“Do you have an invitation?” one asked.
“I haven’t brought it. I’m Mr. Devereux. Alexei Devereux.”
The women were suddenly more attentive. They stared at him. “Mr. Devereux?”
“That’s correct.” Belsey smiled and rattled his watch. He could hear a lot of voices ahead, a string quartet, the bubbling of expensive laughter and the gentle chiming of champagne glasses. Quarter past one. The party didn’t show any signs of winding down. The younger of the women touched her hair and her friend smiled at him hungrily.
“Mr. Devereux, we’re so pleased to see you,” she said.
“I’m pleased to be here.”
They ticked him off a list. The strings stopped playing because someone was making a speech.
“Please,” the woman said. “I think you’ll find everything you need in the ballroom.”
“Thank you.”
Belsey walked through a pair of tall, polished doors. The ballroom was ostentatious even by the standards of ballrooms, with a sea battle on the ceiling and gilt-framed nobility in full length around the walls. A hundred people stood on the chequered floor, which made the room half full. One florid man in a tuxedo and tight silver waistcoat had taken to the stage and was making a slurred speech. A banner across the ceiling said “The City Children’s Fund,” with gold and black helium-filled balloons nudging the stucco and chandeliers. The crowd bunched in groups of four or six beneath them, listening to the speech, with conspicuous security standing alone, earpieces in, hands behind their backs. Uniformed catering staff circulated with champagne. Belsey took a glass.
It was a hard crowd to read: wealthy, international, too glamorous for straight politics and too stiff to suggest many knew one another; a lot of Arabs, a lot of East Asians, a few white-haired men a little worse for wear with bow ties and a few expensively dressed women.
The speech droned on.
“We might turn instead to our ancestors for wisdom and I am grateful, my Lord Mayor, for your recent reminder at last month’s Finance Committee dinner, of the advice of Cicero over two thousand years ago. ‘The budget should be balanced, the Treasury should be refilled and public debt should be reduced.’ ”
Belsey looked for the Lord Mayor and didn’t see him. He downed his champagne, took another glass and continued through a door at the other end. He wandered the house, into side rooms with cabinets of silverware and portraits of women in silk. Belsey idly contemplated stealing something. He couldn’t see sensors. A ripple of applause spilled through the polished corridors. He returned to the ballroom, hoping to stand near some conversations and discover what it was Devereux had meant to attend. Then the inevitable happened.
“Have you come far?”
“Not too far,” Belsey said.
The man cornering him wore a military uniform with medals. He had very fine grey hair combed back to reveal a glistening scalp. He searched Belsey’s person in vain for some identifying marks.
“How are you involved with the Children’s Fund?” he asked.
“I work for AD Development. We’re just over from St. Petersburg.”
“Oh, St. Petersburg is meant to be beautiful.”
“It is.”
“Been in the UK before?”
“I grew up here.”
“Whereabouts?”
“London.”
“Well!” This seemed to delight the man.
“What a great venue,” Belsey said. “For the Fund.”
“It housed political prisoners, you know.”
“Really?”
“During the war. Here and Camberley House.”
“Lucky prisoners.”
Another man approached, stooped, with a champagne glint in his eye. The officer grabbed his arm.
“Richard, this man works for AD Development,” he said. He looked at Belsey. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jack,” Belsey said.
“Jack,” the military officer told his friend.
“Jack,” the friend said. “Max has told us all about your company.” He shook Belsey’s hand. “Your generous donation.”
“This is Sir Richard Green,” the officer explained.
“Call me Dick,” Green said.
“I’ve heard a lot about you too, Dick,” Belsey said. He wondered who Max was.
“I want you to know you have our support.” Sir Richard gripped Belsey’s elbow. He looked like a smooth bastard.
“Thank you.”
“What do you think of London?” he asked.
“He grew up here,” the officer explained.
“To be honest, I’ve had enough of it,” Belsey said.
“They say if you are tired of London you are tired of life.” Sir Richard smiled blandly.
“I’m tired of life in London.”
“Never live in a place you love,” the officer announced. “You’ll only be disappointed. Live somewhere you don’t care for. My daughter lives in Hungary. They don’t require you to like the country, and if you did they’d be slightly disappointed.” He laughed. A girl with a tray appeared. “Have another drink,” he said to Belsey.
“Thank you.” Belsey swapped his empty glass for a full one. He heard a loud, nasal laugh and saw, across the room, the silver waistcoat—the speechmaker—surrounded by men in black tie, all laughing.
“Who’s that?” Belsey said.
“The Chamberlain, Milton Granby.” The officer lowered his voice. “He’s been under some strain recently.”
Belsey turned again and stared. Well, well, he thought, what a turn-up: a man with a hole in his accounts. Granby’s white hair offset a bright red face. It was an unfortunate combination but it didn’t stop him commanding his surroundings. He had his chest thrust out and he carried himself on the balls of his feet, as if to achieve an extra few inches of height. It had the paradoxical effect of making him seem smaller than he was, someone who didn’t occupy the volume of space that his status deserved. Belsey wondered what to make of his presence.
“What kind of strain?” Belsey asked.
“Oh, the pressures of public office. I heard you collect art, is that right?”
