‘The last time I rang, they told me everything was going fine and to call later this evening. They wouldn’t let me go round and wait, though.’
‘Quite right, too. They’re professionals, they’ll do what they have to do. Have you heard from Frank?’
‘No. I’m getting worried. You?’
‘Not yet. I’ll keep trying — I’ve got his number on automatic re-dial. But I’ve just received something off the wires which might interest you. That magazine, East European Trade?’
‘What about it?’ Riley stood up and walked on shaky legs to the kitchen, where she poured a large slug of orange juice. She had a raging thirst. ‘Didn’t I tell you, I’ve decided not to do that piece?’
‘You did, dear, you did. But if you’ve still got the magazine Varley gave you, you might want to take a closer look. It will give you an indication of how they work.’
‘Just a second.’ Riley found the magazine and opened it. ‘Okay, what am I looking at?’
‘There’s a piece about a man named Mustafa Tukel. He’s a Turkish government minister and one of their biggest ship-owners.’
Riley vaguely recalled the article, and flipped through the pages until she came to it. The photo showed a large man with a ready smile and a bushy moustache, posing against a background of a shipyard. The article was mostly about Tukel’s planned bid to build a new deep-water dock on the Black Sea coast. It would have massive implications for the local economy and would soak up business in the area like a sponge, regenerating the entire region. The article, as well as outlining Turkel’s plans, included some terse comments made by him about key members of the Turkish administration whom, he claimed, were trying to prevent him from winning the contract in favour of other, unspecified bidders. The comments had been highlighted in italics, she noted, for maximum effect.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s just been arrested on charges of dissent against the state.’
‘That’s serious, isn’t it?’ She recalled a writer who had been imprisoned on similar charges two years ago for criticising the Turkish administration, and was still in prison awaiting trial.
‘It is. There have been calls for him to lose his ministerial job, and his bid for the shipyard has been disqualified. Interestingly, the contract has now been awarded to a company based in the Ukraine.’
‘Why does this concern us?’
‘Because East European Trade is the only quoted source of the information against him.’
Riley sat back and stared in dismay at the magazine, the implications hitting home. ‘Another smear job?’ she said dully. It was what they were planning to do to Al-Bashir. Given enough credibility, an article about his wife’s lifestyle and a few carefully highlighted ‘suggestions’ or rumours would be enough to drive away his backers and sink his chances of ever winning the Batnev bid. Truth would be the first casualty.
She checked the name against the article. The piece was attributed to an unnamed staff writer.
‘It’s a clever technique,’ said Donald. ‘Not as final as a bullet, but just as effective. Be glad you’re out of it, sweetie. Take care.’ He rang off.
Palmer arrived thirty minutes later. He looked hot and tired and spoiling for a fight.
‘I spoke to Donald. He told me what happened.’ He took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she reassured him, and held up her glass, which she’d refilled. ‘High as a kite on vitamins.’
‘Yeah, I can see.’ He took the glass from her and drained it. ‘Nice. No gin. How’s the cat and Mr G?’
‘The cat’s being treated. They think he’ll be okay, but we’ll have to wait until he begins to respond. Mr Grobowski’s gone into defence mode downstairs. I had a job stopping him from setting up camp across my doorway. He feels guilty about what happened to Lipinski.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Listen to me — he’s got me using the name now.’
Palmer made her sit down. ‘Tell me everything. Donald only gave me a potted version.’
Riley did so, from the time she had arrived at the hotel, through to the moment she had rushed back and stepped through the front door and seen the cat. As she talked, she wondered if she was doing an adequate job of describing the demeanour of the man at the hotel, and the way in which he had so casually and openly made his threats.
Palmer listened without a word. Then he stood up and prowled around the room, restless with energy.
‘I think I know who he was,’ he said finally. ‘He was at Pantile House. With Varley.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve been blind.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I looked right past him. I thought the goons outside were the only potential danger. I was wrong.’ He paused, then continued, ‘One of the security men from outside the hotel was missing yesterday evening. I never gave it a thought. I think he may have been here, checking out the area. Did you see anyone?’
