An Agent of Deceit

by Chris Morgan Jones

  It was while he was dwelling on these questions, wondering whether he should wait for answers before finally conceding that this case was no longer worth the prize, that he received a call from his friend at the travel agency. The news was not about Knight but about Lock: he was booked on flights to Cayman through London, leaving Moscow on Wednesday and stopping in London for two nights on his way back.

  Surveillance consumed everything: time, money, attention. Webster never relished it. While he had an operation running it was impossible for him to concentrate on anything else, and the returns were often meagre: it never told you quite as much as you wanted.

  Today, for now, everything was running smoothly enough. The team had picked up Lock at Heathrow. He had flown in from Cayman with two bodyguards and what looked like a lawyer, probably a Bryson Joyce man, who had said goodbye after Customs and taken the train into town. One of Lock’s men had hired a car; there was some argument with the hire company, and Lock had become agitated by the delay, but eventually a silver Volvo saloon had arrived outside Arrivals and taken him and the remaining bodyguard into London. One of the first text messages Webster received from his team that morning read, in a familiar, flat tone, ‘Enquiries with the Hertz desk established that the gentleman was disappointed not to receive the Mercedes that he believed he had booked.’

  George Black, purveyor of first-rate surveillance and counter-surveillance, had listened to what Webster needed and arranged a team of six: four in a car and two on a motorbike. One woman in the car, one on the back of the bike – a good woman, George had told Webster many times, being an essential part of any successful operation. Black himself was in the car, managing the operation and sending text message after text message to Webster. He was a soldier, or had been, with a career that had straddled special forces and military intelligence. He said little about his past, but what he did say you knew was true, and he had followed many people trickier and nastier than Lock. He was direct, efficient, wholly committed to the job, and better than anyone else Webster had ever tried. But even he lost people now and then.

  Today that didn’t matter, not terribly. Later on Lock would be having dinner with Onder (the hardest part of the operation to set up – Webster had eventually had to blackmail Onder with visions of Lock’s imminent demise to persuade him to come to London) and through him they knew where he would be staying – Claridge’s, in Mayfair. There was no critical meeting that they had to catch, and that made the whole operation less nervy than it might have been.

  Webster’s brief to George was unusual: report how Lock behaves. Is he relaxed or busy? Is he smiling, rushing, hiding? Is he doing Malin’s business or his own?

  The text messages came every ten to fifteen minutes. ‘Subject proceeding east on M4.’ . . . ‘Subject proceeding east on A4.’ . . . ‘Subject approaching Claridge’s along Upper Brook Street.’ Black never abbreviated. Webster tried to deal with his email but was getting little done. In the end he left his office and went for a walk.

  It was the middle of the morning, raining still, and the people of Chancery Lane, having picked up their breakfasts and not yet gone for lunch, were working. Webster could sense the industry around him, in new glass buildings and older concrete blocks, in the offices where the lawyers opined and the accountants added up. No one made anything here. No one sold anything either, except for sandwiches and ties and birthday cards. They calculated, they assessed risk, they checked, they analysed; they disputed, and resolved, and testified; they reported, and then they invoiced. They helped their clients to make money, to avoid losing it, to sidestep drudgery. They did what Webster did, in short. And Lock, he thought. We help others do.

  What was it to be Lock at the moment? Until the summer he must have felt so comfortable. Hammer was right: as Malin’s shield, if that’s what he was, he had had no real shielding to do until now. His path had been easy. He was used to the Russians, knew the companies and the tax treaties by heart, had his regiment of advisers out there to do his bidding. Hammer’s man in the FBI had hinted that Lock had been answering formal questions in Cayman; if that was true, then for him to be sitting across from a policeman – there of all places, where he must have felt most safe, a sanctuary made for him and his type – that must have felt like the end of his world. He must be ready. Surely.

