The Hidden Man (2003)

by Charles Cumming

  ‘We just find Google and type in the name of the town. What was it? Where did the letter come from?’

  ‘What’s Google?’

  ‘Forget it. Where did the letter come from?’

  ‘Cornish. New Hampshire,’ Ben said. ‘Somewhere in New England.’

  The connection was fast. Within three seconds a screen had appeared, saying: New Hampshire Online. NH City Guides.

  ‘Now we find the phone number. Then we call the local post office and say that it’s an emergency.’

  ‘Is that what you do at work? Lie and make stuff up?’

  Alice didn’t reply. Ben could feel the light heave of her shoulders, the gradual uncurling of her spine as she breathed.

  ‘Welcome to New Hampshire,’ she said, reading aloud from the screen in a cod American accent. ‘What do you want to know about? Local restaurants? Ski conditions? Where do you wanna go today?’

  Another screen appeared, a long list of cities and towns. Alice scrolled through them and clicked ‘Cornish’.

  ‘So we just lookhere,’ she said, another page loading. ‘Legal services. Libraries. Fire Departments…’

  ‘Post Offices!’ Ben exclaimed, pointing at the bottom of the screen.

  Alice smiled, muttered ‘Bloody artists’ and clicked the icon. There was a single Post Office listed for Cornish. She wrote down the telephone number on the back of a gas bill and shut off the connection.

  ‘Do you want me to call them?’

  ‘Yeah, you do it,’ Ben said. ‘You lie better than me. You’re a journalist.’

  Alice seemed to take this as a compliment. There was a phone beside the computer and she dialled the number.

  ‘They’re five hours behind,’ she murmured as the number connected. ‘It’s about two in the afternoon. Hello?’

  A woman at the Post Office had picked up. She said, ‘Post Office, good afternoon. How may I help you?’

  Alice curled a loop of hair behind her ear and touched Ben’s arm. He pressed his ear close to the phone in order to hear what was being said.

  ‘I’m trying to get in touch with one of your customers. He has a PO Box registered at this address. A Mr Robert Bone. My name is Alice Keen. I’m calling from London.’

  The woman tookan unusually long time to respond. Ben heard her cough and say, ‘Could you repeat that name for me please?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a Mr Robert Bone. He sent a letter to my husbandhere in London, but there was no return address.’ Alice made her accent sound polished, more upperclass. ‘We need to get in touch with him as a matter of urgency.’

  Another pause. Then, ‘May I askif you’re a family member?’

  At first, neither of them understood the significance of the question.

  Alice said, ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s just that we’ve had a lot of enquiries recently about Mr Bone from the United Kingdom.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not a family member. Neither of us is.’ Ben was frowning. He tookthe telephone from Alice’s hand and said ‘Hello?’

  More silence. He wondered if the woman had left her deskto lookfor more information. Then Ben heard movement on the line, a different voice, a man.

  ‘Hello, miss?’

  ‘No, this is Benjamin Keen. You were just talking to my wife…’

  ‘Yes sir. That’s right. To your wife. I understand that she was looking for Bob?’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t know if your colleague explained, but we’re calling from London and -‘

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but we’ve had a shooting here. Almost three weeks ago now. Bob was killed out at his house. You didn’t hear about it? Did nobody thinkto let you know?’

  43

  From time to time, Stephen Taploe would lie to his agents, present a more optimistic view of an operation than was realistically the case. He did it to maintain their trust. He did it to keep them onside. Running a joe was a delicate art and he had been taught long ago that it was acceptable to manipulate the truth if an officer had one eye on the long-term gain.

  So Taploe had lied to Mark about Timothy Lander. He hadn’t asked SIS to track him down because MI5 had done so themselves two weeks before, using phone records obtained from Divisar. In fact he had never wanted SIS to play any role in the Kukushkin investigation, for fear that he would lose control of the case, and out of a more personally motivated concern that they would discover that Christopher Keen had been an agent for MI5. Keen’s dealings with the Swiss bankhad also provided a convenient smokescreen which Taploe had used to lure Mark into co-operation; there was no evidence atall that Kukushkin or any other syndicate had funds lodged in Lausanne. Furthermore, in the cab Taploe had failed to disclose his intention to recruit Juris Duchev; Mark’s suggestion that he try to do so had been merely a coincidence. For seven weeks, Service analysts had been weighing up the risks of running the Latvian. On Sunday, Taploe had made his pitch.

