But he would still try. You never knew. If Gerstman was nursing a grudge that hadn’t yet played out, if he saw the opportunity to take revenge, well, you never knew. It happened. What one man knows can bring down an organization. Every so often.
It was noon as they approached the western center of the city. He decided to have a look at his target first and check in to the hotel later, so he asked the driver to take him to the western end of Kurfürstendamm where Gerstman had his offices, on a side street just around the corner from the theater. Webster paid his fare and sat on a bench opposite the nineteenth-century building. With luck Gerstman would go out for his lunch; Europeans, sensibly, usually did.
With an eye on the door he went through his messages. Tourna had called when he was on the plane. He was going to be in London in a fortnight’s time and wanted to discuss progress. If there wasn’t any movement by then, thought Webster, that might be the time to stop. The very thought made his spirits sink.
At a quarter past, people began leaving the building in ones and twos. Webster hoped that he would recognize Gerstman from his picture; he had no idea of his height or coloring. A little after half past, a tall, rather sleek man appeared, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie; this was Gerstman. Walking with him was someone shorter and broader whom Webster recognized as Gerstman’s partner, Prock. Webster followed them at a distance of perhaps twenty yards. The two men were walking briskly enough, and talked all the while. After five minutes they went into an Italian restaurant, not particularly smart, and there Webster left them, returning to his bench.
Exactly an hour later Gerstman and Prock returned. Webster waited five minutes and then called the main Finist office number. He spoke to the receptionist, then to Gerstman’s secretary; he explained that his name was Benedict Webster, that he was calling from a company called Ikertu Consulting, and that he would like to speak to Mr. Gerstman about a subject of shared interest. There, he thought, now we’re out in the open. She told him that she was very sorry but Mr. Gerstman was not available. Had he gone out? Yes he had. When would he return? She couldn’t say. Webster thanked her and hung up.
Finist’s number was Berlin 6974 5600. Webster dialed 6974 5601 and reached a fax machine. 5602 rang for a while and diverted to Prock’s secretary. He hung up and dialed 5603.
“Gerstman.”
“Herr Gerstman, this is Benedict Webster. I work for a company called Ikertu Consulting. I was wondering whether—”
“How do you have my direct line?”
“I was wondering whether I might talk to you for half an hour.”
“I don’t talk to people I don’t know,” said Gerstman, and hung up.
Webster dialed the number again. Gerstman picked up the phone on the first ring and immediately put it down again.
Webster looked at his phone, raised an eyebrow, and stood up. It was a short walk to his hotel. He left his briefcase and coat there and wandered out to find lunch.
At four o’clock he took up his station on the bench, now in sun, and watched the Berliners going about their business. He found them difficult to place: in London and in Moscow he could read fluently the signs that suggested what a person might do, where he might live, what he might hold important—the cut of a suit, the quality of a shoe, the newspaper carried, the accent spoken, the unconscious gait—but here the language was different and the people, he began to suspect, less easy to classify. These observations kept Webster occupied for a while but by five the offices were beginning to empty and his thoughts to stray, despite himself, to Inessa.
He had met her first in Rostov, in the south of Russia, where they were both reporting on strikes that had spread over the summer from the far east. They had talked on the plane from Moscow and driven together to the mining town of Shakhty, Inessa railing with indignation against the treatment of the miners, some of whom hadn’t been paid for six months. Her round face was cropped with thick hair cut short, as black as her eyes, and she walked everywhere at speed, almost at a march.
After Rostov they saw each other often in Moscow, found themselves from time to time in the same remote hotspot, helped each other with sources and ideas. Inessa would feed him stories in the hope they would find their way into The Times, and sometimes they did. She talked about founding her own magazine, and told him that he must find her some wealthy foreign patrons so that together they would transform Russian journalism. He met her friends and three months before her death had gone to her wedding in Samara, where she had grown up.
Inessa, he came to realize, was what he had gone to Russia to find: in among all that furious and chaotic change she had been a constant of anger, courage and hope. So long as it had people like her, he had thought, Russia might be all right.
She was the reverse of Malin, as if they had been created as opposites, and to bring him into her narrative made such tempting sense. Instinct insisted that he belonged there, and logic agreed. Among all the candidates for her murder he was the only one with no reputation. He was already more powerful than the others, destined for greater things, but his name was not known and his project still the greatest of secrets. None of Inessa’s enemies would fear being caught; Malin was the only one who would fear being suspected. And so he broke with tradition. Kill a journalist in Russia and it will be clear to all that she died for her work; kill her in Kazakhstan and it will fade away as a freak event. It was a blind, and Webster himself, he had always suspected, the means by which the trick had been validated: why have him present at her death unless to have him write and talk about it afterward?
