Liz said, ‘I sense a “but” coming.’
‘That’s where Jenkins – he’s the chap who’s helping me – came into his own. It seems that about a year ago there was a meeting in Surrey of a group of exiled Russian oligarchs. Jenkins went through the internet with a fine-tooth comb, finding a reference here, a reference there. And the picture he managed to put together suggested the oligarchs discussed their security – what they should be doing to protect themselves from Putin’s henchmen if they came after them. Also – this is the interesting bit – ways in which they could try to destabilise the Russian regime. In particular, they resolved to use their influence to persuade Western governments to keep the pressure up by intensifying sanctions.
‘There’s a bit of guesswork here but it looks as though they realised they needed to use lobbyists and went on to hire some of the best. In the States they used a private company, founded by a former senator. Very discreet, and very influential. Lobbyists have to be registered, but since the company was privately held, very little was known about its activities, or its clients.’
‘Okay…’ said Liz uncertainly, not sure where all this was going.
‘But then suddenly the ex-senator decided to cash in his chips. He sold his lobbying firm to a larger company – one that was publicly held. At which point all sorts of things had to be declared to the shareholders, which in a private company could be kept secret. Like the names of their clients, including the oligarchs paying for the anti-Putin lobbying.’
‘Don’t tell me: Patricov’s name was on the list of clients.’
‘Actually, the name was Nina Todyeva.’
‘Who is?’
‘Mrs Patricov. Todyeva was her maiden name.’
‘Golly,’ said Liz appreciatively. ‘Full marks to your Mr Jenkins.’ He sounded in the same league as Peggy Kinsolving, whose expertise at extracting information online was in Liz’s experience second to none. She said, ‘So much for Patricov’s lack of interest in politics.’
‘Exactly. If he goes to such lengths to hide it, then he really must be afraid of the Putin regime.’
‘What about this man Karpis you mentioned?’
‘He worked for one of Patricov’s competitors in the Russian IT business. Then he fell out with his boss, and Patricov wooed him to come here. As far as we know, he doesn’t have any political affiliations – declared or not. My understanding is he joined Patricov for the money, pure and simple. I doubt he has the faintest idea that his boss is bankrolling an anti-Putin campaign.’
‘Do you know all this just from Jenkins’s combing the internet?’
Pearson smiled. ‘Sometimes you get lucky,’ he said. ‘Patricov hired a local head of security when he moved here. A man called Reilly, ex-SAS. He also happened to stand in as my driver for three months when my regular man was ill. Reilly’s a very solid kind of guy, more than willing to help. And our interests align: we don’t want anything to happen to Patricov and neither does he – it’s what he’s paid for.’
‘That’s a lucky break.’ Liz paused, thinking. Then she said, ‘I wonder if Patricov has stuff on Putin that makes him a particular threat.’
Pearson shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s possible. Hopefully we’ll get a better sense of that tomorrow.’
They both turned down the waiter’s offer of dessert, and Liz found herself stifling a yawn. Pearson laughed. ‘You’ve had a long drive today. We’d better skip coffee,’ he said. ‘I’ll run you back to the hotel. But first I must just say thanks to Mike. It was a pretty good meal, I think.’
‘It was delicious. I’d like to say thanks too.’
As they were getting up from the table Mike appeared in his chef’s hat and striped apron. After much handshaking and the injunction to Liz that she must come again next time she was in Manchester, they managed to escape.
Back in her room at the hotel Liz thought what a pleasant evening it had been. She liked Richard Pearson; she could relax with him and she’d like to get to know him better, but it was hard to see how they could ever see much of each other when they were living two hundred miles apart.
26
Kevin Burgess had been keeping his head down since discovering Karpis with his employer’s wife in the changing rooms. He hadn’t mentioned what he’d seen to his boss, Reilly, nor did he tell him about the trespassing boy in case it led to questions about how the kid had got in and how Kevin had discovered him in the changing rooms as well.
