Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

The script paused here to give Malin time to respond, but he said nothing.

Lock went on. “I can promise you that you won’t find it unless I help you. I’m prepared to give it to you in return for my liberty and a sum of money to compensate me for the trouble you have caused me. I will also ensure a smooth handover of my ownership interests to a party of your choice. I would recommend a Russian entity of some kind.”

“How much?”

“Wait. I’m not finished. I will also undertake to talk to any law enforcement agency only about matters within my competence. I will not speculate about anything else. As Kesler will tell you, that won’t be enough to do you any harm. Not in Russia. I may not be so lucky but I’m happy to take that risk. Finally, you will undertake to leave me alone and let me live my life. The same goes for Nina Gerstman.”

Malin was silent for perhaps ten seconds. Lock glanced up at Webster and shrugged. Then Malin spoke. “Is that it?”

“In essence, yes. When we meet we can discuss details.”

“How much?”

“Ten million dollars.”

Malin grunted. “Where do you want to meet?”

“Be ready to fly to Europe on Monday morning. I will call you again at midnight tomorrow night and let you know which airport. The flight will not be longer than four hours from Moscow. When you land I will call you again and give you a time and a place to meet.”

“That’s not enough time to file a flight plan.”

“It’s Russia. You’ll manage.”

The line was quiet. Eventually Malin said, “Let me call you back in an hour. I need to think.”

“No you don’t. If you don’t say yes to a meeting now I will call the FBI immediately and give them the files. They’ll enjoy them.”

“If you have the files you can tell me what’s in them.”

“You can find out when I see you on Monday. This isn’t a trick.”

Silence again. Lock imagined Malin, that blunt face processing what it had heard.

“Call me tomorrow night,” said Malin and hung up.

Lock felt Webster’s hand on his shoulder and looked up.

“What did he say?” said Webster.

“That we should call tomorrow.”

“That’s good. Very good. Did he say he was coming?”

“No. But I think he is.”

“How was he?”

“Same as ever. He doesn’t give much away.”

“You were good. Confident.”

Lock smiled. His head was clearing and for the first time that day he thought that he could eat.

LATER THEY ATE together in the restaurant. There were three other guests: a party of Americans, a husband and wife and their friend, all retired, they said, and traveling around Germany and the Netherlands for a month. For ten minutes before dinner Lock and Webster swapped small talk with them in the bar, Webster engaging with them while Lock, still feeling delicate, sat back. The friend had been in Wandlitz ten years before when the hotel had just opened; she had come in the summer and swum in the lake. Webster moved the conversation on to their trip. Yes, they had been to Berlin. What an extraordinary city—a historical monument in itself; but such violence it had known. Webster was good at this, Lock thought. Eventually, to Lock’s relief, he said that they must go and eat, and they took their table.

“Nice people,” said Webster.

“Nice people. Very nice. They’ve had a good life.”

“No self-pity, please. You told me you were feeling positive.”

“No, I mean it. They’ve had a good life. That’s good. It’s nice to meet some normal people. I can’t remember the last time I did.” Lock took a sip of water. He pulled his napkin off the table and shook it open on his lap. “Do you know what I was going to do before I called you in London?”

Webster shook his head. “No.”

“I was going to run away. I had it in my head that if I could get to Switzerland I could withdraw all my money and disappear. I know someone in Istanbul who I thought could get me a passport.”

“Where would you have gone?”

“I don’t know. Vanuatu. Some Indonesian island. Somewhere with sunshine and no government to speak of.” He smiled. “In Switzerland I’ve got nearly nine million dollars. If I live another thirty years that’s three hundred grand a year. That’s enough.”

A waitress came and asked if they were ready to order.

“What can you manage?” asked Webster.

“Very little.”

“Boiled rice and carrots is what you want. And a glass of red wine.”

“Why on earth would I want that?”

“Good for upset stomachs. Trust me. I wouldn’t have anything else.”

“OK. But no wine.”

Webster ordered in German. “So what happened? Why didn’t you go?”

“I remembered that the Swiss had been asking questions. They’d had one of my people in to talk to them in Zurich. Did you know that?”

Webster shook his head.

“So it wasn’t you?”

“Not us.”

“I don’t suppose it matters. I thought they’d stop me at the border and that would be that.” Lock took some bread and broke a piece off. He took a small, tentative bite and chewed gently. The bread felt strange in his mouth. “But I shouldn’t think they would have.”

“They might. But not yet, probably.”

“Exactly. I think I was scared. Or I just didn’t want to go.”

“Paradise not all it seems?”

“I don’t think I could lie in the sun every day anymore.”

“So what do you want?”

“I have no idea. No idea.” I do, thought Lock. I want to live in London and see my wife and child. To say it out loud would be to jinx it.

LOCK AND WEBSTER barely saw each other on Sunday: Webster went to Berlin to meet a man called George and find a location for the meeting, and Lock spent the day in his room drawing up a plan for the handover of Faringdon.

In the afternoon he walked around the lake on a path of compacted snow, watching the ducks, the metal rigging on the masts of boats pinging softly in the wind like cowbells, black branches laden with frosted white sagging above his head. There was a light mist on the water and everything was silver gray. Twenty yards behind him one of George’s people followed.

He wanted to speak to Marina. She would be worried. Webster had explained that if he did Malin would hear the call, learn the number of Lock’s phone and attempt to trace it. Even if that phone was then dismantled and thrown on the growing heap of defunct mobile carcasses, Malin might still be able to work out from which cell the call had been made, and though time was now running short and his chances of doing so quickly on a Sunday slim, they couldn’t risk his discovering their whereabouts. But Lock had insisted, and so Webster had suggested a simple solution, good enough to last the half a day or so they needed: they would phone the switchboard of a friendly company in London, which would phone the switchboard of a friendly company in New York, which would then forward the call to Marina’s number, so that all Malin would see, in the first instance and without a good day or two of work, was a pair of apparently unconnected numbers that had nothing whatever to do with Lock. That, Webster had said, ought to be enough, provided that Lock made sure he didn’t mention precisely where he was, what he was planning, or with whom he was planning it. To Lock, who really only wanted to tell his wife that he loved her, it all seemed absurdly cautious.

He made the call. A minute later he heard Marina’s voice on the line, somehow unexpectedly close.

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Richard. Thank God. Where have you been?”

“I’m sorry. It’s been difficult to call.”

Marina was quiet. “You should have let me know.”

“I’m sorry. Really.” A pause. “How are you?”