‘To be perfectly honest with you, Billy, your guess is as good as mine,’ Luke replies, mindful that Yvonne does not, will not exist, even if Billy Boy straps him to the chandelier by his balls, which was about the one thing the drug lord’s boys didn’t think of doing to him. ‘Hector just conjures up his information out of the fresh air, frankly. It’s amazing,’ he adds, with appropriate bewilderment.
Matlock seems not to hear this answer, or perhaps not to care for it, for the geniality disappears from his voice as if it had never been.
‘Mind you, it’s a double-edged sword, is a training appointment like that one. We’d be looking for the veteran officer whose career would serve as a role model to our idealistic young trainees. Male and female, I don’t have to emphasize. The Board would need to be convinced there were no suggestions of impropriety that might be levelled against the successful candidate. And Secretariat would be tendering that advice, naturally enough. In your case, we might have to be looking at a little creative restructuring of your CV.’
‘That would be generous, Billy.’
‘It would indeed, Luke,’ Matlock agreed. ‘It would indeed. And somewhat conditional on your current behaviour too.’
*
Who was Yvonne? For the first of those three months, she had driven Luke – he could say it now, he could admit it – just a little bit wild. He loved her demureness and her privacy, which he longed to share. Her discreetly scented body, if she ever allowed it to be revealed, would border on the classic, he could imagine it exactly. Yet they could sit for hours on end, cheek by jowl in front of her computer screen, or poring over her Tate Modern mural, feeling each other’s body-warmth, grazing hands by accident. They could share every twist and turn of the chase, every false trail, dead end and temporary triumph: all at a distance of a few inches from each other, in the upstairs bedroom of a secret house that for most of the day they shared alone.
And still nothing: until an evening when the two of them were sitting exhausted and alone at the kitchen table enjoying a cup of Ollie’s soup and, at Luke’s suggestion, a shot of Hector’s Islay malt. Taking himself by surprise, he asked Yvonne point-blank what sort of a life she led apart from this, and whether she had anyone to share it with who could support her in her stressful labours – adding, with the old sad smile of which he was instantly ashamed, that after all it was only our answers that were dangerous, wasn’t it, not the questions, if she saw what he meant?
For a long time her dangerous answer didn’t materialize:
‘I’m a government employee,’ she said, in the robotic tone of somebody speaking into camera for a quiz competition. ‘My name is not Yvonne. Where I am employed is none of your business. However, I don’t think you’re asking me that. I’m Hector’s discovery, as I assume we both are. But I don’t think you’re asking me that either. You’re asking me about my orientation. And whether, by extension, I wish to go to bed with you.’
‘Yvonne, I was asking you nothing of the kind!’ Luke protested, truthlessly.
‘And for your information, I’m married to a man I’m in love with, we have a three-year-old daughter, and I don’t fuck around even with people as nice as you. So let’s get on with our soup, shall we?’ she suggested – at which, amazingly, they both broke out in cathartic laughter and, with the tension broken, returned peacefully to their separate corners.
*
And Hector, who was he, after three months of him, albeit in sporadic bursts? – Hector of the feverish stare and the scatological tirades against the City crooks who were the source of all our evils? On the Service grapevine it was hinted that in successfully saving the life of his family firm, Hector had resorted to methods honed by half a lifetime in the black arts, and deemed, even by the City’s abysmal standards, foul. So was the vendetta against the City’s evildoers driven by revenge – or guilt? Ollie, not normally given to gossip, had no doubt: Hector’s experience of the City’s bad manners – and his own employment of them, said Ollie – had turned him overnight into an avenging angel. ‘It’s a little vow he’s taken,’ he confided to them in the kitchen, while they waited for Hector to put in one of his late appearances. ‘He’s going to save the world before he leaves it if it kills him.’
*
But then Luke had always been a worrier. From infancy he had worried indiscriminately, rather in the way he fell in love.