There had been no other incidents since then. As spring began to take hold and the daffodils opened in the garden, the big wooden table and a few chairs were brought out of the gardeners’ shed; on fine days the tea break took place outside under a twisted old apple tree, its buds just showing the first signs of bursting open. There were still plenty of days, however, when rain and a solid wind forced everyone back into the shed, and this was one of them. Kevin had found a place by the stove and was standing sipping his tea, his clothes gently steaming in the warmth, when the mobile in his pocket sprang into life.
Reilly was calling from his office in the big house. ‘Kevin, I need to see you in my office, straightaway. Where are you now?’
‘Just on tea break, Mr Reilly. I’ll come now.’ Taking a final gulp, Kevin plonked his mug on the table and hurried out into the rain. Reilly’s office was at the back of the house and the way in was through the kitchen. Kevin wiped his feet carefully on the mat, nodded through the passage window at the cook, a heavy-set Polish woman who had never been heard to speak a word of English, and went through a pair of swing doors into Reilly’s office, a small square room, formerly the butler’s pantry. It felt warm and cosy to Kevin, coming in from the damp garden.
Reilly looked up from his scrutiny of the security team’s duty rosters. ‘Oh, God. I hadn’t noticed it was raining. Hang your coat up over there. Bloody spring. The sun was shining when I got here. Have a seat.’
Kevin found Reilly rather daunting. He was always friendly enough and he wasn’t a big man, but there was an air of suppressed energy about him – like a spring that might uncoil at any moment. Kevin was envious. He felt sure that Reilly could incapacitate an enemy in seconds, and what’s more, probably had, on many occasions.
Reilly said, ‘I see you’re on your own this morning.’
‘That’s right, boss.’
‘We’re expecting a visitation. The Chief Constable, in fact.’
Burgess raised an eyebrow, and Reilly smiled. ‘He’s not coming to arrest anyone, Kev. It’s a courtesy call, but I expect he’ll want to check our security set-up while he’s here. Someone from the Home Office is coming with him, but you don’t have to worry about them.’
‘Okay. Is there anything special you want me to do?’
‘Not really. But make a recce outside before they arrive, just to be sure everything’s in working order. We don’t want to look silly because we’ve got a duff camera or an unlocked gate.’
Kevin nodded. ‘Okay, boss. Will do. What time are they coming?’
‘About eleven.’
He went first to check the outbuildings, making sure they were locked, then he called into the control room to see that the CCTV cameras dotted around the grounds were all showing a clear picture, and after that walked down to inspect the outer perimeter. He had just rattled the gate in the back wall, glad to find it locked, when he heard someone approaching along the path. It was Karpis, wearing his black leather jacket. He seemed startled to find Kevin there.
Karpis was a tall man, with an aggressive manner. Kevin found him quite intimidating.
‘What are you doing?’ the Russian demanded now.
‘Just checking the gate, sir.’
‘You’re meant to be guarding the house,’ said Karpis suspiciously.
‘Yes, sir. But Mr Reilly asked me to check the grounds as well because Mr Patricov has visitors coming.’
‘Oh. I haven’t been told. What sort of visitors?’
Why didn’t he know? Kevin wondered. He said ne
rvously, ‘I was told it’s the police.’
‘Christ,’ said Karpis wearily. ‘Another local bobby.’ He pronounced it ‘booby’. ‘The last one who came here was a fool.’
Burgess didn’t reply to this. He said instead, ‘And someone’s coming from the Home Office too.’
‘What? Why didn’t you say so?’
Perplexed, Kevin was going to explain that he had only just learned about it, but Karpis was already striding back towards the house.
Kevin was surprised that Karpis hadn’t known of the impending visit. He was in charge of the household even more than Patricov, due to the owner’s many absences; it was hard to believe anything of importance could take place without Karpis’s approval or knowledge. And if Patricov hadn’t told him, then wouldn’t Mrs Patricov have done so? Kevin remembered the voices he had heard in the changing room.