Riley thought back. She couldn’t recall anyone obvious; no strangers lurking in the bushes or canvassers with aimless lists of boxes to tick. The last time that had happened had been weeks ‘The drunk,’ she said, remembering the fat man leaning against the lamp post. ‘I was standing at the window, holding the cat. There was a man.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Short… fat. Bulky, anyway. A tight suit. That’s all I could see — the light wasn’t great and I wasn’t really paying attention. He’d have seen me quite clearly.’ The idea that the man had been deliberately play-acting while watching her made Riley’s skin go cold. Then something else came back to her. The photo Al-Bashir had shown her, of the man who’d followed her into the store.
It was the same man.
‘His name’s Pechov,’ she said quietly, appalled. ‘I just didn’t connect it.’
‘Sounds like the one who was missing from Pantile House,’ Palmer said. ‘They must be getting desperate for this article to be published. A pity we don’t know why it’s so important.’
‘Actually, we do,’ Riley said. It all seemed blindingly obvious now, as if sleep and the threats and Donald’s call had unleashed a torrent of connecting thoughts. She told Palmer about the article in East European Trade which had effectively torpedoed the Turkish minister’s career.
‘If the piece on Al-Bashir is in the same mould,’ Palmer said, ‘it must have taken some planning. You don’t just come up with the idea of smearing someone on a whim. But why?’
‘It probably goes back to when Al-Bashir first announced he was bidding for the Batnev licence. Until then, the only ones in the running would have been the big international operators, and some local syndicates with the money to invest. The internationals are already being quietly ruled out by the federation David Johnson told me about, which just leaves the locals. Al-Bashir entering the fray must have been seen as a serious threat, so they decided to expose a scandal, hoping his fundamentalist backers would run for the hills rather than be tainted by association.’
‘Risky strategy. What if it hadn’t worked? Money often talks louder than principles.’
Riley shrugged. She wasn’t entirely certain about her interpretation, but what else was there? ‘This could be a first option. They might have a more final one: remove the bidder altogether.’
Palmer looked sceptical. ‘Difficult to control the outcome to that. Bumping off prominent types like Al-Bashir isn’t as simple as it used to be. People talk. Sell out.’
‘But the end justifies the means, right? The rewards if it all goes to plan are eye-watering.’
‘You think the same people are behind this Turkish minister’s downfall?’
‘Why not? You’d be surprised at the connections that exist across the commercial world. There are people with fingers in all manner of pies.’
‘But telecoms and shipping — are they connected?’
‘They are when it comes to international business. Most of the big fortunes years ago were founded on shipping. It’s still importan
t, but the emphasis has changed since then to communications. Money is still the driver.’
‘So where does the magazine fit in to all of this?’
‘There’s only one explanation; it’s used to get the information out there.’ She thought back to her conversation with Natalya. ‘Professor Fisher said EET has been in business for some years. But they wouldn’t have lasted this long if all they did was dish the dirt on people they didn’t like. It would look too personal. But running the occasional expose might seem like a normal day’s work.’
‘And nobody obvious to take the blame.’
‘Apart from an anonymous ‘staff’ writer. Or, in this case, me.’
‘Or you.’ Palmer stared out of the window, his jaw set. His words were vague, as if his mind was elsewhere. Riley thought she knew where.
‘You’re thinking of Helen.’
He nodded. ‘And Annaliese Kellin. It’s beginning to make sense. Single, freelance, with no family and few close friends. Ideal candidates if things didn’t work out.’
Riley saw where he was going. ‘They both had the kind of track record which gave the article the credibility it needed. The Batnev project is a bigger prize than discrediting a Turkish minister, so don’t take chances with an anonymous writer — get a named one to front the piece.’
‘But when they didn’t like what they saw and decided to jump ship…’ Palmer didn’t need to finish.