He could worry as much about whether his watch was ten seconds fast or slow, as about the direction of a marriage that was null and void in every room except the kitchen.
He worried whether there was more to his son Ben’s tantrums than just growing pains, and whether Ben was under his mother’s orders not to love his father.
He worried about the fact that he was at peace when he was working, and that when he wasn’t, even now walking along, he was a mass of unjoined ends.
He worried whether he should have swallowed his pride and accepted the Human Queen’s offer of a shrink.
He worried about Gail, and his desire for her, or for some girl like her: a girl with real light in her face instead of the glum cloud that followed Eloise around even when the sun was on her.
He worried about Perry and tried not to be envious of him. He worried about which half of Perry would come out on top in an operational emergency: would it be the intrepid mountaineer or the unworldly university moralist – and anyway, was there a difference?
He worried about the impending duel between Hector and Billy Boy Matlock, and which of them was going to lose his temper first – or pretend to.
*
Leaving the sanctuary of Regent’s Park, he entered the throng of Sunday shoppers looking for a bargain. Ease down, he told himself. It’ll be all right. Hector’s in charge, not you.
He was counting off landmarks. Ever since Bogotá, landmarks had been important to him. If they kidnap me, these are the last things I saw before they put the blindfold on me.
The Chinese restaurant.
The Big Archway nightclub.
The Gentle Readers’ Bookshop.
This is the ground coffee I smelled while I was wrestling with my attackers.
Those are the snowy pine trees I saw in the window of the art shop before they sandbagged me.
This is number 9, the house where I was reborn, three steps to the front door and act like any normal householder.
9
There were no formalities between Hector and Matlock, friendly or otherwise, and perhaps there never had been: just a nod and a silent handshake of two veteran belligerents shaping up for another bout. Matlock arrived on foot, having been dropped round the corner by his driver.
‘Very nice Wilton carpeting, Hector,’ he said, while he took a slow look round that seemed to confirm his worst suspicions. ‘You can’t beat Wilton, not when it comes to cost versus quality. Good day to you, Luke. It’s just the two of you, is it?’ – passing Hector his coat.
‘Staff are away at the races,’ Hector said, hanging it up.
Matlock was a broad-shouldered bull of a man, as his nickname implied, broad-headed, and at first glance avuncular, with a crouch that reminded Luke of an ageing rugby forward. His Midlands accent, according to the ground-floor gossips, had become more noticeable under New Labour, but was receding with the prospect of electoral defeat.
‘We’re in the basement, if you’re comfortable with that, Billy,’ said Hector.
‘I’ve no alternative but to be comfortable with it, thank you, Hector,’ said Matlock, neither pleasantly nor rudely, leading the way down the stone steps. ‘What are we paying for this place, by the by?’
‘You’re not. This far it’s on me.’
‘You’re on our payroll, Hector. The Service is not on yours.’
‘As soon as you greenlight the operation, I’ll be putting in my bill.’
‘And I’ll be querying it,’ said Matlock. ‘Taken to drink, have you?’
&nbs
p; ‘It used to be the wine cellar.’
They took their places. Matlock assumed the head of the table. Hector, normally the stubborn technophobe, sat himself on Matlock’s left in order to be in front of a tape recorder and a computer console. And to Hector’s left sat Luke, thereby providing the three of them with a clear view of the plasma screen that the absent Ollie had erected overnight.
‘Did you have time to wade through all the material we bunged at you, Billy?’ Hector inquired sympathetically. ‘Sorry to interfere with your golf.’
‘If all is what you sent me, yes, Hector, I did, thank you,’ Matlock replied. ‘Though in your case, as I have come to learn, the word all is somewhat of a relative term. I don’t play golf, as a matter of fact, and I’m not enamoured of summaries, if I can avoid them. Specially not yours. I could have done with a bit more raw material and a bit less arm-twisting.’