  Webster wandered west into Covent Garden through the insistent rain, his trousers left damp by the short coat he kept hunched about him. His phone buzzed: Lock had checked in to the hotel. He bought a paper and sat in a cafe with a cup of tea waiting for new alerts. For an hour or so, there was no movement. One of George’s team discovered through some sleight of hand that Lock was staying in room 324, a junior suite. Then shortly after noon, a message: ‘Subject leaving in silver Volvo, east on Brook Street.’ Immediately after it came another: ‘Have reason to believe others interested in subject. Please call.’

  Black had been thorough. His people had checked the area around Claridge’s before Lock’s arrival and had noticed an anonymous dark grey Ford with three men in it parked in a mews behind the hotel. The same car was now following Lock east across the city. Black asked Webster whether he wanted to switch to counter-surveillance, which, in the jargon, meant to start following the car following Lock. Webster thought about it. Stick with Lock, he decided, and Black did just that.

  Webster sat with his tea for a long time, then bought another. People began to come in to order their lunch. Lock entered Bryson’s offices in the City at 12.32. The team settled down to wait for him to reappear, but Webster was sure that Lock would be in with the lawyers for at least a couple of hours and would then go back to his hotel.

  That was what happened. Lock returned to Claridge’s in the middle of the afternoon, and didn’t emerge again until the evening, when he left for his dinner with Onder. Webster spent the afternoon writing a report he had been delaying, picking up the odd message from Black and waiting for news of Alan Knight. He would stay in the office for this evening’s programme because he wanted to be close.

  Onder had picked the place, an Italian restaurant near Sloane Square where the waiters knew half the customers by name. He had wanted to know if he should wear a wire and Webster told him it wasn’t that sort of a meeting. Lock was there early, a little before eight, with his unseen caravan close behind him. His bodyguards waited outside in the car.

  Onder was there shortly afterwards. Webster found it impossible to concentrate: if Lock was going to leave it would be in the first half an hour. When it became clear that they were going to finish dinner he began to relax, and after a further hour was rather wishing that the two of them would hurry up. He heard nothing until a little after ten, when George let him know that both individuals had left the premises. Onder called two minutes after that, a little breathless on the line, evidently walking back to his Mayfair house. Webster had been in his office for hours now and his eyes were dry from the blueish fluorescent light. Still no news of Knight. Pizza crusts sat in a box on the floor beside his desk.

  ‘I think I did well,’ said Onder. ‘I like this spying game.’

  Webster laughed but was too tense to be amused. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Well, I think. Not for him, but for you? Very well. He is a scared man.’

  ‘What’s he scared of?’

  ‘You. Malin. The FBI.’

  ‘The FBI?’ That seemed premature. Unless Hammer had been nudging things along again.

  ‘He said that Cayman was OK, not too serious, but they mentioned the FBI.’

  ‘OK. We’re in good company. What did they say?’

  ‘All he said was, now I’ve got to deal with the fucking FBI. I’m quoting.’

  ‘What did he say about Malin?’

  ‘That they do not see eye to eye. He wants Malin to settle but Malin will not. He feels that all Malin wants him for these days is his name. The rest of him is a liability. He did not open up, though. He cannot quite bring himself to say that Malin has him by the balls.’


  ‘What about Gerstman?’

  ‘I mentioned Gerstman. He went quiet. Said he had been a dear friend.’

  ‘And did you talk about us?’

  ‘He did. He said you have been calling everyone he knows and then they call him. He blames you for the press.’

  ‘That’s good. Probably.’

  ‘I said I knew you. Not you by name, but Ikertu. I said you were good guys, that I had used you.’

  ‘Did you talk about an introduction?’

  ‘No. I didn’t. He’s still proud. He wants me to think that he’s a big man. Big men don’t run to people like you.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘About you? Nothing. He just sat. I left a silence. He was thinking about it. Thinking hard I would say.’

  Webster, too, was quiet for a moment. He knew what he needed to know.

  ‘How did you leave it with him?’

  ‘I told him to come to Istanbul and I would take his mind off it. Have some fun. He said he would need an excuse. He looked like he didn’t want fun. He was drinking a lot.’

  ‘Thank you, Savas. That’s good. Thank you. Send me your expenses.’

  Onder laughed, a jolly laugh. ‘That’s all right, Ben. Let us keep it clean between us. I enjoyed it. When Konstantin is begging on the street, send me a picture.’ He hung up.

