‘Hi, Del,’ said Berlin. ‘Hope you’re having a good Christmas.’ She paused and considered how to deliver the news, not wishing to alarm him. ‘The job is fine,’ she continued. ‘I’ve just emailed you the first transcript. But some things have gone a bit pear-shaped. Call me as soon as you get this. I’m staying with Charlie Inkpin, so don’t try the hotel.’
She hung up and quickly banged out another email to him saying the same thing, just in case his phone was switched off.
Meanwhile, spam had piled into her inbox. There was one message from Magnus sent late on Christmas Eve. It read, ‘Where the fuck are you, old darling? Call me.’
Magnus didn’t trust email, or voicemail, for that matter, probably because he’d hacked into too many other people’s accounts. He wasn’t even that keen on the phone, preferring face to face in a pub.
Berlin reflected that since communication had become so fast, so ubiquitous and so insecure, the old ways were making a comeback. No doubt everyone would go back to dead letterboxes sooner or later. She had read that one of the Russian security agencies had bought a load of typewriters, to avoid electronic surveillance.
She tapped Magnus’s number on her contacts list and listened to his phone ring. And ring. And ring. She knew he would either answer or it would ring out. No voicemail.
The sound of a series of doors slamming heralded Charlie’s return. ‘We should get this show on the road,’ she announced.
Berlin hung up. She considered her crumpled, unwashed state. She hesitated, but decided it would have to do; she had used the toilet, an experience that had persuaded her not to enquire about a bath. She had changed her shirt. That would have to do.
She dumped the curtain that was draped around her shoulders, brushed off her suit, ran her fingers through her hair and trusted that the frigid air would kill any bacteria associated with unflattering odours.
Another interview and one more night in the House of Horrors.
Tomorrow she would be back in business class.
Charlie locked up behind them and followed Berlin down the broad marble staircase.
Berlin hadn’t mentioned her encounter with Utkin. Her hostess’s reaction when told that the police had taken Berlin’s passport was ample evidence that she had a problem with law enforcement. Berlin wasn’t going to take the risk of being dumped on the street.
‘By the way, I checked the British embassy website,’ said Berlin. ‘It says that if the embassy here is closed you should call the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London. But they’re closed too.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ said Charlie. ‘It is Boxing Day, you know. The embassy here pretends it’s really over there.’
They crossed the tiled marble lobby and stepped out onto the portico. Berlin blinked against the sudden glare from the snow. ‘You’ll have to take me first thing tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the address.’
‘I know where it is,’ said Charlie. She stomped with practised ease through the thick snow that obscured the path through the garden to the front gates. Berlin slithered after her.
‘They might be iffy about issuing a new passport when you tell them the police confiscated it,’ said Charlie.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Berlin. ‘I lost it.’
Berlin saw Charlie’s face crinkle into a smile.
‘You cheeky devil,’ she said.
It took one to know one.
The battered, old-fashioned sedan parked in an alley at the rear of the mansion was certainly a better fit with Charlie than the Range Rover.
‘What is it?’ said Berlin.
‘A Zaporozhets,’ said Charlie. ‘These cars can be fixed by anyone with a spanner. My mechanic collected it for me.’
The driver’s door wasn’t locked. But it was stuck. Charlie yanked at the handle a couple of times and finally it creaked open.
‘A marvel of Soviet engineering,’ said Berlin.
‘You can bloody well walk if you like,’ said Charlie.
Berlin got in and kept her mouth shut.
31
Gerasimov’s get-up continued the jaunty nautical theme of his first outfit. The breast pocket of this blazer, which was a little large around the shoulders, boasted a ship’s wheel embroidered in gold. Through his wife, he expressed his delight at seeing them again.
Berlin’s delight, meanwhile, was reserved for the coffee and pastries.
‘My husband trusts you slept well, Ms Berlin,’ said Gerasimova, politely failing to notice the wrinkled condition of Berlin’s suit.
Berlin nodded.