‘Then why don’t we offer you some of that raw material now, and make up?’ Hector suggested, just as sweetly. ‘I take it we’re still Russian speakers, Billy?’
‘Unless yours has gone rusty while you were out making yourself a fortune, yes, I think we are.’
They’re an old married couple, thought Luke, as Hector pressed ‘play’ on the tape recorder. Every quarrel they have is a rerun of one they’ve had before.
*
For Luke, the very sound of Dima’s voice acted like the start of a full-colour film. Every time he listened to the cassette that Perry the innocent had smuggled in his shaving bag he came away with the same image of Dima crouched in the forests around Three Chimneys, clutching a pocket recorder in his improbably delicate hand, far enough from the house to escape Tamara’s real or imagined microphones, but near enough to scurry back if she yelled at him to come and take another phone call.
He could hear the three winds battling round Dima’s glistening bald head. He could see the treetops above him shaking. He could hear the crashing of leaves and a gurgle of water, and he knew it was the same tropical rain that had drenched him in the forests of Colombia. Had Dima made his recording in a single session or in several? Did he have to brace himself with shots of vodka between sessions in order to overcome his vory inhibitions? Now his Russian bark drops into English, perhaps to remind himself who his confessors are. Now he is appealing to Perry. Now to a bunch of Perrys:
‘You English gentlemen! Please! You are fair play, you have land of law! You are pure! I trust you. You will trust Dima also!’
Then back to his native Russian, but so careful of its grammatical niceties, so prinked and articulated, that in Luke’s imaginings he is trying to rid it of its Kolyma stain in preparation for rubbing shoulders with the gentlemen of Ascot and their ladies:
‘The man they are calling Dima, number one for money-laundering for the Seven Brothers, financial mastermind to the retrograde usurper who calls himself the Prince, presents his compliments to the famous English Secret Service and wishes to make the following offer of valuable information in exchange for trustworthy guarantees by the British government. Example.’
Then only the winds speak as Luke imagines Dima mopping away his sweat and tears with a large silk handkerchief – Luke’s own gloss, but Perry had repeatedly mentioned a handkerchief – before taking another slug from the bottle and proceeding to the full, irrecoverable act of betrayal.
‘Example. Operations of the Prince’s criminal organization now known as the Seven Brothers include:
‘One: importations and rebranding of embargoed oil from Mid East. I know these transactions. Many corrupt Italians and many British lawyers are involved.
‘Two: injection of black money into multi-billion-dollar oil purchases and revenues. For this my friend Mikhail, called Misha, was specialist for all seven vory Brotherhoods. For this purpose he also lived in Rome.’
Another break in the voice, and perhaps a silent toast to the late Misha, followed by an exuberant return to fractured English:
‘Example three: black logging, Africa. First we are converting black timber into white timber. Then we are converting black money into white money! Is normal. Is simple. Many, many Russian criminals in tropical Africa. Also black diamonds very interesting new trade for Brotherhoods.’
Still in English:
‘Example four: facsimile medicines, made in India. Very lousy, do not cure, make you bring up, maybe kill. Official State of Russia has very interesting relations with official State of India. Also very interesting relations between Indian and Russian Brotherhoods. The one they call Dima knows many interesting names, also English, regarding these vertical connections and certain private financial arrangements, Swiss-based.’
Luke the worrier is undergoing an impresario’s crisis of confidence on Hector’s behalf:
‘Volume all right for you there, Billy?’ Hector asks, pausing the tape.
‘The volume is very fine, thank you,’ Matlock says, with just enough emphasis on volume to suggest that the content may be a different matter.
‘On we go then,’ said Hector, a little too meekly for Luke’s taste, as Dima gratefully reverts to his native Russian:
‘Example: in Turkey, Crete, Cyprus, in Madeira, in many coastal resorts: black hotels, no guests, twenty million black dollars weekly. This money also is laundered by the one they call Dima. Certain criminal British so-called property companies are complicit.