  The team had Duchev’s routine down pat. He was up at six every morning, usually switched on the television in the sitting room of his flat, cursed in his native tongue as he tooka shower, then rang his daughter in Jelgava to catch her before she went off to work. Between five past and ten past seven he would walkfifty metres to a greasy spoon down the road and find a seat in the window. It turned out that Duchev had a fondness for British breakfasts. Thelma, who had run the cafe for fifteen years, knew him on sight and knew his order: plenty of black pudding, a heap of baked beans, two sunny-side fried eggs, at least three porksausages, several rashers of bacon and a pair of pip-oozing fried tomatoes. Duchev ate it all up, wiping his plate clean day after day with margarine-smeared pieces of toast. ‘You better get to him quick, boss,’ Ian had joked. ‘We’re not careful, he’ll be dead from a heartattack before he’s any use to us.’

  Taploe had waited in the cafe from six forty-five on Sunday morning, flicking through the dreck and betrayals of the News of the World. Duchev appeared half an hour later, washing his breakfast down with three cups of Thelma’sindifferent and scalding coffee. Ian had the van outside - just for observation - but it had proved surprisingly easy to strike up conversation and to take Duchev for a walk around Shepherd’s Bush and to let him know that he was being watched around the clockand that he would find himself doing time unless he gave Her Majesty’s Government his full co-operation. Taploe knew all about the land in Andalucia, you see - a last-minute bonus from Mark- and all about the Bosnian prostitute in ParkWest Place that Duchev was banging and beating up behind Tamarov’s back. Taploe didn’t let on about Macklin, of course, nor profess any knowledge of the Libra conspiracy. It was enough to imply that his days as a criminal underling were numbered. He was offered a generous cash sum in return for his co-operation - and advised to keep his mouth shut.

  Forty-eight hours later, the timing of Taploe’s pitch would form the subject of intense discussions at both Thames House and Vauxhall Cross. Why, for instance, had Taploe risked alerting a senior figure in the Kukushkin organization to a law enforcement presence without a cast-iron guarantee that Duchev would turn? Why, furthermore, had he attempted to recruit the Latvian just as Mark was cementing his relationship with Tamarov on Monday night? Hauled before a grey-faced committee of his superiors, Taploe would later be asked to account for every minute of the weekend, beginning with the journey by cab he had taken with Mark and Ian on Saturday morning, and ending with the events of Monday night. Time and again he insisted that every precaution had been taken. Tamarov had confirmed the venue for the dinner as the St Martin’s Lane Hotel on no fewer than three separate occasions. The position of his reserved table had been established and steps taken to secure that specific area of the restaurant for sound. A separate table, occupied by Service personnel, had also been reserved for observation. Mark had agreed to travel to the meeting by car and to have his own vehicle wired on the understanding that he would offer the Russian a lift at the end of the evening and attempt to start a conversation about Macklin. Ian Boyle had been assign
ed to tail the vehicle from Mark’s flat in Torriano Avenue.

  Little of this made any impression on the members of the panel, who sensed blood and seemed determined to bring Taploe down. Something of an i-dotting, t-crossing bureaucrat himself, it nevertheless occurred to Taploe that something reductive in human nature emerged within the context of institutions. Normally sympathetic, sound-minded colleagues appeared suddenly to revel in his misfortune.

  It was as if his peers derived as much satisfaction from the suffering and collapse of one of their own as they would from the successful arrest and conviction of a hardened criminal. Either development, after all, could be termed progress, of one kind or another.

  44

  Ben worked it out inside ten minutes.

