‘You want to know how your father fits in.’ Mark bobbed his head. ‘Well, before I answer that question directly, it would be useful if I could make some enquiries of my own.’
‘Go right ahead.’
‘First of all, at what point did your father tell you about his workfor SIS?’
Mark again rubbed his jaw - it was becoming a reflex - and picked a fork up from the table.
‘After about two or three months.’
‘And he asked you to keep that information a secret?’
‘Sure.’
‘And did you tell anybody?’
‘I did, yeah.’
‘How many people?’
‘Just one.’
‘Your brother?’
‘My brother.’
Taploe was about to say ‘Benjamin’ but he thought better of it.
‘Nobody else?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Not even a friend, Mark?’
‘Not even a friend.’ Mark looked annoyed. ‘What are you getting at?’
Steeling himself, Taploe bounced his moustache into a smile.
‘Nothing unsavoury, I assure you. But you must have found it difficult keeping that sort of information to yourself. A father who was a spy. A member of your own family involved in an organization -‘
‘Mr Randall…’
‘Call me Bob, please…’
‘I don’t know how much you know about my family, but that thought never crossed my mind. I didn’t have anybody I would have wanted to tell. It wasn’t difficult keeping Dad’s past a secret. It was just between me and him and Ben.’
‘Now that’s exactly what I wanted you to say.’
Again Taploe smiled, and mistook the look of irritation on Mark’s face for nerves.
‘What you wanted me to say? I’m sorry, I’m confused. You’re not from British Telecom, you’re not here to do business with the club and you’re not from the police. You askme a lot of questions about my father…’
Taploe leaned backand brought his hands together in a badly stage-managed gesture of conciliation. Stick to the plan, he told himself. Stick to the plan.
‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I was merely trying to conduct what I call a test.’
‘What you call a test,’ Mark echoed flatly.
‘It’s just that I would need you to be similarly circumspect with what I am about to tell you.’
Circumspect. It was a word Taploe had not thought of in years. Appropriate to the requirements of secrecy. Exactly right for the purposes of their conversation. He must remember to use it again.
‘The information I am about to share with you would have to remain confidential. In spite of the fact that it concerns your father, you would not even be able to discuss it with Ben.’
Mark appeared to hesitate, as if reluctant to be drawn in, then nodded, saying, ‘I understand.’ Taploe proceeded to assess the immediate vicinity. There were six other customers in the restaurant, none of them within earshot: two teenage girls ten feet away having a giggly lunch; a young Middle Eastern man by the far wall dropping globs of mince and lettuce from a crunchy taco whenever he brought it to his mouth; three American students at the door making enough noise for a table of eight. No listening threat, in other words, from neighbouring tables.
‘We’re looking into several possibilities,’ he said.
‘There may be a linkbetween your father’s murder and a post-Soviet crime group operating within the United Kingdom. Now I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily, but it’s highly unlikely that your father was simply the victim of a random act of violence.
The nature of the killing, the timing, the location and so forth, all those factors point to another theory.’
Mark took a sip of his lager and nodded stiffly. He was already looking less composed. Taploe hoped the beer would be tasteless, dry and catching in his throat.
‘What about the Foreign Office?’ he asked. ‘Do they have any ideas?’
‘It’s not really for me to speculate,’ Taploe replied, his voice a reedy whisper. ‘Not my area of expertise.’
Mark began to hold his elbow in his right hand, rubbing it, staring blankly around the restaurant. Body language. Had he turned the corner? His food had arrived but he had pushed his plate immediately to one side.
‘We’re working on two suppositions,’ Taploe told him, creating a small cone of salt at the edge of his plate. Something about this pleased him, the exactitude of it. ‘In his capacity as an employee of Divisar Corporate Intelligence, your father was assisting two organizations at the time of his death. Libra, of course, and, latterly, a small private bankin Lausanne. Running checks on large-scale financial deposits originating in St Petersburg. Capital flight, for want of a better term. He may have mentioned it to you.’
Mark shookhis head.
‘No, he didn’t mention it. Didn’t mention anything about it at all.’
‘But it’s possible that your father made contact with these groups on their behalf?’
‘It’s more than possible,’ Mark replied. ‘It’s a certainty. That’s what Dad was employed to do.’
‘And thus the question must be asked: Did he attempt to circumvent protocols imposed by an organized crime group either in Russia or here in London? Did he?’
For a moment Taploe thought that Mark was preparing to answer; he had intended the question to be rhetorical. Jumping in, he said, ‘Now I’m bound to say that I thinkthis is highly unlikely. It would be unprofessional, naive, and extremely dangerous.’ He counted out the adjectives on his fingers - one, two, three - and made a point of looking stern. ‘Furthermore, we’ve found nothing in his records to backup that theory. So -‘ Mark was shaking his head ‘- if your father was doing his job - and we have no reason to believe that he was ever anything other than completely thorough in his affairs - he may have tried to encourage Libra or the Swiss to pull the plug on their operations because of an irregularity with the Russians. But, again, there’s no record of any such concerns in the files at Divisar.’