‘Example: personal corrupt involvement of European Union officials with criminal meat contractors. These meat contractors must certify high quality, very expensive Italian meat for export to Russian Republic. For this arrangement my friend Misha was also personally responsible.’
Hector again pauses the recorder. Matlock has raised his hand.
‘How can I help you, Billy?’
‘He’s reading.’
‘What’s wrong with him reading?’
‘Nothing. As long as we know what he’s reading from.’
‘Our understanding is that his wife Tamara wrote some of his lines for him.’
‘She told him what to say, did she?’ said Matlock. ‘I don’t think I like the sound of that. Who told her what to say?’
‘Want me to fast forward? It’s only stuff about our colleagues in the European Union poisoning people. If it’s outside your remit, say the word.’
‘Kindly continue as you are proceeding, Hector. I shall henceforth reserve my comments till later in the performance. I’m not sure we have a requirement for Intelligence on meat sales to Russia, in point of fact, but you may rely on me to make it my business to find out.’
*
To Luke, the story Dima was about to tell was truly shocking. Nothing he had endured in life had dulled his senses. But what Matlock made of it was anybody’s guess. Dima’s weapon of choice is once more Tamara’s English:
‘Corrupt system is as follows. First: Prince arranges through corrupt officials in Moscow that certain meat is called charity meat. To be for charity, meat must be for needy elements of Russian society only. Therefore on meat that is corruptly classified for charity, no Russian tax payable. Second: my friend Misha who is dead buys many carcasses of meat from Bulgaria. This meat is dangerous to eat, very lousy, very cheap. Third: my friend Misha who is dead arranges with very corrupt officials in Brussels Union that all Bulgarian meat carcasses will be stamped individually with European Union stamp of certification identifying meat as very top quality excellent best European Standard Italian meat. For this criminal service, I, Dima, personally pay one hundred euro per carcass to Swiss account of very corrupt Brussels official, twenty euro per carcass to Swiss account of very corrupt Moscow official. Net profit to Prince, after deduction of all overheads: one thousand two hundred euro per carcass. Maybe fifty Russian people, also kids, got sick and die from this very bad Bulgarian meat. This is only estimate. This information is officially denied. The names of these very corrupt officials are known to me, also Swiss bank accounts by number.’
r /> And a stiff postscript, sonorously delivered:
‘It is personal opinion of my wife Tamara L’vovna that immoral distribution of bad Bulgarian meat by criminally corrupted European and Russian officials must be of concern to all Christian person of good heart worldwide everywhere. It is God’s will.’
The unlikely intervention of God in the proceedings had created a small hiatus.
‘Would somebody mind telling me what a black hotel is?’ Matlock demanded of the air in front of him. ‘I happen to take my holidays in Madeira. There never seemed anything very black about my hotel.’
Fired by a need to protect the subdued Hector, Luke appointed himself the somebody who would tell Matlock what a black hotel was:
‘You buy a bit of prime land, usually on the sea, Billy. You pay cash for it, you build a five-star luxury-hotel resort. Maybe several. For cash. And throw in fifty or so holiday bungalows if you’ve got the space. You bring in the best furniture, cutlery, china, linen. From then on your hotels and bungalows are full up. Except that nobody ever stays in them, you see. If a travel agent calls: sorry, we’re fully booked. Every month a security van rolls up at the bank and unloads all the cash that’s been taken in room rentals, bungalow rentals, the restaurants, the casinos, the nightclubs and the bars. After a couple of years, your resorts are in perfect shape to be sold with a brilliant trading record.’
No response beyond a raising of Matlock’s avuncular smile to maximum strength.
‘It’s not only resorts either, actually. It can be one of those strangely empty white holiday villages – you must have seen them, trickling down Turkish valleys to the sea – it can be, well, scores of villas, obviously, it can be pretty well anything that’s lettable. Car hire too, provided you can fudge the paperwork.’