The hidden man am-2

by Charles Cumming

  ‘Of course,’ Taploe replied, ‘of course,’ and flashed Quinn a look of disquiet. ‘Let’s just hear them out, Paul, eh? Let’s just at least do that.’

  Dulong seized on this.

  ‘I may as well tell you that Jockand I came here directly from a meeting at the Cross. Seeing as you’ve brought it up, the consensus is that Libra should remain untouched. Thomas Macklin cannot be prosecuted.’

  ‘Here we go,’ Quinn muttered under his breath. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘In these unfortunate circumstances, Macklin must be allowed to remain in Grand Cayman.’ Dulong continued as if he had not spoken. ‘We wouldn’t ask the authorities there to make an arrest. Equally, if and when he returns to the UK, the Crown cannot prosecute for money laundering. Sebastian’s role would inevitably emerge.’

  ‘Fucking bullshit,’ Quinn shouted, flinging a fist out into the room. Everyone turned to face him. ‘That is an absolute load of fucking bullshit and you…’

  ‘It is not…’

  But he could shout louder than Dulong.

  ‘… you know as well as I do that the only reason you’re prepared to protect Macklin is to conceal the fact that a former KGB agent slipped out of Moscow and murdered two Western intelligence officers before anybody knew what was going on.’

  McCreery stood in a bid for control. Quinn’s idealism needed to be snuffed out quickly or the plan would unravel.

  ‘We cannot deny that we are anxious to keep Kostov’s movements under wraps,’ he conceded. ‘That much is true.’ Slowly he limped towards the door. ‘But this has an impact on the Security Service just as much as it affects our side. Imagine how difficult it will become to recruit agents if potential targets think British Intelligence cannot protect them. Would you fancy going back to Ireland, to Paris, to Frankfurt, with the Kostov scandal hanging in the air? Would you?’

  ‘I’ve never been to Frankfurt,’ Quinn said flatly, because he could not resist the joke. ‘I’m a lawyer, mate. I’m paid to work in London. I’m employed by the Home Office to help track down and prosecute the kind of people you’re talking about setting free.’

  ‘So we’re just going to let Macklin go?’ Taploe asked, as if the revelation were still dawning on him and did not yet seem scandalous. ‘What about Tamarov?’

  ‘I’m afraid we would also condone Tamarov’s release.’ Dulong did not dare look at Quinn. ‘He would not be permitted to return to the United Kingdom, although any established organized crime networks would of course be dismantled. But prosecution is out of the question. Ditto Juris Duchev. Now nobody’s saying that’s the ideal solution but…’

  ‘Too fucking right it’s not the ideal solution.’ Quinn pressed himself up from the table and walked towards McCreery. He knew that his appearance worked against him — his weight, his sweat — but he still held out the faint hope that his arguments would carry the day. ‘Tamarov has a UK right of residency. How are you going to take that away from him?’

  ‘Look,’ Dulong countered, ‘this has come from very high up…’

  ‘What, God doesn’t want Tamarov arrested? Did He tell you that in person, or just send a courier?’

  Nobody laughed.

  ‘It’s not all bad news,’ Dulong said stiffly. ‘Macklin won’t be coming home. He’ll think the Russians know about the double dip and assume he’s a marked man in London. At our earlier meeting my colleagues also discussed the possibility of asking the Cayman authorities to implement a Mareva injunction on Macklin’s accounts.’

  ‘What’s a Mareva injunction?’ Taploe asked, as a phone rang in an office across the hall.

  ‘It means they’re going to try and freeze Macklin’s assets,’ Quinn explained quietly.

  ‘That is correct.’ Dulong straightened her skirt. ‘So you can see that it’s not as if he’s got away scot free.’

  ‘Well, that’s assuming the Cayman courts agree,’ Quinn said, swallowing a glass of water in three loud gulps. He sat down. ‘Any foreign authority would need conclusive evidence linking Macklin to the Pentagon accounts and to the criminal activity in London.’

  ‘But we have evidence, Paul,’ Taploe said. ‘More than enough, in fact.’

  ‘Course we do,’ Quinn tried. ‘But will Elizabeth and her merry men be sharing it with their new pals down in the Caribbean? Somehow I doubt it.’