  Webster had another text from George: Lock was on his way back to the hotel. He looked at his watch. He could be at Claridge’s by half past ten. Why leave it until tomorrow? Lock was tired. He would be dwelling on his conversation at dinner. Probably he was not looking forward to whatever he had to do tomorrow. This was the moment.

  Webster looked out of the window, saw that it was still raining, and took his coat off the back of his chair. He left his office, skipped down the stairs and walked briskly from the building, looking behind him from time to time for a taxi. He found one on Chancery Lane, and it took him through Lincoln’s Inn and along New Oxford Street, the pavements shining yellow in the rain. London was quiet. People walked in twos and threes, heads down. A girl ran across the road with her coat pulled up over her head, her heels skittering in the wet. Webster watched and shivered. Now was the time for him to perform. It was cold but he kept the window open an inch.

  At Claridge’s a doorman in a top hat opened the taxi door for him. Past the black revolving doors the hotel was alight with yellows and pale greens, reflected and absorbed by the white and black check of the marble floor. A fire burned in a grand hearth by empty leather chairs and in the room beyond white roses and lilies in giant vases bloomed. In this impeccable world Webster felt conspicuous, and his mission shabby. He took off his coat, still cold and heavy with rain, and went downstairs to wash his hands. As he did so he looked up at himself in the mirror. That same deceptively honest face. Had Gerstman seen in it any hint of his undoing? More troubling, should Lock?

  He walked back up to the lobby, and then took the grand staircase up through the hotel. At the third floor he turned right and then right again. 316, 318. At the end of this corridor another ran across it. 324 was to the right. As Webster turned the corner he saw a large man with short grey hair standing outside one of the rooms. He was wearing a dark suit with a grey polo neck and stood with his hands clasped in front of him. He looked up at Webster as he passed. Webster gave him a casual glance and walked on, turning into another corridor that opened off this and led back to the stairs.

  A bodyguard outside the room. That meant that Lock was either very important or under guard. It also meant that Lock was inside.

  Webster went to the lobby and asked at reception how he could make an internal call. A bellboy showed him to a bank of phones in a quiet passage. Webster dialled and the phone rang, four times. It had a long ring, like an American line.

  ‘Yes.’ A short yes. Lock sounded irritable. Webster was surprised by his voice. It was rich and full.

  ‘Mr Lock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excuse my calling so late, Mr Lock. This is Benedict Webster. From Ikertu.’ He paused. ‘I was hoping we could talk.’

  Webster heard only silence. He couldn’t even hear breathing. He wondered whether Lock still had the phone by his ear or had let it drop to his side.

  Eventually Lock spoke, not whispering but quietly. ‘How do you know where I am?’

  ‘I’m an investigator. I called the big hotels.’

  ‘How do you know I’m in London?’

  ‘I guessed you’d be here after Cayman.’

  Silence again. ‘Does Tourna know you’re talking to me?’

  ‘No one does. Just my boss.’

  ‘What do you want? It’s late.’

  ‘I think our interests might be more aligned than you think.’ A couple passed Webster and he glanced at them, the man slightly ahead, neither talking. Lock took his time. Onder was right, he was in thinking mode. Before he could think too much Webster said, ‘I’m downstairs. We could meet now.’ Again a pause. ‘If your bodyguard is a problem I could tell you how to lose him.’

  That was too much. ‘We have nothing to discuss,’ said Lock, louder now and stiffer than before. ‘Unless it’s a settlement.’

  ‘Please understand, Mr Lock. Our interest is in Konstantin Malin, not in you.’

  ‘I have nothing to say. Mr Malin is a friend. You have harassed my associates all round the world and dredged up muck where there is none. Now you are harassing me. Goodnight. If you call again I’ll call the police.’ He put down the phone.

  Webster put the receiver back in its cradle and thought for a moment. This was promising. He found the nearest lift and took it to the fourth floor. He walked down one broad corridor, then another, then a third. Outside a room that must have been directly above Lock’s there was a large trolley laden with towels, toilet rolls, notepaper, soaps, bottles of shampoo. The door to the room was open and Webster waited a few yards away for the maid to come out. She was young and thickset, with fair hair tied back in a bun. She closed the door behind her.

