Belsey watched the tapes again. Whoever he was, he was looking for something. He searched systematically, moving through all the rooms, but he lingered longest in the study.
He stopped the tape and went downstairs and retraced the ghost’s steps. What was he searching for? Belsey crouched to the floor in the study, as the ghost had. When had he been crawling around here before? The watch. He straightened, looking at his wrist and wondering how valuable a fake Rolex could be. Worth breaking back into existence to retrieve? He took it off and looked for an inscription but there was nothing.
Something was closing in. This was clear now. His hours in London were numbered. Belsey wanted a passport in his pocket. He wanted to know he could move fast whatever happened with Kovar. The phone rang. Belsey unplugged it, then plugged it back in and called the B&B where he’d last been staying.
“Have you got a contact number for Siddiq Sahar? He was there last month.”
The B&B had a mobile number for him. Belsey called and the new wife answered.
“Oh yes, Nick.”
“Can I speak to Siddiq?”
He came on the line. “Nicky, my friend.”
“I need papers.”
“You want papers?”
“A passport and ID.”
“You sound bad, man. Very bad.”
“I’ve been better.”
There was a brief pause; then, in a low, measured voice Belsey had not heard him use before, Siddiq gave an address on Green Lanes.
“Take two passport photos. Ask for a man called Hasan Duzgun. Say I sent you. You will need fifteen hundred in cash.”
“Fifteen hundred.”
“If he is not there, wait and he will come. I will tell them to expect you.”
Belsey had nine hundred pounds or so remaining but he was ready to haggle.
Belsey knew of the Duzguns. They were a sprawling family with ties to the Turkish mafia. Their London activities were a model of political tolerance, working with the Kurdish to import heroin and with the Greeks to trade black-market cigarettes. Belsey placed a call to Operation Mandolin from the Peugeot’s car phone as he drove north. Mandolin was Haringey’s specialist task force, given the job of monitoring the Turkish and Kurdish communities since a string of shootings a couple of months back. He got hold of DS Simon Walters.
“Hasan Duzgun,” Belsey said. “Is he selling passports?”
“Yes.”
“Good ones?”
“Good as they come. Fresh from a printer’s in Wolverhampton.”
“What’s the going rate?”
“About two grand for a full set of papers.”
“Is he currently under observation?”
“No.”
Belsey drove through Holloway to Haringey. He found a photo booth in Manor House tube station and drew the curtain. Father, I have sinned. He looked severe, the monochrome mirage in the glass reduced his face to bloodless skin and dark grey hollows. A sign said not to smile if it was for a passport. He had two sets taken, one with his coat, one without and with his hair messed up. While he waited for them to appear he took a torn envelope from a bin and transferred the last nine hundred pounds from the shopping bag to the envelope. It left two lonely twenties in his possession. He wrote a date of birth and a fake address on the back of the envelope. The photos appeared. He headed down Green Lanes.
The address he’d been given was a social club with brown shades over its windows and no apparent name. The interior consisted of three plastic tables, six old men, a pool table and not much else.
“Is Hasan Duzgun here?” Belsey said.
The men looked up. Belsey was nodded through a doorway into a back room. Card tables stood in neat rows, covered with paper tablecloths and lit by bare bulbs. Behind the farthest one sat an obese man with a full ashtray and the remains of his meal on a plate. He had large brown eyes. He gestured to the seat across from him and Belsey sat down. The table was small. Their knees touched. The man raised two fat fingers and a moment later two thimble-sized glasses of mint tea arrived. A grey curtain was drawn across the doorway to the front.
“You know Siddiq.”
“That’s right,” Belsey said. “He told me you could help.”
“How do you know him?”
“We shared some temporary accommodation.”
“How is he?”
“He’s very well. He just got married. I need a passport and a driver’s licence.”
The fat man nodded. “Why do you want papers?” he asked.
“I lost mine.”
“Sure. It will cost you fifteen hundred pounds.”
Belsey reached into his jacket and took the envelope out and placed it on the table.
“That’s nine hundred. I’ll give you the rest when I see the papers.” Duzgun raised his eyebrows at this. “I want them in the name of Jack Steel,” Belsey said. “I want a UK passport, not Honduras or some crap from the Internet. I need something that will scan at an airport.”
Duzgun didn’t look at the envelope. He dropped two sugar cubes into his tea using small gold tongs. He stirred and it sounded like a bell ringing. Belsey did the same. They sipped their tea in silence.
“This is a good country,” the man said.
“It’s great.”
“Peaceful. Lots of money.”
“I love that about it,” Belsey said.
“To the British, two things are very important: politeness and respect.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Where are you from?”
“Lewisham, originally.”
“Why do you want these?”
“There’s nine hundred pounds on the table. I didn’t think I had to have an interview.”
“How did you get here?”
“Here? I drove.” The conversation was breaking down. Belsey needed to leave. “A good passport, not new, but valid for a while,” he said. “And a driver’s licence, ten years old. I want you to use the different pictures for them.” He got up.
“You know a lot about this.”
“That’s right. When can I collect them?”
“Two days, maybe three.”