Charlie had produced a bottle of vodka from the car’s glovebox on the way over. It had helped to quieten Berlin’s jangled neurons, which were becoming restless as they waited for a pharmaceutical solution to their discomfort.
Charlie sat down beside Berlin. Gerasimova sat just behind her husband. The two interpreters glared at each other. Berlin flipped opened the tablet.
‘Mr Gerasimov, at the completion of this interview I have a document which I will ask you to read carefully and sign,’ she said.
Charlie remained silent. She obviously wasn’t in the mood to tag-team today, so Gerasimova took up the slack.
Gerasimov responded rapidly in Russian.
‘Yes,’ translated Gerasimova. ‘I am familiar with the process.’
‘Good,’ said Berlin. ‘It will ask you to confirm the truthfulness of the information you have provided and —’
‘Yes, yes, he understands,’ said his wife. ‘There’s no need.’
‘Very well. Let’s start,’ said Berlin.
She double-clicked the due diligence interview template, part two. The template unfurled at the same time as her email program appeared on-screen. She heard a ping.
The tablet must have picked up a wi-fi signal.
The first line of Del’s reply to her email popped up in a bubble. It read, ‘Who’s Charlie Inkpin?’
Gerasimov was chatting in Russian, answering Berlin’s first question. His wife, frowning, had not begun to translate. She spoke to her husband in Russian. He shrugged. He seemed offended.
Berlin had detected alcohol on his breath when they’d arrived. Now he and Gerasimova were engaged in a domestic. The commodore was acting up, which surprised Berlin.
But at least it gave her the opportunity to scan the rest of Del’s email. He asked what things in particular had gone pear-shaped. He wanted to know if Charlie Inkpin was one of Gerasimov’s people. He warned her against accepting hospitality, as it could create a conflict of interest.
Finally, he enquired about the performance of the accredited interpreter Burghley had engaged: Vladimir Matvienko.
Berlin conducted the rest of the interview on autopilot. She had a lot to think about. On top of everything else Gerasimov was not behaving like a businessman trying to impress. He kept getting up and strutting around the room, expansive and voluble, helping himself to vodka from a bottle that stood on a side table with four glasses.
If Charlie hadn’t been engaged by Burghley, who was she working for? The interpreter they had instructed must have been paid off, or threatened, or both.
It was unlikely that Gerasimov himself would engage in such a stunt. If it were exposed, the pin would be pulled by his putative business partners in the UK. He had little to gain, as far as she could see. There were more efficient and less risky ways to mislead an investigator.
On the other hand, if you had something big to hide, you took risks. The interpreter, whom the investigator would treat as a colleague, might have an insight into her thinking, or be able to steer her away from enquiries that could prove problematic.
Berlin glanced at Charlie. There were two other possibilities: she could be working for Gerasimov’s enemies, collecting intel from the interviews that would further their interests, or she was a criminal running a sophisticated scam that would result in a business visitor with a deep pocket buying their way out of trouble.
For which she would ne
ed a partner.
Utkin?
This could explain why he had been so conveniently on hand last night.
At the completion of the interview Gerasimov executed a squiggle on the tablet with a stylus, attempting to sign his declaration with a flourish. Four shots were poured from what remained of the vodka and they all toasted Russian–British cooperation and enterprise, once in Russian and once in English.
Gerasimova took Berlin’s elbow and drew her aside. When Charlie attempted to follow, she waved her away. An interpreter was not required.
‘We understand that you experienced some difficulties last night,’ she said. ‘Mr Gerasimov is very concerned.’
Berlin couldn’t disguise her surprise.
‘How do you know?’ she said.
‘We protect our business, Ms Berlin,’ said Gerasimova. ‘Which means protecting you.’
Was Utkin playing on Gerasimov’s team?
The problem was that Berlin had no idea how many players there were in this game. But due diligence was at risk, whichever way you cut it.
‘It was a minor incident,’ said Berlin, as if she was shot at every day. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Thanks to the intervention of a champion,’ said Gerasimova.
