“He won’t recognize either of them.”
“That’s OK. He knows you’ve got new phones. Now the recorder starts as soon as the battery comes out. Leave it facedown. There’s another battery in there that’ll give an hour of recording time, maybe a little more. It records straight onto a hard drive. There’s no noise, and no signal. You don’t have to worry about it at all. Don’t look at it. Forget it’s there.”
Lock nodded. He rested his hand on the briefcase next to him. It contained all of Gerstman’s documents, printed out on Herr Maurer’s computer.
“Chances are he’ll have people with him,” Webster went on. “That’s OK. You’ll have your people everywhere. We’ll hang back unless something happens. But he’s not going to want anything to happen to you while he’s around. So all you have to think about is talking to him.”
“How should I start?”
“Any way you like. Don’t think too hard about it. Let it come out. He’s expecting you to be angry and upset. So be upset. Challenge him.”
The roads were fast now and lined with ten-foot metal screens; Lock felt that he was being channeled along them to his destiny.
As they came off the motorway the screens fell away. They were on the industrial edge of the city. Lock saw chimneys like towers erupting white smoke into the sky, scrappy patches of land undeveloped, water towers like inverted rockets tarred jet black. There were no footprints in the snow here, no people walking. Then a McDonald’s, and a furniture warehouse, and beyond that the suburbs; close by the car, pinched apartment buildings in concrete and roughcast ran the length of each block, and the pavements were filthy with old snow. After a while the streets opened out and the houses relaxed and people began to appear in the shops, in the parks, at the bus stops. Lock had never seen all this, not before. It was new to him to see things. A row of poplars the shape of peacock feathers. A red leather bag against a woman’s tan shawl.
“You OK?” Webster broke his reverie.
Lock turned to him. “I’m fine.”
“Not nervous?”
“Not at all.”
The car turned into Tiergarten and Lock watched the silver birches tick past him. Beyond the park’s gates they emerged into a large open space, a mess of road and streetlights and traffic lights and slushy channels cut through the snow. The channels led from one huge modernist building to another, each somehow in its own world, like rivals. Lock looked to his left and saw finlike orange panels on a jumble of cubes and curves; to his right a sleek concrete structure in gray; ahead of him a low, massive box of black steel and glass. Watching over them stood a church with a green copper roof, its ugly square tower ringed in yellow and red brick. The sky was huge and gray above it all.
“This is Potsdamer Platz,” said Black.
“It looks like an architecture competition,” said Lock.
“That’s the library,” said Black, pointing past James to a building on the corner of the space. It was squat, jagged, irregular, made of gray and yellow concrete blocks and sloping glass in black frames. Screens like washboards masked the windows along one wall. It was set back from the road; next to the others it was reticent, erudite, scholarly.
“Was this east or west?” said Lock.
“Both,” said Webster.
They carried on past the library and crossed a bridge over the canal. Fifty yards farther on James pulled over to the side and Black and Webster got out.
“I’ll call you when he shows,” said Webster and gave Lock a calm, encouraging smile as he shut the door.
James pulled out again and took the next left into a quiet street. Halfway down it he did a three-point turn and parked.
“This is it,” he said.
“This is it,” said Lock.
IT WAS JAMES’S PHONE that rang. He answered it without saying a word, put the car into gear and moved off. Lock checked his palms; they were dry.
James parked just out of sight of the library. A man that Lock didn’t recognize came to his door and opened it.
“Good afternoon, sir. You need to go to the cafeteria area. As you go in, turn to your right and you’ll see it. The subject is sitting at a table facing the door. His bodyguard is standing a little ways behind him.”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck, sir.”
Lock checked his pockets for the two phones. They were there. He set off.
His chest felt light, the briefcase heavy in his hand. He smoothed his hair with his free hand as he walked along. Please let this work. Let him say it. Let him say the words. I want to tell the world that I brought him down. I want everyone to know. I want the journalists to know. I want Kesler to know. And Chekhanov. I want Andrew-sodding-Beresford to know, and all his superior English friends.
I want my father to know. And Marina. How I want Marina to know. And Vika. One day, Vika.
And Malin. In there now with his blank gaze and his impenetrable will. I want him to know that it was me.
THE LIBRARY WAS BUSY and hushed. An old lady with snow chains on her boots clanked across the stone floor. Lock moved toward the cafeteria. There he was. Sitting by one of the plate-glass windows that lined that side of the building, alone at a yellow table, his bulk absurd on a spindly metal chair. On the table in front of him was a cup of tea and an envelope. Standing with his back against a pillar a few yards away was Ivan the bodyguard. I knew he was special, thought Lock. Ivan watched him as he neared the table.
Lock could feel his heart beating in his throat. Four tables away he saw Webster studiously reading a German newspaper. The café was quiet but some of the tables along the window wall were occupied: a bearded man with a laptop; two girls eating sandwiches; a young man in a cap and thick black glasses leaning over papers he had spread out across his table.
“You came,” Lock said in Russian.
