Softly, abruptly, one of his other phones started to vibrate. He looked down at it and recognized the number, a French mobile. He let it buzz away helplessly for a second, closed his eyes briefly in resignation and picked it up.
“Hello,” he said, in Russian. Allo. It sounded strange on the beach, in the sun.
“Hello, Richard.” That hoarse, low voice. “I need you here this evening. Please come now.”
“Of course.” He hung up, and sighed. He wasn’t ready to return to that world.
“Sweetheart?” Lock never knew whether to call her “sweetheart” or “darling.” He had called his wife both, over time, but neither seemed right for Oksana who, knowing what he was going to say, didn’t respond. “I have to go for a few hours. I’m sorry.”
“How long?”
“I can never tell. I’ll call when I know.”
He gathered up his phones and his wallet, stood up, and bent down toward her. She turned her head away, the smallest fraction, and he kissed her on the side of her mouth. “Have what you like. I’ll pay the bill.” He straightened stiffly, pulled his white linen shirt off the back of his lounger and left.
HE COULD HAVE TAKEN the helicopter to Nice and then a taxi from there—residents of Monaco loved to do this—but he was wary of helicopters. He had never liked them. Planes were fine: planes had wings and resembled birds a little, and birds could fly and land. Planes had a precedent. But nothing in nature was like a helicopter, unless it was a sycamore’s winged seed as it slowly, inevitably, dropped to the ground. There was another reason that he avoided them, more superstitious or more practical he couldn’t say: his kind seemed to die in helicopter accidents much more often than they should.
So now he was in the backseat of a Mercedes, showered and wearing a tan linen suit, on the fast, sinuous road between Monaco and Nice, traveling through tunnels and between mountains at great speed. He could feel his worries returning. Malin wouldn’t have summoned him for something trivial. Lock had spent his working life preparing for the police to come, but the thought of them had always terrified him and terrified him still. His job was to lie, but he did his lying in seclusion, like a writer, not face-to-face like a salesman. Over the last fifteen years he had wrought an intricate fiction with closed-ended funds and open-ended funds, with limited liability companies and limited liability partnerships, with sociétés anonymes and sociétés anonymes à responsabilité limitée, with Liechtenstein anstalts and Swiss stiftungs and Austrian privatstiftungs, with every imaginable acronym in every available offshore hideaway. He was proud of his work, if not wholly sure of it. On the wall of his office in Moscow hung a huge white board that showed the ever-changing structure of the network, as he called it. It looked like a technical drawing, unknowably arcane: hubs and spokes and clusters covered the board, changing and proliferating as Malin’s operations multiplied. Lock knew it all. He knew each company, each bank account, each company director; he knew the filing requirements territory by territory; he knew when money had to leave one place and be due in another. He also knew that it was well built; it was as solid as it could be. But to justify it to someone, to defend it as fact—that he wasn’t sure he would be able to do.
He checked himself. Perhaps this had nothing to do with an investigation. Maybe this was Moscow politics: a tacit edict from the Kremlin, a play for one of Malin’s assets by some rival faction. But then, nothing happened in Russia in August. Maybe it was something as benign as a new acquisition, or a request for cash to be freed up from one part of the organization to fund a transaction in another. Maybe Malin was simply lonely. Lock smiled and looked out of the window at the grand sweep of the Côte d’Azur, majestic, hot, overpopulated. Whatever the news was, he would have to seem equal to it.
Past Nice the traffic slowed to a stop. So many Netherlands plates, Lock noticed—did the Dutch never fly?
At Antibes the road cleared a little and they were soon at Cannes, where the car turned south toward Théoule-sur-Mer. Red-brown peaks rose up above the coast road, rough and primitive. Malin, who always seemed to know what was under his feet, had once told him that the Esterel mountains owed their color to porphyry, a stone loved by the Romans and the Greeks. How ancient they looked, severe, adamantly resisting civilization, at odds with the tidy villas that lined the road.