  ‘Evening,’ Webster said, walking up to her. The maid turned round. ‘I was wondering whether I could ask a favour?’

  From an inside pocket he brought out a pen and one of his cards and wrote something on its blank side. Then he took an envelope from the trolley, put the card inside and gave the maid two twenty-pound notes.

  ‘Here. Would you give this to the man inside room 324? It’s very important the man outside doesn’t see it. Take it in some towels or something.’

  The maid looked at him doubtfully.

  ‘It’s OK. There’s nothing else in there. Could you do it now?’

  She moved the trolley away from the door of the room and parked it carefully against a wall. Then she walked towards the back stairs. Webster followed her, along the corridor, across the landing and down one flight of stairs. He watched her turn a corner towards Lock’s room and then carried on down to the lobby, out of the hotel and home to wait.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Now they were phoning him. Ikertu knew where he was, they knew where he’d been, and now they were calling him. Perhaps they could tell him what was going to happen to him. He wanted badly to know. What a strange business Webster’s was. The Cayman police he could understand. They had a purpose. But what sort of a person did the bidding of a man like Tourna?

  Lock was half undressed. On his return from dinner with Onder he had taken off his jacket, shoes and trousers and poured himself a Scotch; the gin wasn’t quite working this evening. When Webster had phoned he was sitting on his bed, trying to find a film to watch on television. His body was confused: half of him was four hours east of here, the other half ten hours west, and he had no idea whether he was tired or not. He didn’t want to sleep, though. He needed something to occupy his mind.

  He flicked through the hotel’s on-demand service. No heist films, he thought; no romances, comic or otherwise; no drama either. Mindless action was all he could take.

  Lock looked at the phone in its cradle. What had
Webster wanted, really? To confirm he was in his room? To make him nervous probably. How funny that Ikertu now felt like an irritant; how funny that just a day ago he had still been in Cayman and daring to think that life was not all bad. He would have stayed there, given any chance. Of all the islands in his offshore world Lock had always liked Cayman. It was tiny, a small town; nothing happened there; the weather was always the same. It had a beach that was seven miles long.

  Many years before, Lock had taken Marina to Grand Cayman. He wanted her to see what he saw when he went away, to know how generous the world could be. They stayed at the Ritz-Carlton, a newly built palace by the sea, in a vast suite that overlooked the seven-mile beach. It had two bathrooms and a kitchen that they never used. The walls were a tasteful yellow that sometimes looked like cream, and the French windows, all three of them, had pelmets pleated from some deep red, faintly rustic fabric. On their first morning, awake early with jet lag, they went down to the sea to swim before dawn. As they stepped onto the sand an old man in shorts and a baseball cap ran past; otherwise they saw no one. By the sea’s quiet edge they kicked off their plastic hotel slippers and let their white gowns drop to the sand and ran in together, Lock diving as the water reached his knees, Marina screaming with surprise at its warmth. On the eastern horizon the dawn was a slim line of bronze behind black cloud.

  They spent a week in Cayman, and most of it in the hotel. Every morning they ate breakfast on the terrace – papayas and mangoes, eggs with broiled ham, a basket of bread and cakes that they always left – and then lay on the beach, read, swam in the luminous sea. Marina kept to the shade. She was reading Middlemarch, he remembered, a book he had never finished. He ran in the evenings along the beach, the fine sand making heavy work for his bare feet. At night he could feel the charge between his tanned, dry skin and her cool, pale body, untouched by the sun.

  After three days Marina wanted to get out of the hotel and explore. They hired mopeds and rode along the coast road around three-quarters of the island; on their left in amongst the scrub and the thickets of red birch were hotels and golf courses, on their right only the sea. At Rum Point they stopped at a bar and had sandwiches and cold beer in a low cabin on the white sand. Marina had wanted to carry on and Lock had had to explain to her that the road went no further. That was it. That was the island.