He finished checking the perimeter of the grounds, then walked slowly back towards the house. He’d nip into the camera-monitor room for a minute, he decided, and warm his hands, then stand outside conspicuously on the terrace for the duration of the police visit.
He had just passed the tennis courts and was angling towards the kitchen door when he heard the sound of gravel being disturbed on the apron by the garages. Looking up, he saw one of the Mercedes with Karpis at the wheel, speeding towards the front gates. Where the hell is he going? Kevin wondered, surprised he wasn’t waiting for the policeman to arrive. Karpis wasn’t scared of the police; that much was clear from the dismissive way he’d spoken. So what was the problem? Why would someone from the Home Office send him scurrying off like a scared rat? Kevin shrugged. Maybe the Russian had passport problems.
27
Liz had met Russian oligarchs before and been to their houses. She thought she knew what to expect, as she told Richard Pearson as they were driven to Altrincham. A vastly expensive and probably famous painting by an Impressionist hanging above a hideous pink velvet sofa; eighteenth-century French furniture with curly gold arms and legs; heavy brocade curtains with lots of gold braid and tassels; not to mention a kitchen full of gleaming fridges stuffed with caviar bulging from Lalique bowls the size of a Labrador’s head, and enough foie gras to fill a dustbin bag.
Pearson laughed. ‘I think you’ve had a bad experience. Sergei Patricov is supposed to be quite sophisticated.’
‘Let’s see,’ said Liz. ‘I bet I’m right – though I’ll admit to a bit of exaggeration.’
But Patricov turned out to be very different. He might have a private jet and a willowy blonde wife (neither was in evidence), but the man himself was dressed like an English country gentleman – a real one, not one off the pages of a lifestyle magazine – in a slightly saggy tweed jacket, Viyella shirt, and polished brown brogues. His living room was tasteful rather than grandiose – the paintings on the wall were good watercolours but not recognisable, the furniture was solid antique brown, and the Persian rugs pleasingly worn.
Patricov did not seem at all surprised by Liz’s presence. To him, she supposed, all foreign authorities were much the same: officials to be tolerated and placated. He was charming from the outset, leading them into the long drawing room of the house, offering coffee or tea, waiting patiently for them to explain their business, so he could respond civilly and wait for them to go away.
Which all made Pearson’s task that much harder, thought Liz, as she watched while Manchester’s most senior policeman discreetly moved their polite small talk towards pithier subjects. ‘As you know by now, there are a fair number of celebrities living in this area.’
Patricov nodded. ‘Of course. It is remarkable what a man is paid these days to kick a ball around.’ There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘I have studied the economics of football in your country. It appeals to me both as a game and as a business proposition.’
‘We’re used to advising our more affluent citizens on their security arrangements. They usually find it useful and I like it because it helps to keep the crime figures down,’ Pearson said with a smile.
‘I would be happy for you to look at the arrangements here. I have hired a man who seems to be excellent – a former member of your Special Forces.’
‘Good choice,’ said Pearson.
Patricov turned to Liz. ‘And you, Madam, are from the Home Office?’
‘I am,’ Liz replied. This was a cover she had used many times. If necessary she could discuss the minutiae of the department’s policies and even its internal structures.
‘You are London-based, yes? You have come a long way to see me.’ It was a question really – why was she here?
‘Yes, I have. Recently, I have been visiting prominent émigrés from your country.’ She smiled. ‘Most of them live much closer to London.’
‘Yes. I believe Weybridge is now known as Moscow West.’ Patricov gave a short laugh. ‘What is it you wanted to talk to me about? My papers are all in order, I hope.’
‘I’m sure they are, but that’s not my area. The Chief Constable mentioned security, and he was primarily thinking of your protection from home-grown criminals. But I have another concern: your security from a different and more dangerous type of criminal – those sent here by aspects of the Russian Government. Specifically, we know that some of your compatriots who have come to live here have been pressurised in various ways by agents from Moscow. And, as you know, some have been killed.’