By the time they reached Malin’s compound, they had left Théoule behind and the villas had almost run out. Malin had his own Cap, a small headland bounded on the north by an eight-foot wall that separated it entirely from the mainland. He had taken this house because it was easy to secure: on the remaining three sides terraced gardens ended in red cliffs that dropped sheerly to the sea. To these natural defenses he had added guards (Russians, not locals, armed) who patrolled the perimeter day and night. On the western side of the Cap a steep path led down to a small sand beach. When the house had been built, in the 1920s, yachts had no doubt been moored in the small bay and guests would have sailed around from Cannes and La Napoule for dinner. Now two guards were permanently stationed there and guests of any kind were rare.
The car slowed to a stop by a low gatehouse. Lock lowered his window and showed his face; the gates opened.
Another Mercedes was parked in the driveway, its driver asleep in his seat. Lock didn’t recognize it. He thanked his own driver, told him in poor French that he might be an hour or more, and walked past the two guards at the front door.
EACH TIME HE CAME HERE he was struck by the unnecessary elegance of the house. It was of modest size by the standards of the Riviera, low and white, touched here and there with a trace of art deco, and gave the general impression of being ready to set sail at any moment into the sea that it commanded. The back of the house was shaded by live oaks and pines; the front gave out onto simple lawned terraces progressing in steps to the edges of the cliffs, which were fringed with trees; downstairs every room opened through huge French doors onto the garden, where a fountain softly played. Light flowed through the place, but even in high summer it was cool inside. Fifty yards away there was a small chapel, redundant now, that Lock had always felt he should visit but never had.
The dining room was where meetings were held. Malin was sitting at the dining table, leaning back in his chair, his thick arms folded across his chest. He wore a white shirt with short sleeves and a splayed collar, and against the white his skin was sallow. He was big, solid, like a Russian wrestler in retirement. Impermeable, thought Lock: nothing got through, in either direction. His broad face was fleshy and on another man, with its jowls and its baldness and its double chin, could have been jovial, but his eyes overwhelmed the rest. They were dark brown and heavy, neither curious nor passive. Malin never seemed to blink, but nor did he stare. The eyes simply were. Lock still felt uneasy whenever he looked into them. As now.
“Good evening, Richard. I am sorry to interrupt your vacation.” Malin spoke in English with a heavy accent, his voice low and resonant. Lock simply nodded, aware from experience that these would be the only pleasantries. “Phones, please.” Lock took his three phones from various pockets, removed the back and the battery from each, and put the components on a dresser standing against the wall where two other phones lay, also in pieces.
“You know Mr. Kesler.” Malin gestured across the table at the older of the other two men in the room.
“Of course. How are you, Skip?”
“Just fine, thank you, Richard. You’re looking well. This is Lawrence Griffin, one of our associates.”
Lock shook hands with both men. “Skip” was in fact Donald, but he preferred to be known as Skip; this suggested a jauntiness at odds with the rest of him. He was a lawyer, a specialist in litigation, and Lock was alarmed to see him here: it meant that what they were about to discuss was serious, as he had feared, since Kesler was not the sort to fly across the Atlantic and spend a client’s money without cause. Everything about him suggested discipline. The yo
unger man, Griffin, had taken out a notebook and was already writing. Both were in suits; both looked hot and slightly grimy, as if they had traveled that day and not yet changed their clothes.
Lock sat on his own at the head of the table. Malin turned to look at him.
“Tourna is making noises again. He is still upset.”
“This is about Tourna? Christ, that man makes so much noise. Can’t we keep ignoring him?” Tourna, Lock thought, was surely not worth a meeting in August.
“Mr. Kesler thinks not. Mr. Kesler.”
