Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

Lock gave a small nod. His skin was gray, dark under the eyes. He said nothing.

“You told me that someone had tried to poison you.”

Lock looked past Webster at the lake and shook his head slowly. “Christ. I hardly remember anything. That guy changing his tire, then nothing. I can remember a man with a mustache, and me telling him that I was very drunk. And being in a hotel. Jesus.” He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Was it Malin?”

“I assume so. An hour and a half after you called Nina two men booked themselves on that night’s Aeroflot flight to Berlin. Both Russians. One was thirty-one, the other thirty-five. Does that sound like them?”

“They were Russian.”

“Hammer’s working on them.”

Lock nodded faintly. “Did you rescue me?”

“I wish I had. You did it yourself.”

Lock laughed, a pained chuckle. “Really? That’s a first.”

Webster smiled and glanced down at his hands. “I got you some things, from town. I didn’t bring your stuff from the Daniel.”

Lock scratched the back of his head. “I am feeling a little vagrant.” He took a deep, deliberate breath. “It’s nice here.”

“We’re safe I think. The only way they’ll find us is if they find the taxi driver, and it would take an army to do that.”

“What about the hotel?”

Webster smiled. “My boss arranged the hotel. We’re honored guests. Herr Maurer has been told that you are an important English businessman suffering from a rare nervous complaint and a nasty scandal back home. You were staying in some fancy place just outside Berlin but the English press found you and now you’re hiding here. He’s happy because we’re paying him four times what everyone else here is paying. If anyone calls he’ll let us know.”

“Shouldn’t we just go? Back to London? Isn’t it over?”

Webster turned and looked at the lake. It was frozen to about forty yards out now, and where the ice met the water ducks played. Nothing else was moving.

“Nina gave us what we wanted,” he said, turning back to Lock, still shielding his eyes.

“The files?”

“He kept them in a hotmail account. From the looks of it he’d save a new batch of documents there once a month.”

“You’ve seen them.”

Webster nodded.

“Well? What are they?” Lock’s eyes, tired before, came alive.

Webster looked down before meeting Lock’s stare. “They’re not what we thought they were.”

“Jesus.” Lock pushed his hand back through his hair. “Not what you thought they were. Fuck. I knew I shouldn’t…” He closed his eyes and sighed, a long, sad sigh. “What are they?”

“I looked at them this morning. They’re all the purchase agreements between Langland and the companies that sell it their oil. Every one, all the time he was there. They’re conclusive proof that Langland makes a turn on every trade, and that the Russian producers suffer.”

“I don’t understand. That sounds good.”

“It’s not bad. Journalists would love to see it. But it’s never going to convict Malin of fraud. Companies can sell to Langland at any price they like. You’d have to prove collusion. Which means finding a Russian executive prepared to say it’s going on. Which isn’t going to happen.”

Lock turned away from Webster and folded his arms. “I’m freezing.”

“Let’s go inside.”

“And go on with this? To what purpose? To earn you a fee?” Lock stood up and looked down at Webster, blocking out the sun. “You should ask yourself why you’re in this game, Ben. Are you helping me? Screwing Malin? Or just enjoying yourself? Which is it?” Webster didn’t respond. “I think we should go. I’d go and pack my case but I don’t have any fucking things.” Lock turned and walked slowly toward the hotel.

“Richard.” Webster got up and followed him. “Richard, wait.” Lock carried on walking, his feet now crunching on the gravel. “That was the bad news.”

Lock stopped and turned, his face dark. “If there was any good news you’d have told me by now. What is it?”

“Malin tried to kill you. In Germany.”

“That’s good?”

Webster looked around him, hesitating, then back at Lock. “I have an idea. It could finish him.”

“You’re serious?”

“It’s a serious idea. But you need to decide whether it’s good. I’m not pushing it.”

“No, you’re not. Christ. What sort of a world do you live in? Is every day like this?” He stared at Webster. “Running around, dreaming up plans? Let me ask you something. When do you start to play? Or do you just move the pieces around?” Webster didn’t reply. With a will he held Lock’s gaze. “Tell me. If I’d have died, what would you have done? Found another me? Sent someone else off to the front line? Fuck, Ben, if it wasn’t for you I’d still be in Moscow and none of this would be happening. Would that be so bad? So Malin’s bent. So what? So the fuck what? Everyone’s bent. Tourna’s bent, Jesus. He’s worse. And all those blue-chip companies, you think they haven’t got someone like me to hide things, help them avoid tax? They’ve got legions of them. I’m just one man. And I’m not fucking dispensable, all right?”

“This was always going to happen.”

“What?”

“This was always going to happen. You can’t keep stuff like this hidden. It comes out.”

“And you just help it along? Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

Lock laughed, a hard, sharp laugh. “That’s great. That’s noble of you. Ben, we both work for crooks. We play our parts, and that’s it. And if we didn’t, someone else would. That’s the world.”

Webster put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the ground. He didn’t feel like defending himself; didn’t feel that he could. Lock was right. It was time he stopped dressing this up.

He sighed and looked Lock in the eye. “Look. I’m sorry. I underestimated Malin. That was my mistake. Perhaps you… you could take Dmitry’s files to Malin. To show your loyalty. You’d be back in the fold.”

Lock shook his head. “No. No. That’s not what I want. Christ, Ben, you can’t lead me this far and then send me back. I’m not the same man. I can’t do it anymore.”

Webster was quiet.

“Is that the idea?” said Lock.

“No.”

“How risky is it?”

“I told you. That’s for you to decide.”

“No. You’re in this too. Let’s go inside. Christ knows I’m in no hurry to get in a car. We decide together.”

WEBSTER SAT DOWN in an armchair in the corner of his room and reached into his briefcase. He took out his phone, a straightforward Nokia, and pressed a combination of keys. Lock sat on the bed and watched. Webster put the phone down on the coffee table in front of him. A voice started playing over its speaker.

“Thank you for seeing me… . I wouldn’t have… This isn’t for pleasure, you understand. I think we may be able to help each other.” A pause. Lock looked at Webster. “You’ve been busy these last few weeks… . I’m beginning to wish that we’d hired you first.” Another pause. “But what concerns me is that after Paris there’s… there’s no clarity.”

As the words continued to play Lock said, “What is this? Is that me?”

Webster nodded.

“… I think the best ending for everybody will be agreed outside court. Except for the lawyers, perhaps.”

“How did you do that?”

“… hurting my business and costing Aristotle money. A fortune if his fees are as bad as ours.”

Webster leaned forward and picked up the phone. He pressed a button and the voice stopped.

“When people find out what I do they want to know if I have any gadgets. I always say no. This is the only one. A man in Belgium made it for me. Gave it to me, actually. He was rather pleased with it.”