His breathing was short, his heart beating wildly. He looked up and down the street. He could see no one. He opened the man’s overcoat and went through his pockets. Euros, cigarettes, the car key. A knife. From his belt hung a holster and a matt-black pistol. No papers of any kind. Webster took the gun and the knife and pulled himself up against the car, panting, his trousers stiff with cold and ice. He picked up his bag and set off towards the canal, as quickly as he could, stopping only to slash two of the Mercedes’ tyres and take a note of its number plate on his phone. The street was clear.
As he walked, quickly, almost a run, checking over his shoulder to make sure the man hadn’t revived, he looked at the gun. It was a Makarov, a Russian make. That was no surprise. What was puzzling was why the man had attacked him: it made no sense. Crossing the canal he threw the gun far out into the water where the ice had yet to form. I’m the only link they have to Lock, he thought. Why not simply follow me? Because I knew who he was, and I wouldn’t have let him.
He found a phone. He was still out of breath, and exhilaration was giving way to cold. Pulling his collar up, he leaned against it and dialled Hammer’s number. It rang only once.
‘Lock’s safe. I don’t know how. I think they slipped him something. I’m picking him up now. Look, I need you to find us a bolt-hole. Somewhere not too far from Berlin where no one would think of looking.’
‘Why don’t you just come home?’
‘Because I think we can end this here. I’ll explain later. I’ll call in half an hour.’
It took him five minutes to find a cab. Inside the heater was blowing and it was hot and dry. He gave the address and opened his window an inch. The driver – middle-aged, Turkish – drew his scarf around his neck and asked him if he was crazy, letting the cold in on a night like this. Did he want to kill him? Webster shut the window and looked out at Berlin. Mitte was busy. Just after nine on a Friday night. Everyone seemed young here. Frau Werfel aside, Webster couldn’t remember seeing a single old person in the city.
The cab drove north, past the Adlon, past the Hauptbahnhof. Eventually it pulled in to the side of the road. ‘Wir sind hier,’ said the driver. ‘Gartenplatz.’ Webster asked him to wait and got out. An immense gothic church rose up in black over the square. In the darkness he couldn’t see Lock and he could feel his breath quickening again, but then he spotted him at the other end of the road, propped against a lamp post.
‘Richard,’ said Webster, walking up to him. Lock’s eyes were closed. ‘Richard.’ Lock didn’t respond. What had they done to him? Webster touched his arm. ‘Richard, are you OK?’
Lazily, Lock opened his eyes. He blinked twice and pulled his head back a little as if unable to focus.
‘Richard, it’s Ben. Come on. You must be freezing. I’ve got a cab. Come on.’ He put his arm round Lock and guided him carefully to the car, Lock struggling to keep his head upright. ‘Jesus, what have they given you?’ Lock didn’t reply. Webster opened the door and eased him inside, his hand protecting his head.
‘Is he drunk?’ said the driver.
‘He’s not well.’
‘Is he going to be sick?’
‘He’ll be fine. Can I borrow your phone?’
The driver turned to look at Webster.
‘You don’t have a phone?’
‘No. I need to borrow yours. It’s a short call. I’ll give you a big tip.’ The driver shrugged his shoulders and passed his phone back behind him.
Hammer had found a guest house in Wandlitz, twenty miles north of Berlin. Lock slept, leaning against the door of the car. With his head hanging on his chest he looked like a wooden posing doll slumped on a shelf. Webster watched him, chastened. This wasn’t the man he’d been pursuing. That man was a cipher: a name on documents, a picture in magazines, a series of assumptions about his kind. This man breathed. He had weight and form. His face showed that he had loved and feared. On this cold night Webster felt finally awake.
The place wasn’t easy to find, and the driver missed it twice before Webster spotted the tiny sign pointing between two large villas. They drove down a narrow drive overarched with bare lime trees and pulled up in front of a large white house lit by two floodlights.