“Thank you, Konstantin. Richard, Mr. Tourna will file against Faringdon in New York on Monday, and is drawing on the relevant clauses in his contract to start arbitration proceedings in Paris. The New York complaint alleges that we reneged on our commitments to Orion Trading over the sale of Marchmont. Specifically, it says that Orion was sold an empty shell and that Faringdon took the assets. Hearings in New York have not yet been scheduled, but we’re due in Paris in November.” Kesler always spoke with extraordinary structure and precision, his staccato voice, with a hint of the South in it, beating out all the points. Lock wondered whether he had rehearsed.
“God, he’s an idiot,” said Lock. “What does he stand to gain?” No one spoke. Lock noticed that Kesler’s watch was still on Washington time. “Do we fight it or settle?”
“If all we had to worry about was whether or not we had met our obligations under the contract then, yes, we would either fight it or settle it—a fine judgment and not perhaps worth that much thought.” Kesler’s suit was dark blue, a light wool, with a pinstripe, European in its cut. “This time, however, Mr. Tourna has decided to add a little spice. He is alleging that Faringdon—and you—are part of a criminal conspiracy. More particularly, he is claiming that Faringdon is not owned by its immediate shareholders, but by Mr. Malin, and that it is the central component of, as he puts it, a global money-laundering operation. He puts the damage to him at a billion dollars.”
“A billion? Where does he get that from?” Now Lock understood why he and Kesler were here. “Who is he using?”
“Hansons. Lionel Greene. I’m told he’s very good.” Kesler looked over the top of his glasses at Lock, waiting for more, but nothing came. “This creates all manner of problems. We cannot settle, because the complaint is public, and to settle will imply that we acknowledge the charge. And we can be confident that everyone will soon know about this, because Tourna is never discreet, even when it is in his own interests to be so. And that is not the case here.”
Lock felt a weight bearing on his chest, a long-held fear. “Do we know what he knows?”
“No. The complaint isn’t detailed.”
“He’s fishing.”
“I don’t think so.” Kesler looked from Lock to Malin.
“Then what is he doing?” said Lock. “It seems crazy. Why allege something you can’t prove? And then make sure we can’t settle?”
Again Kesler looked between the two. Malin made the smallest movement of his head and Kesler resumed.
“Because he has no intention of settling? I suspect that Mr. Tourna is truly vexed, and when Mr. Tourna is vexed he doesn’t bottle it up. For this Greek, revenge is best served relatively warm.” Kesler paused, clearly pleased with his words. “I think he is doing this—and we must assume he is doing this—because he wants to hurt Mr. Malin. By now we can also assume that he’s hired investigators and PR and God knows who else to put on an almighty show. When he thinks the time is right.”
Kesler’s sidekick was all the while taking notes. Lock glanced at them and wondered how they could possibly be so voluminous already. The sun was lower now and behind Malin, leaving his face in shadow.
“Look,” said Lock, “if he had proof of something he’d blackmail us with it privately. That’s his style. Which means there’s no evidence.”
“Maybe not,” said Kesler, “but it’s going to be very uncomfortable demonstrating that. I’m here now because we need to start work immediately. Paris is the priority. I’ll be working out of Bryson’s London office to save you traveling to D.C. and me traveling to Moscow . . .”
“Wait, hang on.” Lock looked puzzled. “Why have an arbitration at all? If he wants to make a noise he can just sue us in New York.”
“That is the most interesting question,” said Kesler. “I don’t know. I simply can’t read that part. But I think that New York may be the sideshow. A lawsuit there will make a lot of noise, but . . . my guess is he wants to cause you a lot of pain but still give you a mechanism for settling—perhaps you agree to settle if he completely retracts the complaint. Or perhaps he wants to see you on the stand. We can sidestep that in New York, I think, but not in Paris. You have to attend your own arbitration.”
Lock could feel pain in his lower back. This was the moment at which he should be showing Malin that he was confident and full of fight but his body was registering dismay.
“Can we do him some damage first?”
“Fight fire with fire, you mean? Perhaps. I’m seeing investigators in London next week. It may be that Mr. Tourna has something he would rather remain hidden. But it’s not as if his reputation has far to fall. Such an asset.” Kesler gave a wry, irritating little chuckle.