  Dulong caught McCreery’s eye and he dug her out of a tight spot.

  ‘You needn’t have any concerns about that, Paul,’ he said, collecting his stick from the wall. ‘The boys in Cayman are pretty keen nowadays to be seen to be cleaning up their act. They’ll comply, believe me.’

  ‘And then wonder why we haven’t asked to have Macklin extradited.’

  ‘Well, let’s worry about that one later, shall we?’

  Quinn collapsed into a slouch. This was self evidently a fait accompli. He wished, not for the first time in his career, that he were ten or fifteen years older, not just the bright, straight-talking Cockney whose views were eventually expendable.

  ‘Macklin would also be disbarred from practising law in the UK,’ Dulong said, almost as if she were trying to cheer him up. ‘He won’t be able to gain registration with any foreign law society or enjoy rights of audience in a foreign court.’

  Wearily, Quinn contested even that assertion.

  ‘Not true,’ he said. ‘Macklin was dual-qualified. He’s a member of the Florida Bar. Did a degree in Miami nine years ago.’

  This was a revelation too far for McCreery and Dulong, both of whom looked stumped.

  ‘Then we’ll just have to have a word with our American friends, try and sort something out,’ McCreery offered. He kept a straight face while saying it.

  ‘And what happens to Libra Moscow?’ Taploe asked, as if it was pointless to dwell on the frank impossibility of Macklin’s or Tamarov’s arrest. Better just to wrap things up and try to salvage his career.

  ‘Well, that was one of the things Sebastian and I talked about this morning,’ Dulong said gratefully.

  ‘Roth’s in London?’ Taploe asked.

  ‘That’s correct.’ She took a plastic clip out of her bag and used it to pin up her hair. ‘At this stage he thinks the club will most probably be franchised to a local entrepreneur in Moscow. Gradually Libra will sever ties. He’s going to stay in London for the foreseeable future and take hands-on control of the London operation. There may even be a stock-market float.’

  ‘I see, I see.’ Taploe smiled, sickening Quinn with the speed of his compliance. A queasy mood of settled business had suddenly pervaded the room.

  ‘And Kostov?’ he said. Quinn had noticed they had left the Russian out.

  McCreery cleared his throat.

  ‘Well, there at last there’s some good news. While we’ve been sitting here our colleagues should have finalized plans for Kostov’s extradition.’

  Quinn stirred.

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Very simply.’ McCreery clasped his hands together and produced a punchy smile. ‘Kostov has been tracked to one of Kukushkin’s properties. He’s been under surveillance for several days.’

  Taploe was confused.

  ‘He was working for Viktor Kukushkin?’

  ‘Not exactly. Dimitri does some very occasional work for the organization, but only as a favour to keep him in rubles. Kukushkin and Kostov are old friends, you see, from school and university. Grew up in the same Moscow suburb. Twenty years ago, Kukushkin was a big player in the Party machine so, like a lot of ex-KGB, Kostov was able to maintain some very strong links with organized crime. He was farmed out to Byelorussia after the Mischa fiasco, but Kukushkin kept an eye on him. And when he started to benefit from Gorbachev’s reforms, he brought him back into the fold, found him somewhere to live, that sort of thing.’

  Taploe stretched. ‘What sort of work does Kostov do for him?’

  He might have been enquiring after the time.

  ‘As I said, very little. We don’t really know much beyond the
fact that Kukushkin has always looked after him. Some instruction, perhaps. The odd tip-off. A lot of Kostov’s breed worked euphemistically as “consultants” of one kind or another, though it’s unlikely he would have been all that effective. Kukushkin was heavily involved in strong-arming government ministers into transferring state money to privatized brokerage houses in the early days of Yeltsin. We’re fairly sure Kostov helped out on that. He was always best when operating as a bit of a thug…’

  ‘… and eventually he came across Keen’s name because of his work for Divisar?’ Taploe said.

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Dulong replied. ‘Not that Kukushkin knew anything about it.’

  Quinn sensed they were concealing something, and challenged them on it.

  ‘You said Kostov was under surveillance.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Who from? Moscow law enforcement?’