Patricov’s eyes were narrowing now and a slight frown had replaced his smile. ‘So… you must be from your security services. You are talking about dissidents – those who have loudly proclaimed their dislike of our President.’
‘Not only such people. It depends – Moscow seems to define the term “dissident” quite broadly.’
‘Not in my case, I promise you. I am on very good terms with President Putin.’
‘Some of the Russians living here are not on such good terms.’
He looked at her sharply, and spent a moment measuring his response. ‘I know. Inevitably, I have encountered some of them. There are social events, though I usually avoid that sort of thing. We do things for charity, and then we might talk about the things we miss in Russia. We drink a little,’ he said, adding with a little laugh, ‘perhaps not always a little. And sometimes we sing. But that’s all. No politics, at least not when I have been present.’
‘Do you ever go back to Russia?’ asked Liz casually, though it was a key question – anyone under threat wouldn’t dare.
Patricov paused, then said, ‘I have not in fact been back for some time. But you should not attach any importance to that; my business interests are no longer there. I can go back any time I like. Officials may not put a lei around my neck, like they do in Hawaii, but they will be perfectly happy to see me, I assure you.’
Patricov looked at his watch, then pressed a buzzer that hung discreetly on the inner side of his chair arm. Within seconds there was a tap on the door and a man came in. He didn’t look Russian, and Liz guessed this must be Reilly, head of security and acquaintance of Pearson’s.
Patricov introduced them, and Pearson and Reilly acted as if they didn’t know each other. The Russian said, ‘Where is Karpis? I wanted him to escort Mr Pearson around with you.’
Reilly said, ‘He’s gone out, Mr Patricov. One of the guards saw him drive off about half an hour ago.’
‘Really?’ Patricov looked annoyed. He was about to say something but thought better of it. ‘Never mind, I will come too then.’
For the next half hour they had a guided tour of the grounds. Reilly described the regular patrols his staff made; Liz saw one of them standing on the rear terrace looking vigilant – it seemed rather posed. After inspecting the elaborate CCTV system, they watched as Reilly triggered one of the sensors fixed to the rear gate. Pearson and Liz adopted expressions of interest throughout. When they got back to the house Patricov dismissed Reilly, then turned to them. ‘Adequate?’ he asked, with a hint of challenge in his voice.
‘Most impressive,’ said Pearson sole
mnly.
‘You would like to see the monitor-room?’
‘That’s not necessary,’ said Pearson. ‘I know it’s linked to the local police station.’ He looked ostentatiously at his watch. ‘We’ve taken up enough of your time, so unless you have any questions for us, we’ll leave you in peace.’
Patricov nodded and shook hands with them both. ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ he said pointedly to Liz. ‘You may reassure your colleagues in London that this is not a hotbed of political activity.’ He laughed at the patent absurdity of this. ‘Now football is a different matter. There I do have designs,’ he said jovially.
As they drove away, Pearson asked Liz, ‘What do you make of that?’
‘Well, we certainly got the charm offensive.’
Pearson smiled and she went on: ‘But I think there’s something fishy about our Mr Patricov. I don’t buy his protestations of love for the Putin regime. It didn’t ring true, especially with what we know from your chap Jenkins.’
‘I agree. He protested too much. And where was Mrs P? Don’t oligarchs like to show off their wives?’
‘Not this one. He’s a bit smoother than the rest. What I wondered was where his henchman Karpis went, and why. Patricov was as surprised as we were to hear he’d pushed off.’
‘It was almost as if Karpis knew we were coming and didn’t want to meet us.’
Liz said, ‘We must be scarier than we look. Either that or he has something to hide.’
Pearson laughed. ‘Maybe it’s both.’
28
‘…And so Langley would be very grateful if Liz would go to Tallinn to meet him.’
They sat in a spacious room on the second floor of Thames House, since Liz’s usual meeting room on her own floor had already been booked. The view here faced away from the river – in the distance, you could see the chimney pots of a brick block of flats, leased mainly to MPs, and the crown of a large plane tree.
Breaking Cover Page 14