‘So why the linkwith organized crime?’ Mark asked. The table of Americans suddenly erupted in laughter and he looked across at them, eyeing with irritation a tanned, crew-cut jockwith a pair of Discman head-phones clamped around his neck. ‘What are you getting at?’ he said.
Now Taploe paused for effect, like a bad comic looking for laughs. He was buoyed by the ease of the pitch, by how quickly Mark had turned. The centre of their table was covered in small blue tiles and he tapped one of them in a clipped manner with the bitten nail of his index finger.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What do you actually know about Russian organized crime?’
‘Just what I pickup when I’m over in Moscow.’
‘Well, let me begin by pointing out that the term “Russian mafia” is something of a misnomer. More usually these groups originate from former Soviet republics such as Lithuania and Ukraine. Chechen gangs are particularly high profile in Russia, less so in the UK. But you may already be aware that the men your company have been dealing with in Moscow are of Russian origin. Libra has been negotiating with the Kukushkin syndicate. Am I right?’
‘I don’t have a clue,’ Mark said quietly. ‘I’m not given access to that kind of information.’
‘And who is? Mr Roth? Mr Macklin?’
If he was surprised that Taploe knew their names, Mark did not show it.
‘That would be right, yeah.’
‘Let me fill you in. In August, Thomas Macklin banked two separate cheques for around a hundred thousand US dollars in an offshore company that he had registered in Cyprus a year before. Those cheques were given to him by a known member of the Kukushkin crime syndicate and made out to Pentagon Investments. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Pentagon Investments? Never heard of it.’
‘The payment may have been for any number of things. Services rendered, goodwill money, a piece of London real estate, something relating to business conducted betwe
en the two parties in Moscow or London. We don’t yet know. What would seem most likely, based on our further investigations, is that Macklin and Roth have entered into a clandestine relationship with Viktor Kukushkin in connection with their burgeoning interests in the Russian capital. That is to say, a relationship over and above any protection money usually -‘
To Taploe’s delight, Mark swore under his breath - ‘Christ!‘ - halting him in mid-sentence. He waited several seconds before continuing.
‘… that is to say, the characteristic relationship usually established between organized crime groups in the FSU and overseas companies attempting to do business there. In other words, Mr Keen, your boss is up to something.’
Taploe watched Mark’s face as it registered first astonishment and then a gradual, seeping disgust at what he was being told.
‘Up to something?‘ he said finally. Taploe nodded and lowered his voice.
‘We’ve had both of them under twenty-four-hour surveillance for the best part of six months.’ He failed to mention that Mark himself had been subject to the same level of scrutiny, yet felt no shame at the omission. ‘As a result, we remain convinced that Libra is being used by the Russians as a cover operation for money laundering, drugs smuggling, racketeering and prostitution.’ These were as yet baseless accusations, a list compiled by Quinn simply to frighten Mark into co-operation. Nevertheless Taploe reeled them off with a straight face. ‘What we need is proof. Proof that Roth and Macklin have entered into a mutually beneficial relationship with the Russians which your father accidentally uncovered and for which he was killed.’
Mark appeared to be staring at the paintworkof the restaurant, as if the sweeping waves of orange were making him feel nauseous and confused.
‘You really think that’s true?’ he said. ‘You really think that’s what happened?’
Taploe knew that he could play on his rage, on his adulation for Keen. He wanted Mark to feel disgust, then the tremor of excitement at his first glimpse into a clandestine world, the thrill of the son initiated into his father’s secret trade. Above all, Taploe had to lead him to a point where refusal would cease to be an option.
‘Mr Keen,’ he said and, for a moment, thought about reaching across and touching Mark’s shoulder, just for added effect. ‘I can understand that it must be very hard for you to hear these things about people you have worked alongside for so long, about people you undoubtedly trust. These men are friends of yours, after all. But the reality is that you are most probably working for a company which is laundering money for the Russian mafia.’
Mark again shookhis head. ‘How does that work?’ he said. ‘How does that work? I hardly know anything about the Kukushkins. What the fuck are they doing in London anyway?’
Taploe sniffed.
‘Well, you see, that’s what I need your help in finding out.’
‘My help?’
‘Yes.’ Taploe looked over Mark’s shoulder as the two teenage girls stood up and walked out of the restaurant. One of them dropped a generous tip, a note, on to the table. ‘We need somebody on the inside, somebody close to Roth and Macklin who can find out what’s going on. You have access to confidential papers, to computer software, travel arrangements, tax returns, everything we require to build a watertight legal case. I need as much of that as I can get my hands on and I need it quickly. Now, can you help me?’
Taploe made it sound like a personal crusade. When he had pitched Mark’s father, the circumstances had been very different. The guilt, his loyalty to the old firm. But Mark would be lured by a sense of right and wrong. Taploe was convinced now that the target could not reasonably refuse.