  Dulong bought herself some time by wiping her nose on a small white handkerchief concealed in her bag. McCreery looked uncertainly at the floor and knocked his wedding ring against the table. Quinn realized he had found the lie. Their eyes had gone.

  ‘Come on, out with it. Who’s watching him?’

  ‘ We are.’ McCreery spat the confession as if it had been taken under duress. ‘SIS are watching the apartment block.’

  ‘He’s not under police arrest?’

  ‘No.’

  And thus the full picture emerged. All loose ends tied. Quinn’s mouth slackened in disbelief as he recognized that McCreery’s little problem had been resolved with a grim sleight of hand.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he whispered. ‘Fuckin’ hell. Six have talked to Kukushkin, haven’t they? You’ve struck a fucking deal.’

  Dulong balled the handkerchief under the sleeve of her blouse and indicated to McCreery that she would be prepared to answer the question.

  ‘We have channels in Moscow,’ she said. ‘The quid pro quo involves Kostov’s handover…’

  But Quinn did not let her finish.

  ‘In return for what?’

  ‘In return for the conditions we have already outlined. Prosecution immunity for Tamarov, d’Erlanger, Macklin and Duchev. Total withdrawal of UK operations. Surely the latter is of some comfort to the Service after all your hard work?’

  Taploe stepped between Quinn and Dulong as if he felt a professional obligation to speak on behalf of MI5. Quinn looked up at his pale, exhausted features — a man failed now, surely beyond redemption — and felt that his whole future would depend on Taploe’s response. If he caved in to the SIS plan, he would quit; if he showed some semblance of disgust, they could at least walk away with a moral advantage. Taploe briefly touched his moustache.

  ‘I have to say first and foremost that I don’t admire what has happened here today.’ This seemed encouragingly unequivocal. ‘To negotiate with criminals, to strike deals with members of a recognized organized crime syndicate makes me feel very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable indeed.’ Quinn inched forward. Perhaps it was going to be OK; perhaps there were standards after all. ‘Nevertheless, I can understand why such a decision has been taken and, although I do not condone it, I recognize that, at the very least, the Kukushkin organization cannot now, at least in the medium to long term, flourish on the UK mainland…’

  For a large man Quinn stood with surprising speed, his hands raised up as if to blockout Taploe’s charade. Twisting to gather his notes, he folded them under one arm and moved towards the door.

  ‘Paul? Where are you going?’ Taploe said.

  ‘Into the private sector.’

  ‘What?’

  There were shadows of black sweat under his arms.

  ‘You really think Kukushkin is just going to hand Kostov over, friend or no friend? You really think he’ll keep his side of the bargain, let him get to court?’

  The tone of the question was at once mocking and profoundly serious.

  ‘That’s the quid pro quo,’ Dulong answered uncertainly.

  ‘You don’t believe us?’ McCreery said. ‘You still remain sceptical?’

  Quinn shook his head.

  ‘Oh, it’s not that I don’t believe you, Jock. It’s not that I don’t believe you.’

  ‘What, then?’

  He was stepping through the door.

  ‘It’s the thing I knew would happen.’ He was muttering the words, almost to himself. ‘The thing I feared. The compromise.’

  ‘Paul?’ Taploe said again.

  Quinn looked up. His face might have been that of a man who has been informed of a tragedy: washed out, shocked, yet oddly indignant.

  ‘Yeah? What is it Stephen? What is it you’re going to say?’ He was in the corridor now, eyes accusing them, looking back as if on a lost innocence. ‘You think I got into this business to listen to what you just said?’

  ‘You have to understand that…’

  But Quinn had walked away. Dulong, McCreery and Taploe were left staring out into an empty corridor. After a time, McCreery said, ‘Temper, temper,’ and Dulong had the nerve to smile. Taploe, however, felt a greater sense of shame than he had ever experienced at any point in his career.

  ‘So it’s settled, then?’ McCreery said.

  ‘It’s settled,’ Taploe replied, after a long delay. His voice was very low.

  ‘And you, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Settled,’ said Dulong.

  ‘Good. Then we move on. I’m not sure I want to spend another moment of my life worrying about Dimitri bloody Kostov.’