Riley swallowed. What he had also avoided saying was that she might so easily have gone the same way. She heard the desolation in his voice, saw the stillness in his face, and felt guilty; guilty at surviving when the others hadn’t; guilty at believing all the lies and being so easily taken in by Richard Varley’s charm; guilty at having a friend like Palmer, something the other two girls had lacked when they had so needed it. She stood up and put her arms around him, needing as much to help him as to take comfort from his strength. ‘I’m so sorry, Frank.’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t be. It’s they who should feel sorry.’
She pulled her head back. As well as the anger in his eyes, there was an intense light burning deep inside, like twin lasers. She shivered and thought about the man in the hotel.
Her phone rang. She pulled away from Palmer and picked it up. When she replaced it, her eyes were wide and her face held a ghostly pallor.
‘What’s up?’ Palmer asked.
Things were going from bad to worse. ‘That was Mark Chase,’ she said, her voice faint. ‘The supervisor at Pantile House — Goricz? He didn’t clock in for work today. They asked an employee who lives nearby to check his house. He lived with his wife, mother-in-law and teenage son.’ She swallowed and shook her head. ‘Goricz is missing. The others are all dead. Shot in the head.’
37
Riley’s mobile was buzzing. She rolled over, kicking aside the bedclothes, disoriented by finding herself in a strange single bed. After hearing of the murder of Goricz’s family, they had decamped the previous night, encouraging Mr Grobowski to do the same. It would only be for a day or two. He had gone to friends, while they were in a small hotel north of the Edgware Road. Palmer was in a room just along the corridor.
Riley had been reluctant to let anyone drive her from her home, but commonsense had prevailed, reinforced by the shock of the murders and Palmer’s suggestion that the gunman who’d shot Lipinski — maybe one and the same man — might come back for another try.
She fumbled for the phone, expecting it to be the vet. To her surprise, it was Natalya Fisher, her voice unusually sombre.
‘You were asking about a man named Richard Varley,’ the former KGB member said without preamble. In the background, a door slammed, a bell jangled and laughter echoed in a hollow corridor. School noises. God, she’d slept later than she’d thought. Her watch told her it was nine-thirty.
‘That’s right.’
‘I happened to mention him to friends of mine.’
‘People you used to work with?’
‘Just friends. They know of him. They say Varley is nothing. A foot-soldier… a doer of deeds, not a decision maker.’ She coughed, the sound moving abruptly away from the phone. ‘Sorry — too many cigarettes.’
‘How would your friends know of him? He’s American.’ Just for a second, Riley held on to the vague thought that Richard was nothing to do with the man who had threatened her. She was soon disappointed.
‘No.’
‘But he told me he was an army brat.’
‘An army brat, yes, Miss Gavin. But not American army.’ She paused. ‘Russian.’
A ticking on the line was the only sound for a long time.
‘What?’ Riley finally managed to drag out a response. She felt something drain out of her.
‘His real name,’ continued Natalya softly, ‘is Vasiliyev. He comes from Petrograd.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. He was a good student and worked very hard; he scored top grades in his class. When they discovered he had a facility for languages, he was recruited into the army where they placed him in a political section and polished off his rough edges, preparing for operations against the Americans.’
‘Spying?’
‘Not directly. At the time, they had plans to use American-sounding officers to become friendly with their American counterparts. It was all part of a grand plan — a soft infiltration. Then everything changed and they had no use for men like him. No money, either. He left the army and went into private work.’
‘What sort of private work?’
‘Mostly criminal. He uses other names from time to time. Men in his line of work often do.’
Riley slumped against the headboard, waiting for more. She wondered if Natalya’s friends had got the name wrong. Or maybe there was more than one Varley in publishing. Richard had seemed so smooth, so in charge, she had a hard time imagining him as anyone’s gofer, still less someone named Vasiliyev. Then she recalled his manner when he had come to her flat. For a man normally so in control, he hadn’t been exactly calm. She’d attributed that to the pressure he was under from the shareholders of Ercovoy Publishing. Now she knew better. She felt a stab of something akin to shame at how naive she must have seemed.
