” More breaths. Don’t let them affect you. Don’t let them in. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

“I’ve had enough of this. I don’t want these people in our lives.”

Webster said nothing. His head was full of noise. For a moment neither said anything.

“There’s something else,” said Elsa.

“What do you mean?”

“In the envelope.”

“What is it?”

“A cutting. From the FT. ‘Russian metals group lists in London.’ ”

GMK. Generalny Metalligurchesky Kombinat. Which still owned the aluminum plant in Kazakhstan, and a dozen like it across Russia and beyond. What was it doing there? What obscure message did it hold?

“You’ve got to come home.”

Not now. Especially not now. He sighed and closed his eyes tight. “I can’t.”

“You’re not serious?”

“I can’t. You know what that says? That poison? It says we know you so well, piece by piece, that we can do what we want with you. It’s meant to make me scared. To lose it. Well, it won’t work. It won’t fucking work.”

“It scares me.”

“I know, baby, I know. But believe me they are not going to do anything. This is easy for them. They just send a letter. There’s no comeback. Nothing is going to happen.”

“They sent it to our home.”

“So that you’ll persuade me to give up. Same with the e-mail. I’ll have someone sit outside the house.”

“I just want it to stop.”

“I’m going to make it stop.”

“Come home.”

“I can’t. Not now. This has to end.”

IT WAS NOON and the sun had some warmth in it by the time Lock woke. Webster was outside sitting on a bench by the lake with his eyes closed, his face to the light, his thoughts scattered. He had never seen those pictures. He assumed they were from the morgue in Oskemen; there had never been a postmortem. The package had unsettled him, not because it had scared Elsa, though that was the worst thing about it, but because he didn’t know what it meant. The e-mail had been a simple warning; this was not only darker but less clear. Did it mean that Malin knew what had happened to Inessa? That Webster never would? Perhaps it was merely a display of knowledge and power. Perhaps all it said was: I understand you; I know the pain you have known; I can create more at will.

But it didn’t scare him. Nor did the man who had sent it, or the ease with which he could picture his dead eyes and his dark will, his unnatural world narrowed to a single point of malice. For ten years he had challenged himself to imagine that mind, and now that he was confronted by it, now that he thought he recognized it again, its horror had been robbed of all its force. No. What scared him was his own power to corrupt, to imperil. If it weren’t for his silent obsession, Gerstman would be alive and Lock would be where he once was, compromised but safe. And what scared him more was that even now he couldn’t stop. He still had work in Germany: one last idea.

He heard footsteps on the gravel and looked up. A haggard Lock was making his way slowly toward him.

“Good morning,” said Webster, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

“It is, isn’t it?” said Lock, squinting around him. His eyes were gray shot through with red. “Where are we?”

“Wandlitzsee. I brought you here last night.”

“After the hotel?”

“After the hotel.”

Neither said anything.

“How are you feeling?”

“Awful. My head feels like it’s been minced.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not in the least. I want air. And water.” He sat down on the bench and with effort crossed his legs. He groaned. “What happened?”

“I got hit on the head. You disappeared. Four hours later I get a call from you and you’re in the Adlon with their head of security.” Webster waited for Lock to supply the rest but he said nothing. “I’m sorry. I failed you. I should have realized how serious they were.”