Malin stood up, thanked Kesler, and asked Lock to join him outside. As they walked on the lawn in front of the house Lock could feel the spring of the grass under his feet. Through the cypresses he saw headlands and bays linking into the distance, the cliffs deep red in shadow. His fresh shirt was already damp and cool against his back. He and Malin took steps down to a swimming pool whose sky-blue water spilled endlessly over its far lip, the sea beyond a steady, serious cobalt. They sat at a table, out of the setting sun, where Lock, side on to Malin with his elbows on his knees, continued to gaze at the pool and wondered whether anything could make the scene more placid. He was curious to know whether Malin drew pleasure from it.
Malin extracted a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, took one, and lit it. He spoke Russian now. “Richard, I am concerned about this. Tourna is a little crazy. I think Kesler is right—he is not doing this so that we pay him money.”
“Tourna is nuts. We should never have—”
“Let me finish.” Malin paused. Lock looked from the water to him, indicating his willingness to listen. “Kesler called me about this two days ago. This has given me some time to think. I asked him to come out here to discuss it with us in person. I have asked him as I am asking you to take special care of this so that it does not escalate. I want us to find out what Tourna knows. And I want to know everything about Tourna. That is your responsibility. I will not settle this because I do not trust Tourna to keep it settled.” Again he paused, drawing deeply on the cigarette. “How confident are you that we are protected?”
“Very confident.” Lock’s heart stammered. “There is nothing to link anything to you.”
“Look over your network for weaknesses. They will all be all over it soon. If there are weaknesses, let me know them.”
“I can’t think where they could be.”
“Just look. Who do you trust that might talk, knowingly or not? That is what they will be looking for.”
“Understood.”
“It may be that this can still go away. But in the meantime, work with Kesler. Work hard.”
Lock returned Malin’s even gaze for as long as he could, then nodded and looked away.
“Richard, I have always paid you well to prepare for this moment. Justify my faith in you.”
As they walked back to the house in the dusk the security lights clicked on, lighting up the house and the trees and blacking out everything beyond.
LOCK ARRIVED back in Monaco a little after ten. Oksana was not in their room at the Metropole. His calls to her went unanswered.
He stood in the shower, turned it up very hot and then
very cold, and thought. He thought about why Kesler hadn’t spoken to him first but had gone to Malin directly. He thought about Malin’s words to him, part pep talk and part threat. And he thought about what he would have to do now, and how little he relished it. The problem, he knew, was not with the nature of the lie, but with the simple fact of it. If anyone looked hard enough (and certainly, they would have to look hard) they would discover that he, Richard Lock, was the richest foreign investor in Russia, the owner of a huge private energy conglomerate. And he had no plausible account of how he had come by any of it.
Two
WEBSTER WAS THE FIRST in his house to wake. The night had been close but now a cool breeze was blowing from the window and he pulled the thin sheet around him; by the light along the edges of the blinds he could tell it would be another hot day. Elsa was still asleep, her back to him. There were planes in the sky; it had to be after six.
If he left now perhaps he could fit in a swim before everyone else was up. But as soon as he had the thought he knew he wouldn’t go; he wasn’t ready to resume the work routine. What did he have today? A mess of things he hadn’t thought about since before his holiday: cases, clients, billing. Briefing Hammer on Tourna, and deciding whether to take his money. That alone might take all day.
He heard a floorboard creak in the room above. Nancy was up. Every morning she came downstairs and stood silent by his side of the bed until something in his subconscious told him she was there. It was a slightly disconcerting way to greet the world.
He lay on his side, facing the door, and closed his eyes. She moved so quietly he hardly heard her come in. He let her stand by him for a moment and then shot out a hand from under the sheet and pulled her up onto the bed, twisting onto his back and leaving her sprawled on his chest. Her feet were cold on his legs.
The Silent Oligarch: A Novel Page 2
