Christopher Jones - The Silent Oligarch

“Richard, it’s not for me to decide.”

There was a roaring noise in Lock’s head. He couldn’t think.

“What?”

“You and I are the same, Richard. An agent of convenience for someone else.” He paused. “Those were not my men trying to kill you. They were government men.”

Lock looked away from Malin and out the window. He saw bicycles lined up neatly in their racks. Evergreens like Christmas trees laden with snow.

“I came here for two things, Richard. This,” he put his hand on the pile of paper, “and you. If this had been valuable, I could have gone back and said that you were still loyal. Maybe you could have stayed here. Maybe. But now you have to come with me. I cannot go back with this alone.”

“I’m not going back.”

“Richard, understand this.” Malin leaned farther forward. He spoke in a half whisper. “You have worried some very important people. Kremlin people. They see the interests of Russia at risk. They see their own interests exposed. They have made it clear to me that I must clean up this mess. If you come back to Russia, with me, you will be safe. Outside Russia they will not let you exist.”

“I can’t go back.”

Malin said nothing for a moment, his eyes steadily on Lock. “Richard, you know what happens to people like us when we are not useful anymore. I am on the verge of not being useful. Your only hope is to come with me and let everyone forget about this episode. In two years we will both be where we were.”

Lock shook his head. His jaw was set, his head full of sound and rage.

“And Dmitry? Where will he be?”

“It was too late for Dmitry.”

“Then it’s too late for me.”

Malin sat back. “I’m sorry, Richard. I can’t let you choose.” He turned to Ivan, just an inch again, and nodded.

Lock saw Ivan walk toward him and his hand reach into his coat pocket. Lock pushed his chair back and began to stand. He shouted—“Help! Stop!”—and as he stood brought his hands up to push Ivan away. Webster was shouting, as were other English voices. He saw Ivan’s hand come out of his pocket and in it a syringe; felt his powerful hand on his upper arm. Then the grip released and Lock, off balance, stumbled backward and fell down against the window. When he looked up he saw Ivan being held by two of Black’s men. The syringe was on the floor. Malin was still sitting at the table, his expression unchanged; Webster was by him.

Malin stood up. He looked at Webster. “We are leaving,” he said, in English. He sorted the papers on the table into one pile, picked it up and walked past Ivan and Black’s men. Ivan shrugged himself free and followed.

One of Black’s men reached down to pick up the syringe. There was a clear liquid inside; it was still full. He handed it to Webster, who was collecting the phones and the envelope from the table.

“Come on,” Webster said to Lock. “Let’s go.”

Lock stood up straight. Faces stared up at him from the tables around. Two library security guards were here now and one of Black’s men was calming them down. “Wir verlassen. We’re leaving.” Webster guided Lock through the tables, out into the main hall and toward the door.

“You OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“What did you get?”

“I think we’re both finished.”

As they reached the entrance Black joined them.

“I’ll go first.”

Lock followed Black through the revolving doors, Webster right behind him.

He squinted as he came out into the air; the sky was still heavy with cloud but the snow was bright. He could see Malin and Ivan walking up the path toward Potsdamer Strasse, Malin walking slowly with heavy, rolling steps. He saw Black five yards ahead, scanning from side to side. Lock waited for a moment, turned to see Webster emerging from the door. From far away he heard a dull crack, like a stone falling on dry wood. His shoulder was thrown back, his arms flailed in space. He fell backward and his head hit the icy ground. Webster’s voice came to him.

“Richard. Fuck. Richard! George!”

He looked up. Flat gray sky. Webster’s hair. There was heat in his chest, and cold.

“Richard. You’re OK. Richard. Can you hear me?”

He felt his lips move as he tried to speak. They were dry; his mouth was dry. “I want Vika to know.” Each word separate, on its own.

Webster’s voice. “Know what, Richard? Know what?”

“It was me.” He closed his eyes.

IT TOOK EIGHT DAYS for Webster to get back to London. He wanted to accompany Lock’s body but the police hadn’t finished with it, so he came back alone.

He flew into a sunny Heathrow on a half-full plane, all tourists and families. As it taxied to its stand the stewardess wished everyone a pleasant stay in London and hoped they would enjoy their Christmas shopping.

In the cab he sat back and looked down at himself. He had been wearing the same suit for two weeks; his trousers were concertinaed around the crotch and his shoes were stained with Berlin snow. His fingernails were bitten and ragged, his lips chapped from the cold, the skin on the back of his hands so dry that it had begun to peel. His feet were fat from the flight and his neck ached. He wanted to go home and see his children.

At least it was warmer here: there was no slush on the roads and the pavements were dry. The shop windows were draped with tinsel, and colored lights zigzagged across the streets. In Shepherd’s Bush he watched a man in collapsed evening dress sitting asleep at a bus stop, his bow tie hanging limply around his neck, his head by turns slumping onto his chest and jerking him awake. It was eleven, and in another hour or so oddly constituted groups of men and women would start making their way to their Christmas lunches. Usually he liked this time of year, when London steadily relaxed to a slightly drunken stop.

On Holland Park he stood for a long time looking up at Marina’s flat. He had bought flowers around the corner; the florist had suggested lilies. Behind the house ran the high brick wall that Lock had climbed to escape into the park just a week before. Webster imagined the congestion in this quiet street that night: Lock’s bodyguards, Black’s men, the third car, all lined up to keep one poor lawyer in check. The third car should have told him. He shook his head, disgusted with himself.

Had Lock known how much he was fleeing from that night, perhaps he wouldn’t have looked back. If Webster had shown him the unseemly queue of people waiting on his every move, perhaps he would have braved Switzerland, changed his name, made it to some untraceable speck in the Pacific. Gotten away.

But this is where they would have found him. Eventually. Lock was too weak to endure his exile alone forever. As I would be, thought Webster. As any decent man would be. Any sane man. They would have found him through Marina, and the ending would have been the same.

He sighed, and tried to smooth the hair on the top of his head. If I am sane. If I am decent. He checked his tie and walked up the path to Marina’s door.

She buzzed him in without saying anything. As he climbed the stairs he was conscious of how sticky he felt, how grimy from airports and planes and taxis.

Marina was waiting for him on the second-floor landing. She was wearing a plain dress in dark gray and a black shawl. Against the black her skin was the palest white. She wore no makeup and her hair was tied back, so that nothing distracted attention from her eyes: dry, tired, a strange light shining through the green. She held out her hand and he put his suitcase down to take it.

“Mr. Webster.”

“Mrs. Lock.”

“Please.”

He followed her into a living room that overlooked the street. Light-gray sofas, a cream carpet, a console table to the right with photographs in simple silver frames; one of Lock, tanned and smiling, younger, his pale-blue shirt unbuttoned, behind him grass-green trees out of focus; one in black and white of him looking down at a baby bundled in his arms.