Berlin became aware of the pressure of the woman’s hand on her arm. This was getting out of control. But the comment implied Gerasimova didn’t know who had plucked Berlin from between the cars. So Utkin wasn’t connected to them.
‘A taxi driver,’ said Berlin. ‘I was lucky. A cab was passing.’
‘Lucky indeed. You saw the little light illuminated and just flagged him down,’ said Gerasimova. ‘Remarkable.’
It suddenly struck Berlin as odd that Gerasimov spoke not one word of English, but his wife had a vocabulary worthy of the Bard. What was going on here?
‘Oh no,’ said Berlin. ‘Not a taxi. I meant chastniki.’
Gerasimova frowned. ‘You are a fast learner, Ms Berlin,’ she said.
‘In my business it’s the quick and the dead,’ said Berlin. ‘But thank you for your concern.’
She extricated herself from Gerasimova’s grip and thanked God for the city profile that Del had included with her briefing. Chastniki were unofficial taxis. Apparently Muscovites would simply stick their arm out and a car would pull over and give them a lift for a few roubles.
They were a resourceful and pragmatic people.
Which made them very good liars.
The Gerasimovs escorted Berlin and Charlie to the lift. The little commodore kissed them both twice. His wife offered a smile and a wave.
Goodbye and good luck.
32
Magnus had spent twenty-four hours drying out in a small room on a cot shoved into a corner. It wasn’t a proper police station; the tea was proof of that. Weak as piss. They had also fed him McDonald’s, instead of the bacon butty he had requested. He found it difficult to believe he was still living in a democracy.
The door wasn’t locked, but a bruiser was stationed outside and it was pretty clear that if he tried to leave, things could get unpleasant.
But the truth was he was as weak as a baby; he was shaking like a leaf. He needed a hair of the dog sooner rather than later in order to deal with another bloody mess he had got himself into.
Finally the door opened and Jolyon Carmichael, his erstwhile editor, walked in, accompanied by the bruiser.
‘Christ, Magnus,’ said Carmichael. ‘It’s Boxing Day.’
Magnus struggled upright on the cot. The bruiser stood beside the door. Carmichael sat down, moving the chair as far away as possible from Magnus.
Magnus imagined he was a bit whiffy. He remembered being sick. ‘You took your time,’ he said.
‘You should be bloody grateful I turned up at all,’ said Carmichael. ‘You’re not even an employee, which means we can’t help you on the legal front.’
‘I don’t need a fucking lawyer,’ exploded Magnus. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. Just make a call to one of your politician mates. Explain that a respected journalist has been illegally detained by a bunch of totalitarian nasties and it will be on your front page tomorrow if they don’t sort it out.’
Carmichael sighed. ‘I understand you’ve been up to your old tricks again.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Magnus. ‘It’s called investigative journalism.’
‘It’s called conspiring to commit misconduct in a public office,’ said Carmichael. ‘I believe the judge indicated another offence would attract a great deal more than a fine.’
Magnus contemplated a life without liquor. ‘Perhaps we could get a decent cup of tea,’ he muttered.
Carmichael heaped three sugars into his cup then dropped the spoon on the table. ‘What I don’t understand, Magnus,’ he said, querulous, ‘is why you want to pursue it – merely because this chap lied to your source about what was going on at the warehouse?’
‘I suppose you haven’t got a flask in your pocket?’ said Magnus. ‘Give this swill a bit of a lift.’
Carmichael frowned.
‘That’s a no, then,’ said Magnus. He had to stall. He needed time to think. His head ached.
If the powers that be had managed to drag Carmichael out early on Boxing Day, then it could only mean that the enquiries Magnus had made had stirred up a hornet’s nest, beyond the miserably banal offence he had supposedly committed.
On the other hand, he had to offer Carmichael something more substantial if he was to persuade him to run the story, or at least support him in continuing to work his leads.
‘Hirst is only the tip of the iceberg,’ he said. ‘A van that doesn’t appear on any delivery schedule unloads into a Park Royal warehouse and a Hirst employee covers it up with a story about pilfering.’