Malin turned his head an inch toward Ivan and nodded. Ivan stepped up to Lock and asked him to spread his arms and legs. Lock, uncertain, did as he was asked, looking around him in quiet disbelief that this could happen so blatantly in such a place. Ivan ran his hands quickly down Lock’s sides, his legs, the small of his back, and then patted his stomach and chest. Reaching inside Lock’s jacket he pulled out the two phones, inspected each briefly and handed them back, before opening the briefcase and glancing inside. He nodded to Malin and stepped back again. Lock took off his coat and sat down, putting the briefcase on the floor by his chair.
“Phones please,” said Malin.
Lock looked at him, holding his eye for a second.
“OK. And yours.”
He reached into his pockets and pulled out the two phones. He slid the back off each, eased the batteries out and left the parts on the table. Malin did the same with a single phone.
The two men looked at each other. Malin’s eyes bored into Lock’s. Lock tried to understand them, to see something in there that he had not seen before. But they were the same: matte, dead, reflecting nothing. In his black coat and gray suit, the white shirt and the red tie, he looked exactly as he always had.
“You look bad,” Malin said.
Lock returned the gaze. “Thanks for your concern. I’m fine.”
“You looked better in Moscow.”
“I feel better here.”
Malin made a faint shrugging gesture, as if to say that he wasn’t going to argue the point.
“Did you make the transfer?” said Lock.
With the palm of his hand Malin slid the envelope toward him an inch. Lock reached for it and opened it.
“It’s in escrow,” said Malin. “Someone we both know. He’ll release it when he hears from you.”
Lock looked at the single sheet of paper. It was confirmation of a wire transfer made to an account in Singapore. He put it back on the table and, reaching below his chair, opened the bri
efcase. He took out a sheaf of A4 paper and set it down in front of Malin, who picked up the sheaf and began to work his way through, putting each page down on the table as he inspected it. Lock watched him steadily deal the pages, licking his thumb occasionally as he went.
When he had put down the last sheet from the batch he breathed in and let it out noisily through his nose.
“This is it?”
Lock didn’t reply.
“This is everything?”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
“That is everything. Downloaded from Dmitry’s hidden e-mail account. I can give you the details.”
Malin shook his head. “You think this is worth ten million?”
“Yes.”
“Ten million, for invoices?”
“It’s what you wanted.”
Malin laughed, once, his big frame shifting up and down. “No, no, no. This is not what I wanted. This is not what I needed.”
“What does it matter?” said Lock. “You have what you’ve been looking for. It’s over. So it doesn’t say very much. That’s good, isn’t it?”
Malin raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“It means you killed Dmitry for nothing. That’s not so good. But why should that bother you?”
Malin rubbed his chin, the folds of flesh pressed together between his fingers. He shook his head.
“I cannot go back to Moscow with this.”
Lock frowned. “What do you mean?”
“They will think I have lost my mind.”
“Who will? Who’s they?” Lock could feel a pain in his throat.
Malin sat back in his chair, adjusting his weight. He took his time. “Richard, who do you think I am?”
Lock shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I have been trying to protect you, Richard. All the time. Because I understand your position. Better than you think. But you have caused me problems. You and Dmitry. It would have been better if he had stayed.”
Lock leaned in to Malin, his voice low but urgent. “Protect me? What, by having your goons fill me with Christ knows what and throw me off a roof? Was that how you protected Dmitry too?”
Malin leaned forward too, his hands clasped on the table. He lowered his voice. “None of that was me.”
Lock tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. He longed for water. He could see the small moles on Malin’s cheek.
“You or your people,” he said. “I don’t care.”
Malin shook his head gently. “Richard, I told you when we last spoke. I could not protect you forever. If you had come back to Moscow you would have ceased to be a risk.”
“I’m not a risk to you. I don’t want to be a risk to you. I don’t want anything to do with you. That’s what all this is about.” Lock’s voice was louder now. “We can leave each other. For good. Separate. Divorce. I’ll disappear. I will cause you no trouble. You know that.”
“Richard, it’s not for me to decide.”
There was a roaring noise in Lock’s head. He couldn’t think.
“What?”
“You and I are the same, Richard. An agent of convenience for someone else.” He paused. “Those were not my men trying to kill you. They were government men.”
Lock looked away from Malin and out the window. He saw bicycles lined up neatly in their racks. Evergreens like Christmas trees laden with snow.
“I came here for two things, Richard. This,” he put his hand on the pile of paper, “and you. If this had been valuable, I could have gone back and said that you were still loyal. Maybe you could have stayed here. Maybe. But now you have to come with me. I cannot go back with this alone.”
“I’m not going back.”
“Richard, understand this.” Malin leaned farther forward. He spoke in a half whisper. “You have worried some very important people. Kremlin people. They see the interests of Russia at risk. They see their own interests exposed. They have made it clear to me that I must clean up this mess. If you come back to Russia, with me, you will be safe. Outside Russia they will not let you exist.”
“I can’t go back.”