Webster got out of the car. It was no longer snowing, the wind had dropped and the air was pure and heady, alpine. The moon was a day or two short of full but by its light he could make out beyond the floodlights a sailing boat and a jetty held firm by sparkling grey ice. For a second he was thrown; this couldn’t be the sea. No, of course; this was one of the lakes. Wandlitzsee. He had heard of it. From somewhere in the dark he could hear the steady cracking of water freezing at the furthest edge of the ice. To his right, white ice in layers on the shore reflected the moon in clusters of pinprick lights.
Hammer had called ahead. Heaven knows what he had said but the proprietor of the Villa Wandlitz could not have been more obliging. He introduced himself as Herr Maurer, took the bag and, while Webster paid the driver, helped walk Lock into the house. When Webster began to explain that his friend was ill, that he had a migraine, Herr Maurer said that he knew, that this was a shame and he hoped Herr Webster’s friend would be feeling better come the morning. He didn’t want to know about credit cards or passports or anything else. Instead he took two keys from behind the reception desk, showed Webster and Lock into the lift and took them to adjoining rooms on the first floor. Breakfast was from seven until nine, but if they wanted to sleep late he would be very happy to make something specially for them. He didn’t even seem to notice Webster’s filthy clothes or the blood dried on his temple. Webster thanked him and said goodnight.
He took Lock’s coat off and draped it over a chair. It gave off a faint smell of vomit that he hadn’t noticed before. He shuffled him over to the side of the double bed, turning him round and letting him collapse onto it, took off his shoes and folded the duvet over him.
‘Do you want some water?’
With his eyes shut Lock frowned tightly and shook his head. Webster filled a glass from the bathroom tap and set it down on the bedside table. He left the bathroom light on and the door open between their two rooms.
For some time he sat in his room in the dark, looking out of the window at the moon and the lake. He should go downstairs and borrow Herr Maurer’s computer to look at Gerstman’s files. He should call Hammer. He should call Elsa. More than anything else he should work out how to make this end well. There was a way, he was sure, slowly forming in his mind.
He looked at Lock. What was going through his head at the moment? Nonsense, with any luck. Or nothing. He went to the bathroom and inspected his wound. A patch of brown hair stuck down gave it away; otherwise you wouldn’t notice. It would wait till tomorrow, and so would everything else.
Elsa woke him. Through his dreams he slowly made out the buzz of his phone as it skittered across the bedside table. He answered it full of sleep.
‘Hello.’ There was pain behind his eyes. He remembered his head.
‘You’re there. Why didn’t you call last night?’
He sat up a little against the pillows. There was a small patch of dried blood on the sheets.
‘I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t get in till late. I thought you’d be asleep.’ Through the curtains he could see sunshine. It must be late.
‘Then send me a text.’ A pause. ‘I called but it went straight to voicemail.’
‘That’s strange.’
‘I was worried.’
‘I know. I’m an idiot. Sorry.’
Neither said anything. Webster could hear voices in the background, the radio. I should have called; that was stupid.
Elsa spoke first. ‘When are you coming back?’
‘I wish I knew. Could be today. Could be as late as Tuesday. I think I’ll know today.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Everything’s fine. How is everyone?’
‘Playing upstairs. Nicely for the time being.’ Elsa was quiet for a moment. ‘You’ve had a stran
ge letter. It’s addressed to Saint Benedict Webster, care of the Websters. It’s sitting staring at me.’
‘How big is it?’
‘A4, a normal envelope.’
‘Where’s it from?’
‘Oslo. Sent yesterday.’
‘Odd. I don’t know what that is. I’ll deal with it when I get back.’
‘I don’t like it. It’s like an unexploded bomb.’
‘Unless it’s big and fat it’s not a bomb. You’re going nuts.’ He paused. ‘Send it to Ike.’
‘I’d rather open it.’
‘OK, that’s fine – open it.’
He heard her put the phone down. He began to think about the day; he had to look through Gerstman’s documents, talk to Hammer, talk to George. He should get up. The line was still quiet.
‘What is it?’
‘Jesus, Ben. Oh, Jesus.’ Her voice caught as she said it.
‘What is it? Tell me.’
‘I knew there’d be more of this shit. Why are they sending this here? Who the fuck is doing this?’
‘What? You have to tell me.’