‘From which you infer what?’ said Carmichael.
‘It’s the old one-two,’ said Magnus. ‘Confess to a small transgression to distract attention from the bigger one.’
Carmichael rubbed his face. ‘I don’t know, Magnus,’ he said.
‘Come on, Carmichael,’ said Magnus. ‘There’s something going on. Let’s just ask the question.’
‘It’s all based on what?’ said Carmichael. ‘Someone thinks they saw a van being unloaded.’
‘My source doesn’t make mistakes,’ said Magnus.
Carmichael raised an eyebrow. It was a question: who was the source?
Magnus hesitated, uncomfortable. ‘I’d rather not say, at this stage, if you don’t mind, old darling. In the current circs.’
Carmichael nodded. ‘You’re going to have to let it lie, I’m afraid, Magnus,’ he said. ‘At least for the time being.’
‘What?’ said Magnus.
‘Apart from your precarious legal situation, I’ve also had a call from the Secretary of the Defence, Press and Broadcasting Advisory Committee drawing my attention to Standing Defence Advisory Notice Number Five,’ said Carmichael.
Magnus stared at him. It meant there’d been an official request from the government not to publish anything about this subject.
‘They’ve slapped a D-Notice on it?’ said Magnus.
‘You know that’s not the way it works any more,’ said Carmichael.
‘Bollocks again,’ said Magnus. ‘So which one is Number Five, anyway?’
‘It covers security, intelligence and special services,’ said Carmichael.
‘Christ Almighty,’ said Magnus. He gazed around the room. Walls have ears. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You can ignore it,’ he said. ‘D-Notices, or DA-Notices, or whatever they call them these days, are only advisory.’
Carmichael ran his fingers through what little hair he had left. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do, Magnus. But there it is,’ he said. ‘In any event, there’s no real story here.’
‘Then why do they want to suppress it?’ demanded Magnus. ‘We can’t find out what’s going on if we can’t tell anyone what we do know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Carmichael. ‘It’s
a matter of national security.’
Magnus stared at him. ‘Because of who owns the van.’
Carmichael nodded.
Fagan was parked in the lane behind the anonymous brick building in south London. It could have been a garage or a workshop, maybe a panel beaters or builder’s merchant. But if you looked up at the roof you would think again: it sprouted a forest of satellite dishes and antennas.
It was a joke, really, because he was out here waiting for a signal. But this one would come via a nod and a wink. Something that didn’t leave a trace in cyberspace.
If the bloke inside jumped the wrong way he was there as Plan B: biddable, expendable, unexceptional. With a reliable trigger finger. It was itching now.
He watched as two men emerged from the back door. One got into a dark blue Jag and sped off. The editor. The other bloke – tall, black, paunchy – looked the worse for wear. The reporter. He gazed about him as if unsure which way to turn.
Another unexceptional man strolled past the end of the lane. He stopped to light a cigarette and blew a thin spiral of white smoke into the still air.
Fagan started the motor.
33
The drive from the Gerasimovs’ back to Charlie’s was hair-raising. The car coughed and spluttered. The windscreen wipers struggled against the snowstorm. The ploughs couldn’t keep pace with the growing drifts on the road.
They passed a team of men wielding long metal poles, chipping away at the ice, bent double against the bitter, driving wind. An overseer, standing close to a glowing brazier, watched them.
Berlin was disconcerted by the painterly scene: the outlines of the men, shrouded in long coats, were softened by the swirling flakes; their heavy-lidded eyes were blank, the sharp, smooth planes of their caramel faces impassive. It was a tableau that seemed to stand outside time.
She glanced at their ankles, almost expecting to see a chain half-buried in the snow. The traffic forced the car to a crawl.
One of the workers looked up. His deep brown almond eyes stared straight at Berlin. He raised his steel pole and for a moment she thought he was going to launch it at the car. The overseer barked something and instead he brought it crashing down. Splinters of ice flew through the air and struck her window.
A Morbid Habit Page 9