“I need them tomorrow. Get them to me tomorrow and I’ll give you another seven hundred,” Belsey said. Duzgun reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a toothpick. He thought about this.
“Come tomorrow afternoon. That is the earliest I can do. You come here.”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“I will be here, Jack Steel. You bring another seven hundred.” He watched Belsey leave. “Seven hundred,” he said at his back. “Or I hand you to police. They know me. It will cause trouble for you.”
39
Belsey changed a twenty and called Max Kovar’s mobile from a public phone in Archway Snooker Centre. The place was deserted. The speculator answered on the second ring.
“Is this line secure?” Belsey said.
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“Mr. Devereux is back now. He says he was sorry not to have met you the other night. He sends his regards.”
“Well, tell him I’m very honoured. Is he there?”
“He’s with someone. But he didn’t want to waste a moment. An opportunity has arisen.”
Kovar controlled his voice. He wasn’t a man to sound grateful or excited. “Well,” he said, “as I’ve made clear, it would be in your interest as well as my own.”
“Yes. That much is clear, I think.”
“I need details, however.”
“I’ll get you details. But we need big-game players here, Max. Men not afraid to step up. You understand me?”
“I think we understand each other.”
“Meet me later,” Belsey said.
“Will Mr. Devereux be there himself?”
“I hope so.”
“And he will tell me what I’m looking at?”
“Exactly.”
“Where will I find you?”
/> “The Rivoli bar at the Ritz,” Belsey said. The Rivoli was a mess of art deco glass and gold leaf. Belsey loved it. He had kept warm there plenty of times, wondering if he could afford a drink. He’d always wanted to do some business at the Rivoli.
“I know it,” Kovar said. “I have a dinner appointment, but that can be rearranged.”
“Keep your dinner appointment. We’ll be there around midnight.”
“Perfect.”
He hung up. Now he really needed to sort his act out. He called Ajay Khan.
“You said there was one guy who was talking up Devereux and Project Boudicca.”
“Emmanuel Gilman.”
“I need someone who can give me an indication of what Devereux was working on. I’d like to see what Emmanuel Gilman knows.”
“OK.” Khan sounded hesitant. “But Emmanuel’s in a strange place right now.”
“I need to speak to him. Can you arrange that?”
“Sure. I’ll tell him you’re a drug dealer.”
“And a policeman?”
“Exactly.”
“Where can I find him?”
He gave Belsey a Docklands address, a block of flats near Canada Water.
“Will he talk?” Belsey said.
“Oh, he’s talkative all right. Be gentle with the guy, Nick. Be careful.”
“What’s that meant to mean?”
“It means I don’t know what you’ll find.”
40
The last time Belsey saw docklands it was five in the morning and he was on his way home from a large, expensive night. It had appeared more impressive then, its cold artifice suiting his frame of mind. Belsey drove through the evening silence of Canada Water now and it still had the coldness with none of the glamour. Remnants of the Commercial Docks survived but most of that world had been destroyed. Half a century on, the place still felt Blitz-damaged: empty and stunned. Streetlights glimmered on imprisoned squares of river while converted warehouses stared blankly across from Wapping. Endless terraced apartments clustered to the mysterious luxury of water. Belsey wondered what he’d find.
Gilman’s block was the most grandiose of a garish bunch. It was called Sand Wharf and preserved an iron hoist, painted red, above the entrance to its underground parking lot. Belsey left the Peugeot above ground. A concierge waved him towards a lift with mirrors on every side. Belsey took it to the tenth floor and knocked. Four locks were undone with what sounded like shaking hands. Finally Gilman opened it on the chain and stared blankly through the gap.
“I’m a friend of Ajay Khan. I think he told you I was coming. I think we can help each other out.”
The synapses connected. A wild smile lit the fund manager’s face. The door shut and then swung open again.
“Nick, right? Praise be. Come in.” Gilman wore a running vest, shorts and trainers. He had the kind of blond good looks that wouldn’t age, but just find the material of which they were made start to waste away. There was a towel around his shoulders and he was sweating hard. He led Belsey into a front room with a rowing machine in the centre of the bare floorboards and a Kalashnikov on the black leather sofa. It made Belsey start. The blinds were down. Deodorant had just been sprayed. A mound of scribbled papers spilled from a glass coffee table to the floor.
“Welcome,” Gilman said. He collapsed back into the sofa and laid the gun across his lap. “Don’t be freaked out.”
“Would you mind if I was slightly perturbed?”
Gilman laughed. Belsey took a good look at his eyes. Pinned and pale. He looked like someone who hadn’t had their benzodiazepines today.
“It’s a piece of history.” Gilman stroked the barrel with long, thin fingers. “Have you ever used one?”
“Not since Leningrad. Can I see?”
Gilman handed it over.
“It’s been through the ranks of the Red Army, the Soviet-Afghan War, the Taliban uprising. It’s a history lesson in steel.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I can’t say.”
Belsey tried to imagine the supply chain; maybe the gun came through coke dealers, the City’s primary tie to the underworld, if you discounted the money laundering. Maybe there were entrepreneurial men doing a roaring trade selling AK–47s to disillusioned fund managers, like the Koreans who appear with boxes of umbrellas when it starts to rain.