  Robert Bone had been dead for three weeks. The CIA, alerted to the murder, had obtained access to Bone’s house in New Hampshire and found a copy of his letter to Ben on a PC or word processor. SIS had been alerted immediately and the linkto Keen’s death established. Teams - perhaps from Special Branch - were then dispatched to obtain the original version of the letter from Elgin Crescent and the second copy posted to Mark’s flat in Torriano Avenue. That was why Mark had never received the letter; that was why the original had gone missing from the shoebox in the studio. SIS had then instructed McCreery to convince Ben that Bone’s theory about Kostov was a deception spun by the Americans. The meeting at the British Museum had been engineered: McCreery had waited until Ben was alone and then coolly plied him with Guinness and lies. SIS were covering up, trying to disguise the fact that a renegade KGB officer was killing its former associates and employees. McCreery had known all along who was responsible for his friend’s murder, yet he had concealed the truth to protect the public reputation of British Intelligence.

  What Ben could not work out, however, was any link between Kostov and Kukushkin. Nor was it clear what Bone had done to trigger such an act of vengeance. Ben assumed that the CIA had also been involved in Mischa’s recruitment, but it was a question to which he felt he would never know the answer. It was possible that Bone’s death was simply a coincidence, a random act of American violence visited upon the wrong man. Not for the first time Ben felt weighed down by ignorance, embarrassed both by his slender grasp of the facts and by the ease with which McCreery had duped him.

  Towards nine o’clock, out of simple expedience, he decided to tell Alice about his brother’s workfor MI5. At first her reaction to the news was measured and sanguine. Sitting by an open window in the kitchen, a draught of winter air goosepimpling her skin, Alice listened very quietly as Ben documented the extent of Macklin’s involvement with Russian organized crime and seemed pleased that Roth would almost certainly suffer as a consequence of it.

  ‘He knows nothing about this,’ she said, with a conviction that annoyed Ben. ‘When he finds out, he’s going to go crazy.’

  Ben asked her how she could be so sure, and she barely skipped a beat.

  ‘Just from talking to him. I get the impression Macklin pretty much runs Libra nowadays. Seb’s too busy with other projects.’

  ‘What kind of other projects?’

  ‘Well, the restaurant I was writing about, for a start.’

  ‘But Macklin’s involved in that too.’

  ‘Only in a legal capacity. Tom’s just a partner.’

  They sat in the kitchen over a supper of takeaway pizza and flat bottled Coke. Ben enjoyed the process of knitting things together, of finding their structure and shape. At one point he put his elbows on the table and seemed to draw an idea out of the air.

  ‘You should write about this,’ he said, ‘about all the shit that Libra are up to. You should write about Kostov, about the whole fucking thing. That’s what they fear. That’s what SIS will stop at nothing to prevent. It might really help your career.’

  Alice only shrugged in response and moved uncomfortably in her chair, as if something were digging into her back.

  ‘Something just occurred to me,’ she said. ‘SIS can’t know anything about this. They can’t know about Kukushkin’s involvement with Libra. And Randall probably has no idea that Kostov is going around killing MI6 agents.’

  ‘Explain.’

  Alice started kneading the flesh in the palm of her hand, as if it would somehow help her to think.

  ‘It’s simple. If McCreery knew what Macklin was up to, if he was aware that Kukushkin was laundering money through Libra, he could have blamed your father’s murder on the Russian mafia. That’s the obvious line MI6 would have taken.’

  ‘But what about Bone’s letter?’

  ‘That’s just what I’m saying. When you were talking to McCreery in the pub, why didn’t he tell you about Macklin’s links to the mob? That would have been the perfect response to the Kostov story. It would have taken you right off the scent. But instead he blames a diving instructor in the Cayman Islands and some random private bank in Lausanne.’

  Ben was nodding, searching for a flaw in the theory. ‘And Randall?’

  ‘Same thing.’ Alice stood up. ‘Randall doesn’t know about Kostov. And he’s never even heard of Mischa. McCreery’s people are keeping this to themselves. The last thing SIS want is MI5 laughing at them. They must be going crazy trying to track Kostov down.’

  Ben was amazed by the simplicity of it. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘And Mark wasn’t going to say anything to Randall because he didn’t believe Bone’s letter, especially when he heard what McCreery thought about it. He thought the whole Kostov thing was bullshit.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Alice walked into the sitting room, looking for cigarettes. ‘We have to tell your brother,’ she said.