  49

  The Russian is sitting alone on the back seat of a brand-new Audi A4. Smooth, cushioned upholstery, a smell of leather and artificial pine. It is dusk in the suburbs of Moscow, banks of low white clouds bringing late spring snow to the capital. Through the back window of the vehicle, nineteen storeys up, he can make out the balcony of the flat where he has lived for the past eleven days, his latest refuge in a long line of hotel rooms and apartments. The flat, belonging to an associate of Viktor Kukushkin, has a single window looking out on to five grey, deserted breeze-block towers, each of them defaced with structure cracks and graffiti. Kostov is not going to miss that view. He is looking forward to the house in the country.

  Three hundred metres from the car, across a flat expanse of buckled concrete randomly interrupted by weeds, two young boys are playing football against a white brick hut. It is below freezing and the light is failing all the time, but their eyes must have adjusted to the pre-dark gloom because the yellow ball cracks regularly against the wall. If he strains for it, Kostov can hear the rubber contact of their shoes against the asphalt, voices echoing amongst the buildings, the sudden gasps and shouts.

  He adjusts his position in the back seat and leans on a large canvas bag containing most of his clothes and possessions. A man of sixty-three with his whole life in the back seat of a car. Kostov grimaces at the thought. There are aches in every part of his body — in the back of his head, along the sciatic nerves of his thigh, behind his knees — and the temperature inside the vehicle only makes this worse. This is not the cold of London or New England; it is the bone chill of Russia under snow. He raps on the window and urges the driver inside.

  Leaning on the roof, Juris Duchev finishes his telephone call and steps into the car, bringing with him an odour of sweat and impatience. Like Kostov, he is also wearing a black winter coat and thick gloves, one of which he removes in order to light a cigarette.

  ‘You want one, Dimitri?’ he asks in Russian, turning to the back seat.

  ‘Not for me,’ Kostov replies. ‘Not for me. Just turn on the fucking engine. Get me some heat in here.’

  The smoke now deep in his lungs, Duchev turns the key in the ignition and the engine hums into life. Fans pump blasts of cold air into the car through vents in the dashboard and floor.

  ‘It’s fucking freezing,’ Kostov complains.

  ‘Just give it time,’ he is quietly told.

  Do they know? Have they found out about Keen and Bone? Kostov liv
es with this persistent doubt, the paranoia of imminent discovery. He watches the eyes of Kukushkin’s people all the time for the tell of sudden betrayal. For days he has suspected SIS of following him around town, two skinny foreigners with the look of British diplomats. Somebody, someday, will put two and two together. Somebody, someday will find the link between Kostov and Christopher Keen.

  ‘I thought you lived in London nowadays?’ he asks. ‘How come you’re back in Moscow?’

  ‘I just came home,’ Duchev replies. ‘Just came home for new business.’

  Duchev loathes Kostov, despises him. A so-called friend of Viktor whose vengeance has ruined London. He takes his old friend for apartments and money and gives him only trouble in return. Reversing the Audi in the narrow road, he heads for the airport motorway and actually looks forward to the night ahead. The phone call merely confirmed that all the arrangements are in place, the plan to foil the British and to end Dimitri’s lies. Kostov is not being handed over to SIS. Kostov is being taken out to the woods.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asks, lolling tiredly on the back seat like a fat, unexercised dog. ‘Viktor told me I was going to his house in the country.’

  ‘I have a job beyond Sheremetjevo,’ Duchev explains, ‘a package needs collecting. Then we’ll go to the village, Dimitri. Then you can see your new home.’

  Driving at fifty miles an hour through blinding April snow, Duchev can track the SIS tail in the Audi’s rear-view mirror. AVolkswagen with St Petersburg plates that has been following Kostov for days. This is his only problem. This is what he has to lose. But right on time, just as the phone call had promised, the strobe of a police vehicle punches through the night, sixty metres behind the Volkswagen and closing all the time. Good, Duchev thinks, Pasha doing what he has been paid to do. Above the roar of the road he can hear the siren and he watches with pleasure as the Volkswagen is pulled to the edge of the motorway. Imagine the swearing in that car right now. Imagine the fat load of trouble those British spies are going to get into just as soon as they get back to the embassy.