‘It’s . . .’ Elsa took a breath, collected herself. ‘It’s a photograph of a body. A woman’s body. On a table. Her throat has been cut.’
Webster felt sick. His mouth was dry. He wanted to scream with rage.
‘The bastards. The fucking bastards.’ He got out of bed, went into the bathroom and smacked the wall hard with the flat of his hand. He looked down at the sink, his forehead against the mirror.
‘I’ll have Ike come and pick it up. You shouldn’t have seen that. I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s Inessa.’
He couldn’t say the word at first. ‘Yes. It’s her.’ It was as if they had dug her up. For more abuse. He took a deep breath, and another.
‘Are you OK?’ said Elsa.
‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’ More breaths. Don’t let them affect you. Don’t let them in. ‘It’s you I’m worried about.’
‘I’ve had enough of this. I don’t want these people in our lives.’
Webster said nothing. His head was full of noise. For a moment neither said anything.
‘There’s something else,’ said Elsa.
‘What do you mean?’
‘In the envelope.’
‘What is it?’
‘A cutting. From the FT. “Russian metals group lists in London”.’
GMK. Generalny Metalligurchesky Kombinat. Which still owned the aluminium plant in Kazakhstan, and a dozen like it across Russia and beyond. What was it doing there? What obscure message did it hold?
‘You’ve got to come home.’
Not now. Especially not now. He sighed and closed his eyes tight. ‘I can’t.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I can’t. You know what that says? That poison? It says we know you so well, piece by piece, that we can do what we want with you. It’s meant to make me scared. To lose it. Well, it won’t work. It won’t fucking work.’
‘It scares me.’
‘I know, baby, I know. But believe me they are not going to do anything. This is easy for them. They just send a letter. There’s no comeback. Nothing is going to happen.’
‘They sent it to our home.’
‘So that you’ll persuade me to give up. Same with the email. I’ll have someone sit outside the house.’
‘I just want it to stop.’
‘I’m going to make it stop.’
‘Come home.’
‘I can’t. Not now. This has to end.’
It was noon and the sun had some warmth in it by the time Lock woke. Webster was outside sitting on a bench by the lake with his eyes closed, his face to the light, his thoughts scattered. He had never seen those pictures. He assumed they were from the morgue in Oskemen; there had never been a post-mortem. The package had unsettled him, not because it had scared Elsa, though that was the worst thing about it, but because he didn’t know what it meant. The email had been a simple warning; this was not only darker but less clear. Did it mean that Malin knew what had happened to Inessa? That Webster never would? Perhaps it was merely a display of knowledge and power. Perhaps all it said was: I understand you; I know the pain you have known; I can create more at will.
But it didn’t scare him. Nor did the man who had sent it, or the ease with which he could picture his dead eyes and his dark will, his unnatural world narrowed to a single point of malice. For ten years he had challenged himself to imagine that mind, and now that he was confronted by it, now that he thought he recognized it again, its horror had been robbed of all its force. No. What scared him was his own power to corrupt, to imperil. If it weren’t for his silent obsession, Gerstman would be alive and Lock would be where he once was, compromised but safe. And what scared him more was that even now he couldn’t stop. He still had work in Germany: one last idea.
He heard footsteps on the gravel and looked up. A haggard Lock was making his way slowly towards him.
‘Good morning,’ said Webster, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Lock, squinting around him. His eyes were grey shot through with red. ‘Where are we?’
‘Wandlitzsee. I brought you here last night.’
‘After the hotel?’
‘After the hotel.’
Neither said anything.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Awful. My head feels like it’s been minced.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not in the least. I want air. And water.’ He sat down on the bench and with effort crossed his legs. He groaned. ‘What happened?’
‘I got hit on the head. You disappeared. Four hours later I get a call from you and you’re in the Adlon with their head of security.’ Webster waited for Lock to supply the rest but he said nothing. ‘I’m sorry. I failed you. I should have realized how serious they were.’
Lock gave a small nod. His skin was grey, 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 tyre, then nothing. I can remember a man with a moustache, 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 honoured 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 wante
d,’ 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 towards 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.’
An Agent of Deceit Page 28