  ‘He’s not returning my calls. I already tried three times.’

  ‘Then leave him another message. The sooner he finds out about this, the better.’

  45

  But Mark was already on his way to the St Martin’s Lane Hotel and steadfast in his refusal to speakto Ben. It had been a mistake to involve him in his work for MI5. Drawn at last into something more complicated than the application of paint to a canvas, little brother had waded way out of his depth.

  Mark’s attitude seemed justified when he listened to the tone of Ben’s first telephone message just after six o’clock. He was walking in the door from Libra and ignored the call when he noticed its origin as Elgin Crescent. The subsequent message, played aloud into the sitting room, was a rushed and word-swallowing garble about ‘fucking Jock’ and ‘Sudoplatov’ and it angered Mark that Ben had carelessly mentioned their names on a land line. Two hours later, after sending no fewer than three text messages urging Mark to ‘CALL ME’, Ben telephoned again, but Mark was shaving in the bathroom with the radio on and the news of Bone’s death passed him by.

  He regretted his confession in the garden; everything had been simpler before Ben’s inexpert participation. Prior to Wednesday, Mark had thought of his work for Randall as a private, dignified tribute to his father’s memory, and he was annoyed with himself for having lacked the courage to continue that task in secret. At least tonight he had the opportunity to meet Tamarov alone and to develop their relationship free of Ben’s interference.

  Taploe had made his final contact at seven thirty to ensure that Mark was set. As had been the case on Sunday, he again avoided mentioning that Ian would be tailing Mark’s car to the meeting, and had said nothing about the Watchers who would be positioned across from Tamarov’s table in the St Martin’s Lane Hotel. This was standard operational procedure: he didn’t want Mark second-guessing the position of MI5 staff while the meeting was in progress.

  ‘Rest assured we’ll be keeping a close eye on you all the way in,’ he said. ‘Just go where Tamarov takes you, don’t try to rush anything along. It’s important that you appear amenable without seeming eager or greedy. Remember, he sees you as essential to Kukushkin’s long-term success. Accept his offer of a job, but askthe right questions about control and hierarchy. Tell him you need a break after what has happened to your fat
her and that Roth will understand your situation.’

  At ten past eight, Mark picked out his favourite Hayward suit and then, as a conscious expression of his duty to Keen, a pale blue Brooks Brothers shirt which had belonged to his father. It fitted perfectly, tailored as if for the same two bodies. In a further moment of conscious sentiment, Mark then selected a pair of silver cufflinks that his mother had given him as a twenty-first birthday present. He had fifty minutes to reach the hotel for the nine o’clock appointment, and time for a beer in the sitting room before walking to the car. There was no sense in being rushed.

  He was turning on the television when Tamarov contacted his mobile. Glancing at the display, Mark felt a thud of worry that he was calling to cancel the dinner. Muting the TV, he put his drink on the floor and said, ‘Vladimir?’

  ‘Yes, Mark, hello.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘A change of plan, my friend. A change of plan.’ His voice was jovial and easygoing; it was hard to picture the expression on his face. ‘I meant to call before but I have been very busy with work. I am sorry.’ It sounded as though the Russian was calling from a deserted building; there was an echo of open space. ‘Perhaps we can meet for dinner an hour later. I have altered our reservation. This is appropriate?’

  Mark smiled at the mistaken idiom and said, ‘Yeah, no problem.’

  ‘But I am thinking I should introduce you to Christina at the restaurant before we meet for dinner. I am standing with her now.’

  ‘Christina?’

  ‘She would be your assistant in Hackney. It’s not possible for her to come to the West End because she is working here. Do you remember where to come?’

  ‘Sure.’ It did not cross Mark’s mind that he should tell Randall about the change in circumstance. Just go where Tamarov takes you. Don’t try to rush anything along. Besides, Christina might be pretty.

  ‘You will come by cab?’ Tamarov asked. It didn’t sound as though he cared about the answer. ‘By car?’