Malin said nothing for a moment, his eyes steadily on Lock. “Richard, you know what happens to people like us when we are not useful anymore. I am on the verge of not being useful. Your only hope is to come with me and let everyone forget about this episode. In two years we will both be where we were.”
Lock shook his head. His jaw was set, his head full of sound and rage.
“And Dmitry? Where will he be?”
“It was too late for Dmitry.”
“Then it’s too late for me.”
Malin sat back. “I’m sorry, Richard. I can’t let you choose.” He turned to Ivan, just an inch again, and nodded.
Lock saw Ivan walk toward him and his hand reach into his coat pocket. Lock pushed his chair back and began to stand. He shouted—“Help! Stop!”—and as he stood brought his hands up to push Ivan away. Webster was shouting, as were other English voices. He saw Ivan’s hand come out of his pocket and in it a syringe; felt his powerful hand on his upper arm. Then the grip released and Lock, off balance, stumbled backward and fell down against the window. When he looked up he saw Ivan being held by two of Black’s men. The syringe was on the floor. Malin was still sitting at the table, his expression unchanged; Webster was by him.
Malin stood up. He looked at Webster. “We are leaving,” he said, in English. He sorted the papers on the table into one pile, picked it up and walked past Ivan and Black’s men. Ivan shrugged himself free and followed.
One of Black’s men reached down to pick up the syringe. There was a clear liquid inside; it was still full. He handed it to Webster, who was collecting the phones and the envelope from the table.
“Come on,” Webster said to Lock. “Let’s go.”
Lock stood up straight. Faces stared up at him from the tables around. Two library security guards were here now and one of Black’s men was calming them down. “Wir verlassen. We’re leaving.” Webster guided Lock through the tables, out into the main hall and toward the door.
“You OK?”
“I’m fine.”
“What did you get?”
“I think we’re both finished.”
As they reached the entrance Black joined them.
“I’ll go first.”
Lock followed Black through the revolving doors, Webster right behind him.
He squinted as he came out into the air; the sky was still heavy with cloud but the snow was bright. He could see Malin and Ivan walking up the path toward Potsdamer Strasse, Malin walking slowly with heavy, rolling steps. He saw Black five yards ahead, scanning from side to side. Lock waited for a moment, turned to see Webster emerging from the door. From far away he heard a dull crack, like a stone falling on dry wood. His shoulder was thrown back, his arms flailed in space. He fell backward and his head hit the icy ground. Webster’s voice came to him.
“Richard. Fuck. Richard! George!”
He looked up. Flat gray sky. Webster’s hair. There was heat in his chest, and cold.
“Richard. You’re OK. Richard. Can you hear me?”
He felt his lips move as he tried to speak. They were dry; his mouth was dry. “I want Vika to know.” Each word separate, on its own.
Webster’s voice. “Know what, Richard? Know what?”
“It was me.” He closed his eyes.
Epilogue
IT TOOK EIGHT DAYS for Webster to get back to London. He wanted to accompany Lock’s body but the police hadn’t finished with it, so he came back alone.
He flew into a sunny Heathrow on a half-full plane, all tourists and families. As it taxied to its stand the stewardess wished everyone a pleasant stay in L
ondon and hoped they would enjoy their Christmas shopping.
In the cab he sat back and looked down at himself. He had been wearing the same suit for two weeks; his trousers were concertinaed around the crotch and his shoes were stained with Berlin snow. His fingernails were bitten and ragged, his lips chapped from the cold, the skin on the back of his hands so dry that it had begun to peel. His feet were fat from the flight and his neck ached. He wanted to go home and see his children.
At least it was warmer here: there was no slush on the roads and the pavements were dry. The shop windows were draped with tinsel, and colored lights zigzagged across the streets. In Shepherd’s Bush he watched a man in collapsed evening dress sitting asleep at a bus stop, his bow tie hanging limply around his neck, his head by turns slumping onto his chest and jerking him awake. It was eleven, and in another hour or so oddly constituted groups of men and women would start making their way to their Christmas lunches. Usually he liked this time of year, when London steadily relaxed to a slightly drunken stop.
On Holland Park he stood for a long time looking up at Marina’s flat. He had bought flowers around the corner; the florist had suggested lilies. Behind the house ran the high brick wall that Lock had climbed to escape into the park just a week before. Webster imagined the congestion in this quiet street that night: Lock’s bodyguards, Black’s men, the third car, all lined up to keep one poor lawyer in check. The third car should have told him. He shook his head, disgusted with himself.
Had Lock known how much he was fleeing from that night, perhaps he wouldn’t have looked back. If Webster had shown him the unseemly queue of people waiting on his every move, perhaps he would have braved Switzerland, changed his name, made it to some untraceable speck in the Pacific. Gotten away.
But this is where they would have found him. Eventually. Lock was too weak to endure his exile alone forever. As I would be, thought Webster. As any decent man would be. Any sane man. They would have found him through Marina, and the ending would have been the same.
He sighed, and tried to smooth the hair on the top of his head. If I am sane. If I am decent. He checked his tie and walked up the path to Marina’s door.
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