‘I know it’s a lot to ask,’ he said, risking understatement, ‘but I’m sure you’re just as anxious as I am to bring these men to…’
Mark was holding up his hand.
‘No, it’s not that,’ he said.
‘What then? We can pay you, of course. If that’s a problem.’
This was a mistake. Mark looked disgusted.
‘Pay me?’ he said, and Taploe saw that he had moved too quickly. Panic engulfed him and he felt his thighs tighten under the table. ‘I don’t want your money. If I help you, I’ll do it because of my father. I don’t want to be paid for trying to find out who killed him.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Fine.’ He tried to smile. ‘But nevertheless the idea interests you…?’
Mark looked down at his food, now lukewarm and congealed. A hard seal of oil had formed on the mince, on the shreds of tired, moisture-seeping lettuce gradually collapsing into rice. It was a dreadful silence.
‘Yes, it interests me,’ Mark said finally, and Taploe felt a surge of relief. ‘But we’ll need to talkmore. To clear up how I go about it. I can’t just start snooping around the offices without knowing what I’m looking for, without knowing what to do.’
It was music to his ears. Mark was complying on instinct, allowing his anger to make a judgment for him, conscious only of his rage at Macklin and Roth, and ashamed at how easily they had duped him.
‘Who else knows about this?’ he asked.
‘Nobody,’ Taploe replied, hardly aware of the question. ‘You’re the only person, Mark, the only person. And it has to stay that way. You understand that you can talkto nobody about this? Not even to Ben?’
‘Yes,’ Mark replied impatiently. ‘Yes, I understand that.’
‘Then good. So perhaps before we go any further I can lay down some ground rules.’
26
One of the happier corollaries of a stubborn nature is that it makes tough decisions easier to stick to. Ben woke after his first decent night’s sleep in weeks and concluded that enough was enough. For too long he had been adrift in the consternation of grief: it was time to get his life back on track. He would call Mark, fix to meet him for a drink, apologize for what had been said at the flat in Paddington - and accept his offer of a share in Keen’s will. The money would do him good. Twenty grand to spend on organizing the exhibition, on taking Alice away on holiday, buying himself a new suit and maybe fixing up the car. What was the point in taking a stand against a dead man? Nobody respected him for it. Better to embrace the future, as Mark had suggested. Better to concentrate on his work, on his marriage, and to put the past behind him.
To that end, Ben left the house at eight thirty and drove through rush-hour traffic to CorkStreet, where there were three or four galleries that had expressed an interest in showing his paintings. He was not used to making such an early start. While his friends would wake up at six or seven and make their way on slow, packed trains to offices spread out across London, the rhythm of Ben’s mornings was quite different. He would set the alarm for eight - later, if he had been out the night before - and then snooze until nine or sometimes ten. Alice would be long gone by then, to the gym and on to the Standard or a meeting in town. He would make coffee, run a bath, amble out to buy a paper or croissant, and only think about going up to his studio as the morning was drawing to a close. That still left time, after all, to put in a seven- or eight-hour day, and anyway, he felt at his most creative in the afternoons and early evenings. This was the routine that best suited his temperament and it had served him well for years.
Today, however, was different. Today felt like a new dawn. It was as if a bubble had burst inside his life, the liberation he had spoken of to Mark. Heading east, Ben stared at the drivers of other cars as if for the first time: cabbies pontificating into their rear-view mirrors; electricians in rusty vans with tabloids furled on the dashboard; salesmen pale as clouds turning tuning dials on radios. Ben had the odd sensation that he was seeing the world with fresh eyes, and weighing up his place in it. The feeling of being completely alone, orphaned in a literal sense, was at once very acute and yet not in itself alarming.
Making a left turn into Mayfair, he spotted Roth. Ben’s eyes just settled on him, coming to a halt at the lights. He was eating breakfast in the window of a branch of Starbucks, a cup of coffee in his
hand. Even at a distance of fifty feet, success emanated from him like a suntan. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and eating what looked like a pain au chocolat. A silk tie was slung up over his shoulder, doubtless to protect it from stains, and he was not alone. At the stool beside him sat a woman whom Ben thought he recognized. A slim, late-thirties blonde, not quite attractive, yet professional and striking. Where had he seen her before? The lights were changing and he thought about pulling the car to the side of the road to get a better look, but a bus was tight on his tail and Ben was forced away in the traffic. It was starting to annoy him. They had not looked like lovers: on reputation she was too old for Roth, who preferred younger women, models and dancers from the clubs. She had a briefcase at her feet and appeared to be writing things down. Where had he met her? Where had he seen her before?
He was already on Cork Street by the time he remembered. McCreery’s house. The wake. Coming inside from the rain, and a woman passing them in the hall.
‘Well, that was nice,’ Alice had said. ‘What a fucking cow.’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘I don’t believe it. I just met that woman five minutes ago and she blanks me, the death stare from hell.’
The Hidden Man (2003) Page 14