“Not so much anymore,” Belsey said. “Excuse me, I’m going to get some air.”
He lifted a full bottle of red and three glasses from a table by the door and stepped out onto a flagstoned walkway with views of a long, dark lawn. Belsey followed it around the building to the back of the kitchen, where the catering team were laughing and smoking.
“Here, this is from the boss.” He gave them the bottle and glasses. “He thinks you’re doing great.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you have a cigarette?”
One of them gave him a cigarette. He leaned against the grey stone of the house. “I’m here with a friend. I don’t even know what it’s about.”
They looked at Belsey as if he should really be able to tell them that.
“Well, there’s not many children here,” a red-haired girl said finally.
“And we’re a long way out from the City,” another added, a thin boy with blond stubble and cynical eyes.
“What do you mean?”
No one answered.
“What’s Milton Granby got to do with it?” Belsey asked.
“He seems to like the wine,” one said.
“I think he’s the City,” the blond boy suggested.
“And we’re the children,” another said. They laughed, but not like people having a good time.
Belsey walked back to the garden. He imagined for a moment he was Devereux: Devereux, sought by all, understood by none, having a moment to himself. He imagined this was how Devereux played it, turning up late, unannounced, as if he was no one. What would he contemplate as he wandered the grounds? History? The stars? Milton Granby, maybe. Milton Granby’s one of the most powerful men in the Square Mile and no one’s heard of him. And he’s corrupt, that’s what I’m saying. I’m not just interested in screwing him for a drinks problem .
. . Who sent Charlotte to Les Ambassadeurs?
He followed a path to a pond with fountains, a long tray of black water with a sheltered pagoda at one end and stone vases with stone flowers in them along the side. From here you could see the lights of the M1. When he was briefly sleeping with a drama teacher in Luton, Belsey would cadge lifts from motorway police up and down the road. You got a lot of what they called walkers, illegal immigrants who had been dumped in motorway service areas. The police would find them on the hard shoulder, wandering, utterly confused. The music started again. Belsey finished his cigarette, looking back at the house, and felt a brief, bittersweet guilt at squeezing Devereux’s life for its last drops of privilege when the man himself had so clearly been done with it. The house was beautiful but it was not his party. One guest paced furiously on the front drive, dark hair, navy blazer with gold buttons, deep tan, a phone stuck to his ear. Belsey had seen him in the crowd around Granby. Right now he was having difficulty getting reception, checking his phone, checking his watch. Eventually he put the phone away, went over to the two women on the door and spoke to them, then turned to stare at Belsey.
Belsey stepped out of the lights and returned, through shadows, into the cover of the house. It was a little messy now. The organisers were trying to steer unsteady couples towards their rooms. The rest of the partygoers had gathered in the ballroom, where the trays now bore empties and the tables were being cleared. Some old boys were smoking on the front steps. Belsey bumped into Sir Richard Green.
“Jack.” He grabbed Belsey’s elbow.
“Dick.”
“I just met someone who knows you from St. Petersburg. You must come and say hello.”
Belsey felt a jab of foreboding and decided it was time for an exit. Sir Richard was leading him into the main room where a short, bald man and a large woman in a white dress were waiting.
“OK,” Belsey said. “Let me get a drink. Do you want a drink?”
He turned out of Sir Richard’s grip, walked through the hall to the kitchen and through the kitchen to a small window that looked out to the garden. He climbed through and continued around the side of the house to the waiting cars.
“Let’s go,” Belsey said to his driver.
Someone ran across the gravel towards him. It was the guest with the blazer and the bad reception. Up close he was a giant of a man.
“Who are you?” the man demanded. His voice was deep, with a little rasp. Central or Eastern European.
“Why?” Belsey said.
“Are you Alexei Devereux?”
“Is there a problem?” Belsey asked. The man looked uncertain. Belsey felt uncertain. He decided to play it safe. “I represent Mr. Devereux. On behalf of AD Development.”
“We meet at last.” It was said with dark triumph. “Max Kovar.” He spoke in a clipped way, as if he resented speaking at all and expected hired people to roll the words out for him. But his eyes had a fire to them. They looked too long and too hard. Kovar wore black leather gloves and now he plucked the right one off.
“Max, at last,” Belsey said. Kovar pumped his hand, as if working some machinery on which their relationship would embark. “I’m on my way out of here, though. I’m sorry.” He found Devereux’s wallet and removed a business card. “Do you have these details? You can call me tomorrow.”
Kovar frowned at the AD Development card. “You’re his assistant?”
“That’s right. I’m helping him settle into the UK.”
“Oh. Yes.” Kovar pocketed the card and shouted at the catering staff. “Bring us a bottle of champagne and glasses.”
Drinks in the parking lot, Belsey thought. It seemed like Kovar wanted Belsey to himself. A girl brought them a bottle and glasses, served with the air of someone who was meant to clock off two hours ago. Kovar watched her walk away. Then he turned to Belsey and poured the drinks.
“Your boss is a hard man to get hold of,” Kovar said, holding two glasses in one gloved hand.