“It’s a beauty,” Belsey said.
“I’ve got a cabinet,” Gilman said, “so you can’t arrest me.”
Belsey unlatched the magazine, took the safety lever off and pulled the bolt back to eject the remaining cartridge. He put the bullets on the table and handed the empty gun back.
“I never share a room with a banker and a loaded assault rifle. It’s one of my few rules.”
Gilman winced. “I’m not a banker.”
“You’re close enough.”
Belsey pulled up a beanbag and sat down. He saw, beside the sofa, a tub of protein powder and several blister packs of pills. The room had the cloying atmosphere of an infirmary.
“So, you’re a detective,” Gilman said.
“That’s right. I heard you lost your job.”
Gilman laughed. “I was the job. I got lost.”
“You sold up.”
“The game was over. All that was holy had been profaned, all that was solid melted into air.” He sighted the empty gun on the glass door to the roof terrace.
“Or into new investments?” Belsey said.
“What do you mean?”
Gilman’s phone rang. He checked and killed it.
“I’m curious about where it all went.”
“Where what went?”
“The leftovers. All the cash you got out.”
“Me too.” Gilman picked up the phone, rubbing the screen with his thumb, as if this might reveal the message he was waiting for. “Have you heard of the potlatch?”
“Never.”
“Opposing tribes—this is a tradition across the world, but mostly among Native Americans—opposing tribes have gatherings where they try to impress their rivals by destroying the most extravagant gifts they can afford. It’s a way of expressing honour. Could be anything from animal skins to burning their own village and killing all their slaves. That’s the gift.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Seriously.”
“It’s not all in cash, is it?” Belsey said. “Some of it got reinvested.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Alexei Devereux.”
Gilman stood up with the rifle and went to the next room. Belsey heard a metal cabinet close and a combination lock turn. He picked up some of the sheets on the coffee table but couldn’t make out a word. Beneath them was a red hardback copy of Plutarch’s Life of Alexander. He placed the sheets back. Gilman returned, unarmed, and sat down.
“What’s going on here?” Belsey said.
Gilman leafed through some of the dog-eared papers then appeared to forget what he was looking for. He stared at the mess.
“I’m writing a book,” Gilman said. “The history of war and intoxication.” He glanced up as if expecting Belsey to laugh. When he saw that Belsey wasn’t laughing he continued. “My argument is that it is impossible to understand the history of war without understanding drugs. Not just recent war. Alexander the Great and his troops were drunk from day to day. They were winos. They conquered the known world and probably didn’t remember they’d done it. The Aztecs drank pulque in the days before battle—it’s a beer made from cactus. The Scythians, the fiercest bastards in history, had an awful, awful weed habit. I’m not kidding you. Now eighty percent of the Afghan security force is addicted to heroin. History’s a hangover. Eighty percent . . . That’s what I’m trying to say, Nick. Can I call you Nick? You seem like an intelligent guy. I want you to read it when I’m done, tell me what you think.”
“It sounds a good idea. How about a book on Alexei Devereux?”
“How about it?” he said.
“
I’d like to read one of those.”
“Is that why you’re here? Is he under investigation?”
“If a company called AD Development was under investigation, how badly would you be exposed?”
“What makes you think I’m interested in them at all?”
“Because you know about them. You were shouting about them. And to know them is to love them, right?”
“Devereux’s the future. Everybody loves the future.” Gilman smiled.
“What does it look like?”
“You’d have to ask the man himself.”
Belsey stood up and walked over to the window. He moved a slat blind to the side.
“Don’t do that,” Gilman said.
The view extended to Surrey Quays Shopping Centre, and across the black river to the Isle of Dogs. It struggled to live up to its price tag. What you actually saw looked like toy town, with the ghosts of a local community passing through dark, deserted squares. It was time to shake the fund manager up a little.
“You can’t tell me about Devereux because you were shorting AD stock. You knew he was bankrupt and the whole thing was about to drop. A friend at the Financial Services Authority says you’ve stitched up half the Square Mile.”
Gilman laughed. “You’re good.” But he was unnerved. He stood beside Belsey at the window. His phone rang. He turned it off. “Is the Financial Services Authority saying that? I don’t think so.”
“Tell me about Project Boudicca. Everyone was talking about Boudicca, weren’t they?”
“Were they?”
“Sure they were,” Belsey said. “You couldn’t move in the Pitcher and Piano for it, the toilets of All Bar One, everywhere, talk of Devereux and his London project.” Belsey unlocked the door to the terrace and stepped out. He knocked on the window. “Does every flat come with bulletproof glass?”
“Can you please come inside?” Gilman said. Belsey tried to read the situation. He came in and slid the door shut.”Listen, Nick. The cupboards are bare. Do you have anything on you?”
“Not on me, but just minutes away.”
“Can we make that happen?” He took the tub of protein powder from the floor, unscrewed the cap and checked inside. Belsey glimpsed thick, soft bundles of paper money. Gilman put the cap back on.
Hollow Man Page 24
