Red to Black f-1

by Alex Dryden

  Finn pauses and looks at the surface of the table, as if at some imaginary stain. Hutzger is the name he’s heard from Dieter a year before, the man who laid the false trail for the German intelligence services in their investigation into Exodi.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, what do you know about him?’ Jean-Claude asks sourly.

  ‘We believe he has contacts with the KGB,’ Finn says.

  For the first time, Jean-Claude looks wrong-footed.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Finn doesn’t reply.

  Jean-Claude replaces the brandy glass on the table and stares at Finn.

  ‘Show me that’s true,’ he says at last.

  ‘Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. But with your help I can do a lot more than that. Putin’s personal funds are a sideshow. I need you, Troll. I need your help.’

  There is no indication of assent or otherwise.

  ‘I have a friend in the mountains,’ Jean-Claude says. ‘He makes one wristwatch a year. Just one. He spends ten, twelve hours a day perhaps, for a whole year and makes one watch. Then he sells it for two or three hundred thousand dollars. I love this man. He’s a perfectionist, there is madness in him. Switzerland is a perfectionist country, if you hadn’t noticed. It has perfected the art of looking after other people’s money. There are more people employed in Switzerland with the sole purpose of hiding money than there are coal miners in Ukraine. The Swiss are genetically programmed to hide things. The lines of banks along the lake and all the ones dotted around the cantons are just the physical manifestation of what is going on inside their heads.’

  He looks directly at Finn. ‘Apart from my house, have you ever been invited into the house of a Swiss out in the mountains?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You see. They hide everything, even when there’s nothing to hide except IKEA furniture. They can’t help it, it’s a disease.’

  ‘And where there are perfectly hidden things there are also people who are perfect at finding them,’ Finn says.

  ‘Exactly,’ the Troll says proudly. ‘You make one thing and you make its opposite at the same time. That is normal. Bullets and armour; missiles and radar; tax laws and tax evasion; life and death.’

  ‘That’s why I want your help.’

  ‘But will you hide things from me too? I know you and your profession.’

  ‘You’ll have everything I have.’

  ‘Then I’ll help you.’

  He doesn’t question Finn’s word.

  Jean-Claude rummages in his knapsack and takes out a videotape.

  ‘There,’ he says. ‘That’s my documentary which Swiss TV has refused to broadcast. Look at it soon. But you must go to Liechtenstein. Speak to Pablo in Vaduz. You know Pablo?’

  ‘I’ve met him with you.’

  ‘He has an interesting story about Hutzger.’

  ‘Is Pablo like us?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. I think he can’t help playing both sides. That’s his disease.’

  ‘Thank you, Jean-Claude.’

  Once again the Troll looks at Finn in amazement. He has no concept of gratitude.

  ‘I need something very specific from you, Troll,’ Finn says. ‘There’s a set of companies. They’re called Exodi, and there’s one of them here in Geneva. I want to know whatever you can find for me about Exodi in Geneva.’

  ‘Exodi?’ the Troll murmurs. ‘No. I don’t know it. Call on me in a week and we’ll see where we are.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Finn says.

  Finn sits on a stone bench by the neatly landscaped quay reserved for Lake Geneva’s pleasure boats. Here the lake narrows to the width of a bridge span and runs off through a lock and into the Rhone.

  He watches the man in the light brown polo shirt and Burberry slacks who ushers two small children in front of him and on to the ferry. Sergei must have seen the strip of black tape on his car screen within an hour of Finn leaving it there.

  The Russian has been waiting on the far side of the road from the quay, buying ice creams and balloons for the kids until the ferry is almost ready to depart. He joins the end of the now-depleted queue, so he will know there is nobody boarding behind him- or, if anybody does board, he will have a picture of a face clearly in his mind. And he will know to abort.

  But nobody comes on behind him and the ferry churns the water with its bow propeller and, crablike, leaves the quay in a white wash, heading up the lake for several stops on the way to Vevey.

  Finn notes the ferry’s destination again, folds the tourist map he’s needlessly carrying, stands up and tucks it into a back pocket. He walks across the intersection of three roads that filter towards the bridges that join Geneva’s two parts at the lake’s apex and picks up the one taxi that stands at the rank.

