Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

“This is Potsdamer Platz,” said Black.

“It looks like an architecture competition,” said Lock.

“That’s the library,” said Black, pointing past James to a building on the corner of the space. It was squat, jagged, irregular, made of gray and yellow concrete blocks and sloping glass in black frames. Screens like washboards masked the windows along one wall. It was set back from the road; next to the others it was reticent, erudite, scholarly.

“Was this east or west?” said Lock.

“Both,” said Webster.

They carried on past the library and crossed a bridge over the canal. Fifty yards farther on James pulled over to the side and Black and Webster got out.

“I’ll call you when he shows,” said Webster and gave Lock a calm, encouraging smile as he shut the door.

James pulled out again and took the next left into a quiet street. Halfway down it he did a three-point turn and parked.

“This is it,” he said.

“This is it,” said Lock.

IT WAS JAMES’S PHONE that rang. He answered it without saying a word, put the car into gear and moved off. Lock checked his palms; they were dry.

James parked just out of sight of the library. A man that Lock didn’t recognize came to his door and opened it.

“Good afternoon, sir. You need to go to the cafeteria area. As you go in, turn to your right and you’ll see it. The subject is sitting at a table facing the door. His bodyguard is standing a little ways behind him.”

“Thank you.”

“Good luck, sir.”

Lock checked his pockets for the two phones. They were there. He set off.

His chest felt light, the briefcase heavy in his hand. He smoothed his hair with his free hand as he walked along. Please let this work. Let him say it. Let him say the words. I want to tell the world that I brought him down. I want everyone to know. I want the journalists to know. I want Kesler to know. And Chekhanov. I want Andrew-sodding-Beresford to know, and all his superior English friends.

I want my father to know. And Marina. How I want Marina to know. And Vika. One day, Vika.

And Malin. In there now with his blank gaze and his impenetrable will. I want him to know that it was me.

THE LIBRARY WAS BUSY and hushed. An old lady with snow chains on her boots clanked across the stone floor. Lock moved toward the cafeteria. There he was. Sitting by one of the plate-glass windows that lined that side of the building, alone at a yellow table, his bulk absurd on a spindly metal chair. On the table in front of him was a cup of tea and an envelope. Standing with his back against a pillar a few yards away was Ivan the bodyguard. I knew he was special, thought Lock. Ivan watched him as he neared the table.

Lock could feel his heart beating in his throat. Four tables away he saw Webster studiously reading a German newspaper. The café was quiet but some of the tables along the window wall were occupied: a bearded man with a laptop; two girls eating sandwiches; a young man in a cap and thick black glasses leaning over papers he had spread out across his table.

“You came,” Lock said in Russian.

Malin turned his head an inch toward Ivan and nodded. Ivan stepped up to Lock and asked him to spread his arms and legs. Lock, uncertain, did as he was asked, looking around him in quiet disbelief that this could happen so blatantly in such a place. Ivan ran his hands quickly down Lock’s sides, his legs, the small of his back, and then patted his stomach and chest. Reaching inside Lock’s jacket he pulled out the two phones, inspected each briefly and handed them back, before opening the briefcase and glancing inside. He nodded to Malin and stepped back again. Lock took off his coat and sat down, putting the briefcase on the floor by his chair.

“Phones please,” said Malin.

Lock looked at him, holding his eye for a second.

“OK. And yours.”

He reached into his pockets and pulled out the two phones. He slid the back off each, eased the batteries out and left the parts on the table. Malin did the same with a single phone.

The two men looked at each other. Malin’s eyes bored into Lock’s. Lock tried to understand them, to see something in there that he had not seen before. But they were the same: matte, dead, reflecting nothing. In his black coat and gray suit, the white shirt and the red tie, he looked exactly as he always had.

“You look bad,” Malin said.

Lock returned the gaze. “Thanks for your concern. I’m fine.”

“You looked better in Moscow.”

“I feel better here.”

Malin made a faint shrugging gesture, as if to say that he wasn’t going to argue the point.

“Did you make the transfer?” said Lock.

With the palm of his hand Malin slid the envelope toward him an inch. Lock reached for it and opened it.

“It’s in escrow,” said Malin. “Someone we both know. He’ll release it when he hears from you.”

Lock looked at the single sheet of paper. It was confirmation of a wire transfer made to an account in Singapore. He put it back on the table and, reaching below his chair, opened the briefcase. He took out a sheaf of A4 paper and set it down in front of Malin, who picked up the sheaf and began to work his way through, putting each page down on the table as he inspected it. Lock watched him steadily deal the pages, licking his thumb occasionally as he went.

When he had put down the last sheet from the batch he breathed in and let it out noisily through his nose.

“This is it?”

Lock didn’t reply.

“This is everything?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“That is everything. Downloaded from Dmitry’s hidden e-mail account. I can give you the details.”

Malin shook his head. “You think this is worth ten million?”

“Yes.”

“Ten million, for invoices?”

“It’s what you wanted.”

Malin laughed, once, his big frame shifting up and down. “No, no, no. This is not what I wanted. This is not what I needed.”

“What does it matter?” said Lock. “You have what you’ve been looking for. It’s over. So it doesn’t say very much. That’s good, isn’t it?”

Malin raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“It means you killed Dmitry for nothing. That’s not so good. But why should that bother you?”

Malin rubbed his chin, the folds of flesh pressed together between his fingers. He shook his head.

“I cannot go back to Moscow with this.”

Lock frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They will think I have lost my mind.”

“Who will? Who’s they?” Lock could feel a pain in his throat.

Malin sat back in his chair, adjusting his weight. He took his time. “Richard, who do you think I am?”

Lock shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I have been trying to protect you, Richard. All the time. Because I understand your position. Better than you think. But you have caused me problems. You and Dmitry. It would have been better if he had stayed.”

Lock leaned in to Malin, his voice low but urgent. “Protect me? What, by having your goons fill me with Christ knows what and throw me off a roof? Was that how you protected Dmitry too?”

Malin leaned forward too, his hands clasped on the table. He lowered his voice. “None of that was me.”

Lock tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. He longed for water. He could see the small moles on Malin’s cheek.

“You or your people,” he said. “I don’t care.”

Malin shook his head gently. “Richard, I told you when we last spoke. I could not protect you forever. If you had come back to Moscow you would have ceased to be a risk.”

“I’m not a risk to you. I don’t want to be a risk to you. I don’t want anything to do with you. That’s what all this is about.” Lock’s voice was louder now. “We can leave each other. For good. Separate. Divorce. I’ll disappear. I will cause you no trouble. You know that.”