“He always says, if you can’t get hold of him he probably doesn’t want to speak to you.” Belsey laughed. He took his glass and watched Kovar’s smile freeze. “I’m kidding. Mr. D has heard good things about you.”
“He has?”
“Yes. I’ve got to run in a second, though.”
“You cut me out,” Kovar said abruptly.
Belsey tried to read him. He couldn’t place the accent: mid-European, with a touch of transatlantic. Generally offshore. If anonymous accounts could speak they would probably sound like Max Kovar. An expensive scent of pine and leather emanated from his person. No strong alcohol on his breath. He carried himself with the blunt arrogance of someone who was both rich and large.
“Perhaps we could speak for a moment,” Kovar said. “Take a walk.”
“We’re speaking,” Belsey said. “Let’s walk.”
They made their way to the sunken garden, slowly circling the pond. The temperature was plummeting now. The pond had gained a thin film of ice. It was a clear night, with a lot of stars. Their breath clouded around their faces.
“Don’t trust Buckingham,” Kovar said.
Belsey nodded. “You don’t think so?”
“If I were you I’d shake free of him. I do my business tidily. Buckingham is a fool. I was disappointed to hear you were in discussions with him.”
“We discuss things with people, it doesn’t always mean anything.”
“I know this territory.”
“Of course.”
“Buckingham’s a fly-by-night, a criminal.”
“OK.”
They walked to the pagoda and turned. Kovar put his glass down and took a knife from his pocket. Then he produced a cigar. Kovar chopped the cigar and lit it with a silver lighter. They were a couple of hundred yards away from everyone. The smoke hung blue and steady in the cold air.
“I’m only over here for a few days,” Kovar said. “Then I’m off again.”
“That’s a pity.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” He nodded. “Did Mr. Devereux get my letter?”
“I’m sure he did. He’s not very good at correspondence. I’m sure you understand.”
“I was disappointed he couldn’t find time to meet me.”
“He’s so busy.”
“You know it is a sector close to my heart.”
“Of course.”
“And there is so much room for growth.”
“Yes.”
“We both know that. You would find it easier working with me.” He handed over a business card and looked away as he did it, as if embarrassed. The statement hung in the air. It was a threat, Belsey could tell that much. “When I’m in London I stay at the Lanesborough.”
“It’s meant to be a good hotel.”
“Let me tell you something,” Kovar said. “I see myself as an artist first, a businessman second. I’m like Mr. Devereux in that respect.” Kovar’s sly face looked pleased with the words coming out of it.
“I can see that about you,” Belsey said.
“I think the beauty of our line of work is that we introduce new things into the world.”
“Yes.”
“People call us gamblers. Yes. There are men who make the right guesses. But very often they are the ones who have determined the outcome.”
“They’re the men I don’t play cards with,” Belsey said.
Kovar slapped him on the back.
“I have confidence in your boss. I don’t have confidence in many men. Seize the crisis. That’s what you say, isn’t it?”
“Every morning.” Belsey could hear his old St. Petersburg acquaintances approaching and wanted to be on the move. Kovar raised his champagne, gripping it, white-knuckled.
“To Project Boudicca,” he said. He said it like someone who has discovered something meant to be secret. He winked, waiting, as if it was time for Belsey to grant him admission. Belsey tried to see his face more clearly in the shadows. He could make out teeth, which might have been a smile or a snarl. He made ou
t that dark glimmer behind the eyes.
“Boudicca,” Belsey said, and they touched glasses.
33
He was out of the grounds in minutes, back in the comforting speed of a Mercedes.
“Drop me at Hampstead police station,” Belsey said when they were approaching Golders Green. The driver looked at him again, but didn’t say anything. “You know where it is?” Belsey said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s get some speed on.”
The night had emptied. Mist wound its way around Hampstead’s brickwork. A panda car crawled through the empty streets, fog lights on. That would be PCs Andrews and Robinson, Belsey thought, probably silent together, thinking of their families. He had moved past tiredness, on his own night duty. He had always thrived on it: the brief moment when the sleepless gained possession of all; when the nocturnal made their plans.
The Merc pulled up on Rosslyn Hill. Belsey checked the police station windows. The first-floor lights were off.
“It’s all on the account?”
“It’s all on the account.”
“Thank you.” Belsey got out. He wondered if you were expected to tip chauffeurs. “Here.” Belsey offered him Devereux’s fake Rolex. “You’ve been excellent.”
“No, sir. Please.” The driver declined the gift. Belsey waited as he drove off, then put the watch back on and headed into the station.
Three forty-five a.m. A civilian worker sat in the canteen, in the light of a muted TV. Occasionally a man in one of the cells would break into a few lines of song. Belsey climbed the stairs to the CID office. He left the lights off and turned on his computer.
Max Kovar had no domestic criminal record but he came up flagged on an international list, linked with a racetrack operator who shot his accountant in Berlin on New Year’s Eve 2003. There was an investigation into some of Kovar’s Madrid property deals the following year, involving a local official found at the bottom of a swimming pool, but no charges. Kovar was found in possession of seven doctored horse passports on the border of the United Arab Emirates, 23 June 2007, but he was shifting stallions sold to him by the Al Nhayan royal family and didn’t even have to pay a fine.
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