  They wind out of Geneva to the east and pass through its satellite towns and villages that dot the lake. He pays off the taxi a few miles before his destination and takes a bus the rest of the way.

  The restaurant stands on a sloping lawn that meets the lake in a grass beach. Nearby is a quay where the ferry stops on the way up the lake. There is a large worn-out play area administered by two young women, probably itinerant workers from Eastern Europe. There is plenty of brightly coloured plastic equipment to amuse the children while their parents eat or drink in a modest wooden building that opens only in the summer.

  Sergei sits by the window, facing towards the road with the beautiful lake view behind him.

  ‘You were quick,’ Finn says, and sits down.

  ‘You were slow,’ Sergei says. ‘We don’t have a lot of time. Life here isn’t so safe for me any more. Not since Dobby’s been in power.’

  Sergei uses the insulting KGB nickname for President Putin, a name taken from Harry Potter’s goblin.

  Sergei had come up through the Forest’s training school at the same time as me. In 1992 he started a trading company in Moscow which imported sugar at first, then branched out into other foodstuffs. He became acquainted with the trading floors of Western Europe, made his millions and then moved to Geneva.

  After Yeltsin had made Putin his prime minister and when the various KGB clans rivalled each other to put their man in position to win the elections, Sergei was working on behalf of one of Putin’s opponents, one of the KGB’s four or five chosen candidates to win the elections, before the list was finally whittled down to Putin. Sergei ended up funding a losing candidate.

  A successful businessman, now worth several hundred million, Sergei continued his work as a KGB informer and reported directly to the KGB’s officer at the Russian delegation of the United Nations in Geneva. Sergei was riding high in Geneva for several years, making millions from KGB-backed trading contracts and his own private business. But his one mistake- a mistake that was to cost him and many others dear- was that he had backed the wrong horse. His candidate was now an ordinary MP in the Russian Duma and Putin was president.

  ‘Things will pass,’ Finn says. ‘Just ride it out, Sergei.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’m under surveillance but safe, or on the list and not safe,’ the Russian replies. ‘That’s how they like it best. Keeping everyone in fear.’

  ‘How bad is it?’ Finn says.

  ‘Terrible. The Petersburg clan are triumphant in their victory last year. Putin himself, Ivanov, Sechin–the lot of them. And now they’re ironing out their enemies-or anyone they feel like ironing out. Not just in Moscow either. They’re already turning to the outside world. Putin’s Petersburg clan-these damn Peterski-they’re even more ruthless than we thought.’

  Sergei gulps from a plastic glass of transparent liquor.

  ‘They’re putting out contracts, for Christ’s sake,’ he continues. ‘It’s not enough that Putin’s won, now they want to erase anyone who’s got under their skin. I put nearly five million dollars on the losing ticket in the election campaign and now my whole fucking body’s above the parapet.’

  Sergei drinks heavily again from the plastic tumbler and leans across
the table to Finn.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here. You know, I may want to come over. Maybe it’s my only choice now.’ He sits back. ‘I hear you’ve left Moscow. You’ve got trouble too?’

  Finn thinks about suggesting that Sergei go to the Americans as a safer haven, rather than the British. But he needs Sergei where he is for now, in the field, not in some CIA safe house in Connecticut on a two-year debriefing.

  ‘No, no trouble,’ Finn says. ‘Just a change of job.’

  A waitress comes and takes Finn’s order for a glass of wine and another vodka for Sergei.

  ‘We can take you in, of course,’ Finn lies. ‘But now’s not a good time. Give it a few months when we can demonstrate more clearly what Putin’s doing. Then my people in London will really appreciate your value. But I need your help for that. Right now you’ll be coming up against my government’s love affair with Putin.’

  ‘I can’t last much longer like this,’ the Russian says plaintively, and Finn watches the alcoholic self-pity well up in his face. ‘They’re watching me, sticking pins in me, hounding me. An article appeared in Izvestia, naming me in some scandal. Inspired, of course, by the dogs in Putin’s clan. There are people in his clan who hate me in Moscow.’