His job then was to justify this certainty until all arguments dropped away, and for a while he let his mind play on how he might prove his case. If this were a project, what would he do? Interview the Kazakh convicted of her murder; go over the court documents; identify Malin’s security team; dig up immigration and flight details for Kazakhstan in the days leading up to her death; hope in vain to find a conscientious source. On his bench in Berlin Webster gave a cynical snort and shook his head slowly in frustration. None of this would work. None of it would be allowed to work. Some things in Russia were simply never meant to be known.
At six he called home and spoke to the children. Elsa was still at work and the nanny was cooking them tea. He wished he’d bought himself a bottle of water. It was almost eight when Prock left number 20, and a little after eight when Gerstman himself appeared. He turned right out of the door and walked purposefully toward Kurfürstendamm. Webster followed him, this time at a slow run, and caught up with him as he reached the main street.
“Herr Gerstman?”
“Yes?”
“My name’s Benedict Webster. I called earlier.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” said Gerstman and walked on, crossing the street through slow traffic. Webster was impressed by his coolness. He decided to take a risk.
“It’s about Richard Lock. I think he might be in danger.”
Gerstman stopped and looked at Webster properly for the first time.
“What sort of danger?”
“The sort where you go to prison. Or where you never get the chance.”
Gerstman continued to stare at Webster, judging his face, his expression blank.
“All right. I cannot see you now. Meet me in the bar of the Adlon at eleven. The lobby bar.”
WEBSTER WENT BACK to the hotel, showered, and put on his fresh shirt. He had dinner where Gerstman and Prock had had lunch, and got to the Adlon at ten. What a grand hotel this was; how much grander the original must have been before it was torn down. The lobby bar, all deep chairs and soft lamplight and gentle piano music piped from the ceiling, was not busy. He took a seat at the bar, ordered a whisky with ice and a little water and phoned Elsa. They were odd, these conversations: the farther away from London he was the better they tended to be. This one was fine, but Webster, half w
atching for Gerstman’s arrival over his shoulder, was distracted. They talked for ten minutes at most.
Gerstman was on time. Webster watched him walk across the lobby and noted his long, elegant stride. His face was tanned and fit to the point of being gaunt, and a raised vein snaked across his left temple. Hammer had such a vein, and Webster wondered what it signified.
Webster got down off his stool—upholstered in leather, of course, with a low back—and held out his hand to Gerstman, who ignored it and sat down on the next stool, shifting it so that he almost faced Webster.
“What do you have to say?” said Gerstman, his eyes impatient and cold. His accent was clipped and heavily Russian.
“Well—first, thank you for coming. Can I get you a drink?”
“No drink, thank you. Just tell me why you bother me here.”
Webster took a sip of whisky and tried to work out what was behind this hostility, which was starker than he had expected. There must be a way around it. Gerstman had known Malin: worked for him day in, day out; sat with him in meetings; listened to his confidences. He knew how his business was organized, who sat where, where the money came from. He was about as good a source as you could hope for, and Webster could feel him slipping away.
“I work for a company called Ikertu Consulting,” Webster said, looking Gerstman in the eye and hoping to appear frank, straightforward.
“I know it.”
“Good. That helps. We’ve been hired to do some work relating to Konstantin Malin. As part of that work we have become aware that Richard Lock’s position is highly compromised.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Webster took another drink. “Well, briefly, that agencies all over the world would like to investigate him. When they do they’ll think he’s a money launderer. Which he probably is.”
“You mean you would like them to investigate him.”
“No, we wouldn’t. That doesn’t suit us. I’d like to give him the chance to avoid that.” Gerstman didn’t respond. “Can I ask you some questions about Malin?”
“No, you cannot. You do not tell me who you are working for and I do not know how you will help Richard. But I do not talk about my past career to anyone, so it does not matter. I do not talk about it under any circumstances. I met with you so that you could know that. Beyond doubt.”
Webster did his best to look unconcerned. “I understand. Not even to help Lock?”
“Please, do not be silly.” Gerstman stood up. “You do not care for Lock. You pretend this for reasons I do not understand. Now, do not trouble me again. And tell your client that I do not talk. Clear? I do not talk.”
Webster watched as he walked away across the lobby, his heels clicking on the marble floor. With his long stride and bowed head he seemed propelled, forced onward by something that might have been pride but to Webster looked like fear.
Five
LOCK STOOD in the almost empty ballroom and wondered what Maria Sergeevna Galinin would be getting for her birthday. The children of the Moscow rich could expect good presents: he had seen a six-year-old boy presented with a Ferrari, and a nine-year-old girl with a dacha outside the city, an immense Wendy house fitted out for children with its own servants and a maze planted in yew.
For his own sixth birthday Lock’s father had given him a wooden boat. It was modeled on a Dutch clipper, with three masts, each with sails of undyed canvas, and but for a metal keel was made of cedar and therefore, his father had said, strong enough to be sailed. On windy days they would take it to the boating lake in Den Haag park and Lock’s father would teach his son about rigging and tacking, how one could sail a real boat into the wind. “One day we will do this for real and you can take the tiller,” he would say. Lock had loved the boat. When not on the water it had sat on a shelf in his room rousing his imagination to great maritime feats. But when the time had come he had never taken to the sea itself. Where he had expected adventure there were long afternoons clumsily following his father’s commands; where he had expected loneliness and calm there were the battering roar of the wind and the angry snapping of the sails. The sea frightened him, he had discovered, and under his father’s impatient instruction he became still more nervous around it. In time they barely went out anymore, and what Everhart Lock never understood was that his own disappointment was no greater than his son’s.