‘You say he works for someone?’
‘Yes. I am told a man named Fedorov.’
That name again — the one Koenig had mentioned. ‘Who is he?’
‘A man you do not wish to meet,’ Natalya replied bluntly. ‘He is well known in the country I come from. Fedorov has many friends and contacts across Eastern Europe. He is not a man to cross.’
‘He’s one of these oligarchs?’
‘An oligarch? I don’t know for sure. Rich, certainly. Very rich. For that reason, maybe he pretends to be something he is not. But he is different. We have our career criminals, too, you know. They love money, like all crooks.’
‘Is he Russian mafia?’
‘Perhaps. Probably. Nobody knows. They are not always easy to identify, these people. They belong to impenetrable factions, hiding behind various identities, their loyalties changing all the time. Mafiya is an easy title to put on men like him, but not always accurate.’
‘What’s his full name?’ Her instinct for detail asserted itself, dulling the disappointment of discovering that Richard Varley was not what he seemed.
‘Ah, that I do know. He is called Pavel Ivanovich Fedorov. But he is not called Pavel by those who know him well. He uses the name Grigori. He does not care for Pavel, because it is from Latin, and means small.’
‘Great. A rich man with an ego problem.’
Natalya gave a bark of laughter. ‘Tell me any man who has not. He was brought up by an uncle who was not successful with women due to his small stature. Because of this, he took out his frustrations on the boy.’
‘What happened?’
‘One day the uncle disappeared. Fedorov was sixteen. He reported to the police that his uncle had gone looking for work.’
‘Oh.’
‘Later, Fedorov dis
appeared, too. When he returned, some years later, he was a different man. He was making money — doing what, nobody knows. But we can guess. He had moved up in the world and continued to do so. Now he has friends and wants more. It is said he is under investigation by the Interior Ministry in Moscow for illegal business practices and state fraud. This is very serious, but there are ways around it. He is looking for ways to make those investigations go away.’
Riley remembered the analogy Natalya had used before, about exiled Russians. The boy going back home with the school prize. ‘Would that be enough, though?’ she asked. ‘Ruining Al-Bashir’s chances in the telecoms market?’
‘It would,’ the professor confirmed, ‘if it meant control would stay in the hands of local organisations. Better that than going to a westerner.’ She sighed as if recognising that some things could never change. ‘As I explained to you before, there are some sins that can always be forgiven if the price is right.’
‘What does this Fedorov look like? In case I should bump into him.’
‘I hope you do not, Miss Gavin, for your sake. But I think you will know him as soon as you do.’
‘How?’ Riley felt a thud in her chest. Even as Natalya said it, an image, unbidden, had begun to swim up from deep in her consciousness. Suddenly, she knew without a shadow of a doubt: she had met Fedorov — and the next words confirmed it.
‘Fedorov is short and becoming bald. He looks and dresses like an accountant, and always stays in the background, where nobody sees him. My friends say he is a man to miss in a crowd. But most of all, a man to avoid.’
Riley switched off her phone. Her mouth was dry and she felt her heart pounding at the realisation that she had made a serious mistake. The colourless ‘associate’ was actually the boss. Which made Richard…what, exactly? According to Natalya, he was a soldier…a doer of deeds.
But did it also make him a killer?
38
Riley spent the day in the hotel, confined as much by her own feelings of disquiet, as by Palmer’s advice to stay out of sight. The unusual attractions of room service palled rapidly after the first two orders, along with daytime television, the video selection and the view across the rooftops and back gardens of Maida Vale. When she opened the window, she could hear the steady boom of traffic along the Westway, reminding her that life was still going on out there, in spite of and no doubt ignorant of death threats, Russian killers and wounded cats.
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