  ‘But, as you say, Sergei, they’re putting the frighteners on everyone, not just you. What they want you to do is run. That will prove your treachery. And then they catch you before you can get to safety.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘I’ll help you when it’s time,’ Finn says, lying easily again. He has no power to help Sergei or anyone else.

  ‘Putin has spent a year gathering Russia’s money,’ Sergei continues. ‘It’s going to be a great harvest. He’s put all his own people into the state economy, the state oil companies, where they drain a fat percentage for themselves on the inside. And the oligarchs, our once-new independent businessmen, are now cap in hand. They’re all afraid, even the most powerful. Putin has told them they must share their wealth. Share it with the KGB, with the Forest, of course, but not with the country. Geneva, you wouldn’t believe it! It’s crawling with operatives. Back in Moscow they’re activating agents who’ve been asleep for years. There are sting operations against certain banks…’

  ‘Which banks?’

  ‘Which ones? There are half a dozen. All old KGB sympathisers who have long fallen into disuse. Asleep.’

  Finn says nothing.

  ‘A month ago,’ Sergei says, leaning in towards Finn again, ‘the president of the Banque Leman was invited to Moscow. He has a weakness from a long time back. But this time they photographed him indulging in this weakness–for underage girls–in an apartment in the city. Now they use the pictures to tell him what to do.’

  ‘What’s new?’ Finn says.

  ‘This is what’s new. The regime isn’t only interested in funding the Forest’s operations abroad any more. It has very big plans, very big money from business, mafia sources, billions. There are accounts being opened up in the Banque Leman in the name of foreigners who hold very senior positions in the West. So they say. Bribe money is bottomless. That’s just one bank. There are others.’

  ‘Why’s it different from their normal Forest operations?’ Finn says calmly.

  ‘This time they plan to use their vast capital like the West does,’ Sergei says. ‘They’re in a no-limit poker game with the markets as the pot.’

  The small children Finn has seen with Sergei on the quay earlier run into the restaurant and look at Finn.

  ‘What’s the name of this bank’s president?’ Finn says.

  ‘Naider. Clement Naider.’

  ‘Can you get me the pictures, the photographs with these underage girls your side has of him?’ Finn says.

  ‘You ask too much,’ Sergei says. ‘I tell you, I’m watched.’

  One of the boys tugs his arm and his brother comes in to join them.

  ‘I’m taking too big a risk just by being here. I have to go,’ Sergei says. ‘You will help me?’

  ‘Soon. When it’s time. I need the pictures, Sergei,’ Finn says. ‘Naider and the girls.’

  ‘No more now please.’

  Finn stands up as Sergei does. ‘I’ll help you if you do this,’ Finn promises. ‘We’ll have you in a nice big house in Surrey, near Boris, all yours, with a brand new passport.’

  ‘There isn’t much time for me,’ Sergei says, and drinks back the tumbler of vodka. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Finn leans in to the Russian.

  ‘No one’s interested in helping you, Sergei,’ Finn says harshly. ‘Not us, not the Americans. They’re in bed with Putin. If you want me to get you out, find the pictures.’

  Beads of sweat break out across the Russian’s forehead. Then he takes the boy’s hand and leaves the restaurant without a word.

  Finn watches the small boy looking back at him. Who’s that man, he seems to hear him say. They step out on to the warm lawn, and Finn wonders how much grace Sergei really does have left with the Kremlin.

  20

  I WAKE EARLY the next morning unable to sleep, the worst night since Finn disappeared ten days ago. It is Thursday, the beginning of the third day since my arrival in Tegernsee, and outside the town fills with market shoppers.

  At first I don’t know where I am, then I see Finn’s journal and then the mountains beyond the window. My first thought is of Finn, and then of Mikhail.

  Apart from the pink house, Mikhail was the one secret Finn had kept from me, and I thought the clue to Finn’s disappearance might lie not just here in Tegernsee, but in the identity of Mikhail.

  Somewhere down in the cellar, I am sure, Finn would have left something that explained Mikhail. Until I have searched for this, the deepest secret of Finn’s, I know I can’t concentrate on anything else.