Now Lock saw his father only rarely—perhaps once a year, since the death of his mother. He would visit in the summer with Vika, and the three of them would go to the beach, Vika playing in the dunes, the two men talking about her and little else. Often they sat in silence, having tacitly agreed long ago not to discuss work or Russia or family. Any mention of Lock’s life would instantly spark Everhart’s disapproval, at once fiery and stern, like a rock glowing with heat. Side by side on the sand they would sit, quietly watching the sea that had for so long lain between them.
The invitation had said to come to the Hyatt Ararat at six o’clock on Friday evening for a tea party. Lock and Oksana had arrived at twenty past to find only eight other guests there, all couples, all, Lock saw with a glance, professionals and their wives. He had assumed that because this was a child’s party they should be more punctual than usual but had clearly miscalculated. Perhaps they could leave and come back in an hour. A waitress in a pink pinafore and matching maid’s cap approached with a tray full of delicate glass teacups, frosted with cold.
“Tea cocktail,” she said, offering the tray.
“Thank you,” said Lock, taking two and passing one to Oksana, who was wearing a sheer silver dress and towering silver shoes. She took it and drank, unimpressed, looking coolly around the room.
“The place looks amazing,” he said to her, taking a large sip of his drink and feeling grateful for it. It was good: vodka, he thought, and bergamot, and something else he couldn’t quite make out. Oksana didn’t reply.
Usually one vast room, the ballroom had become a forest of silvered birch branches, arranged in translucent screens to create airy spaces. In the first, the largest, were ornate samovars on tables and around them divans draped in pink and silver fabric. On each samovar was a label, in silver lettering, describing its contents: black tea, iced tea, apple juice, chocolate milk, strawberry milk, kvass. Human statues in elaborate silver and pink regency dress stood against the walls, already motionless. The ceiling had been lowered and was now dusky pink fabric, lit up by the dozens of chandeliers hanging from it. In a space to the left Lock could see through the branches pyramids of fairy cakes of every color; ahead of him two chocolate fountains, one brown, one somehow pink, gurgled thickly. In the far corner of the ballroom he could make out what looked like a teacup merry-go-round, and beside it a band in silver suits playing surreptitious jazz. He thought simultaneously that as a child his own birthday parties had been rather different, and that nowhere else on earth might one see one quite like this.
They should disappear to the hotel bar for an hour. People were arriving steadily but slowly, and Lock didn’t want to make small talk with Oksana in this sort of mood. He was about to suggest this when he felt a firm hold on his elbow.
“Richard! How good to see you.”
He turned to see a squat, wide man with thick black hair and thick tortoiseshell glasses. At first he couldn’t place him. He was English, and almost certainly a lawyer; or was he PwC? He was grinning; accountants tended not to grin. Then it came to him.
“Andrew. Good evening. Nice to see you too.” Andrew Beresford. Yes, he was a lawyer. For some colossal American firm that Lock for the moment had forgotten. They shook hands.
“Good, good, good. How’s tricks, then?” Beresford continued to pump Lock’s hand for several moments after Lock had loosened his grip, his other hand on Lock’s forearm.
“Fine, thank you, fine. Pretty good.” Lock would have given a large sum to be spirited away.<
br />
“This is Katerina,” said Beresford, letting go of Lock and indicating a well-built blond woman in a peach suit. Lock shook her hand and introduced Oksana, who to his surprise was tolerably gracious.
“Some tea party, no?” said Beresford, grinning and looking around at the room. “Not like the parties I had as a child! Christ, no.”
“No,” said Lock, smiling fixedly, “quite.”
“We were lucky if we got a magician!” Beresford grinned at each of his audience in turn. “Actually, Richard, I’m glad I caught you. Can I have a quick word—entre nous, as it were? I’m sure the ladies won’t mind. Won’t take a moment. Excuse us.” His hand returned to Lock’s elbow and he steered him a few feet away. Glancing over his shoulder Lock saw Katerina opening a conversation with Oksana and wondered how long it would last.
“Sorry to tear you away, Richard, but I just wanted a quick word. Hope you don’t mind. It’s just that I couldn’t help noticing the other day that you’re in a spot of bother.”
“I am?”
“Well, you’re not quite the talk of the town yet, but if I know about it, ten to one so does everyone else.” Beresford laughed and touched Lock’s shoulder as if to reassure him. “No, I saw the complaint and it looked quite nasty. Seen worse, but these things are never fun. All I wondered was—well, who’s representing you?”
The Silent Oligarch: A Novel Page 9