  I take the book back down to the cellar, lock everything, and leave to find breakfast. There is nothing to eat or drink in the house except some half-empty liquor bottles. I walk to a small café, up near Schmidtke’s house on the Graubstrasse, a few hundred yards away, and try to eat a croissant, but eventually I can’t postpone my sense of rising anticipation. I take the croissant and a cup of coffee and return to the house, buying a few supplies on my way back.

  I descend to the cellar again, shutting everything up behind me, and light the oil stove. First I take the pile of Finn’s books that I have yet to read and flick through them, but I don’t expect Mikhail to be so easily discovered. Mikhail would be special, separate, if Finn had acknowledged Mikhail at all in his records. Mikhail would not be someone anyone could discover when they eventually found the pink house. How would Finn leave a record of Mikhail?

  The cellar contains very little: a table where Finn seems to have edited some of the books before depositing them here, a small, empty metal filing cabinet, a rolled-up carpet that looks as if it hasn’t been moved for years, some odds and ends from a plumbing job- offcuts of plastic pipe and a tub of hardened white paste–a waste-paper basket filled with screwed-up paper, a rickety chair with a reed seat, dust, endless dust, and an empty picture frame.

  I begin to look at everything and the more I look the more I know that Mikhail won’t be here. If Finn had written about Mikhail at all, there would at least be a clue here. And the clue, I knew, would be something that I, and only I, would understand.

  I check the cellar completely and am covered with dust, then finally I empty the waste-paper basket and begin unscrewing the paper. It is mostly old envelopes and scraps of paper torn from his books with a single word on them, or a sentence, or nothing at all. I examine each one and can get no answer from any of the scribbled notes. When I unscrew a piece of paper near the bottom of the basket, a single sheet, I see that one line is written on it.

  It is underlined, like a title, and reads Bride of the Wind. I stare at it. There is nothing else. I swiftly turn out the rest of the basket, unscrewing all the remaining paper, but they are all blank. There is nothing else as clear as this one sheet.<
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  I turn off the oil heater and ascend the wooden steps again, open the metal door and shut it firmly behind me. I draw the false wall across it, with its built-in fireplace, check the ornaments on the mantelpiece, and assure myself that all is as it should be.

  Then I put on my coat and woolly hat and, clutching the paper in a ball, leave the house again for the second time in two hours.

  Down along the path by the lake where I’d walked the night before to the gasthaus, a brittle layer of ice creeps a few feet into the water. There is a clear sky, it is bitterly cold, and the snow on the path has frozen into crusts. I walk fast to keep warm and because it suits my sense of urgency.

  I come to the first of three lidos, closed up for the winter, the water frozen solid in the man-made harbours. There is a metal rail fence around the lido, and inside the fence plastic covers are pulled over some refreshment stalls.

  By the path, there is a low metal gate in the fence, shut with a chain and padlock. By the gate is a wooden pillbox to fit one person to take the money and dispense the tickets when the lido is open. The stand is closed up with padlocked stable doors.

  It is easy to step over the gate. The fence and the gate are there just to deter summer visitors from entering the lido unnoticed, without paying. I walk past the pillbox ticket office, across the icy wood surface and past the boarded-up refreshment stands.

  Behind them, on a broad wooden slatted deck area, are several dozen upturned rowing boats, sailing dinghies, tenders for larger boats anchored in the lake for the summer–nything that their owners had too little space or too much money to bother to take home with them at the end of the season. Most are covered, but the blue plastic covers are stretched across the hulls in such a way that I can pick out the boats’ names written on the bow or on the transom.

  I walk up and down the rows of boats, pausing to look at names, and lift the flap of a hanging cover, here and there, for a better sight. I translate the mostly German names, the type of silly, fond names that people give boats: Our Boys, Jaws, Titanic, Beautiful Melinda. By the time I reach the end of the last row, I have spent nearly an hour and am cold again. Every name I stop to study; I turn them this way and that, trying to see another meaning, another message from Finn. But it is no good. I leave the lido and hurry further up the path and into the gasthaus for warmth and coffee.