‘How are you today, Luke?’
‘Fine, thanks, Billy.’
‘We’re thinking of putting you up for a medal, courage beyond the call, did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Well, we are. A secret one, mind, nothing public. Nothing you can flash on your chest on Remembrance Day, mind. That wouldn’t be secure. Plus it would fly in the face of precedent.’
‘Of course,’ said Luke, totally confused, now thinking a medal might be the one thing that would get Eloise over her depression, now that it was yet another of Matlock’s wiles. Nevertheless, he was about to say something appropriate in reply – express his surprise, gratitude, pleasure – only to find that Matlock had lost interest in him:
‘What I’m hearing so far, Hector, if I cut away the guff, which I like to, is in my humble view straight international crookery. All right, granted, the Service has a statutory interest in international crookery and money-laundering. We fought for a piece of it when times were hard, and now we’re landed with it. I refer to that unfortunate fallow period between the Berlin Wall coming down and Osama bin Laden doing us the favour of 9/11. We fought for a piece of the money-laundering market the same as we fought for a larger slice of Northern Ireland, and whatever other modest pickings were available to justify our existence. But that was then, Hector. And this is now, and as of today, which is where we are living, like it or not, your Service and mine has better things to do with its time and resources than get its knickers caught in the highly complex wheels of City of London finance, thank you.’
Matlock broke off, expecting Luke knew not what, unless it was applause, but Hector, to judge by his stony expression, was a long way from providing it, so Matlock drew breath and resumed.
‘As of today, furthermore, we also have, in this country, a very large, fully incorporated, somewhat over-financed sister agency that devotes its efforts, such as they are, to matters of serious and organized crime, which I take it is what you are purporting to be unveiling here. Not to mention Interpol, and any number of competing American agencies falling over each other’s very large feet to do the same job while careful not to prejudice the prosperity of that great nation. My point is, Hector – wait till I’m finished, please – my point is, I’m not seeing what I was brought here for at extremely short notice. We all know that what you’ve got is urgent, though to whom I’m less sure. Maybe it’s even true. But is it ours, Hector? Is it ours?’
The question was evidently rhetorical, for he rolled on.
‘Or could it be, Hector, that you are trespassing, at your peril, on the highly sensitive preserves of a sister organization with which, over painful months, I and my Secretariat have thrashed out very hard-won lines of demarcation? Because were that to be the case, my advice to you would be this: package up that material you have just played to me, and any other material of the same ilk that is in your possession and, with immediate effect, pass that material to our sister organization with a grovelling letter of apology for trespassing on its sanctified areas of competence. And when you have done that, I suggest you award yourself, and Luke here, and whoever else you’ve got tucked away in your cupboard, two weeks of well-deserved sick leave.’ Had Hector’s fabled nerve finally run out? Luke wondered anxiously. Had the strain of bringing Gail and Perry to the water taken too much of a toll? Or was he so driven by the high purpose of his mission that he had lost his grasp on tactic?
Lethargically reaching out a finger, Hector shook his head and sighed, and fast-forwarded the tape.
*
Dima calm. Dima reading, whether Billy Boy likes it or not. Dima powerful and dignified, orating from script in his best ceremonial Russian:
‘Example. Details of very secret pact in Sochi 2000 between seven bonding vory Brotherhoods, signed by the Seven Brothers and called The Understanding. Under this pact, personally brokered by usurper bitch Prince with arm’s-length connivance of Kremlin, all seven signatories agree:
‘One: to avail themselves and make communal all proven and successful money routes designed by the one they call Dima, henceforth number-one money-launderer for all seven Brotherhoods.
‘Two: all communal bank accounts will be conducted under vory code of honour, any deviation will be punished by death of guilty party, accompanied by permanent exclusion of responsible vory Brotherhood.
‘Three: corporate respectability will be created in following six financial capitals: Toronto, Paris, Rome, Berne, Nicosia, London. End destination of all laundered monies: London. Best centre of respectability: London. Best outlook for long-term banking entity: London. Best prospect to save and conserve: London. This is also agreed.
‘Four: the task of obscuring origins of black money and directing its passage into safe havens will continue to remain the primary and sole responsibility of the one they call Dima.
‘Five: for all major movements of money, this Dima will have first-signature rights. Each signatory to The Understanding will appoint one clean envoy. This clean envoy will have second-signature signing rights only.
‘Six: to effect substantive alteration to above system, all seven clean envoys will be simultaneously required to be present under vory law.
‘Seven: the pre-eminence of the one they call Dima as master architect of all money-laundering structures agreed under The Understanding of Sochi 2000 is hereby acknowledged.’
‘And amen, as we might say,’ Hector murmurs, and once more switches off the recorder and glances at Matlock for a reaction. Luke does too, to be greeted, of all things, by Matlock’s indulgent smile.
‘D’you know, Hector, I think I could have made that up myself,’ he says, shaking his head in what must pass for admiration. ‘Beautiful is all I can say. Fluent, imaginative, and puts him right at the top of the heap. How can anyone possibly question the veracity of such a magnificent global statement? I’d give him an Oscar for a start. What does he mean by clean envoy?’
‘Clean like cleanskin, Billy. No previous convictions, criminal or ethical. Accountants, lawyers, moonlighting policemen and Intelligence officers, any made brother who can travel, sign his name, owes his allegiance to his Brotherhood and knows he’ll wake up with his balls in his mouth if he robs the till.’
*
Appearing to Luke more like a careworn family solicitor than his irrepressible self, Hector consults a bit of battered card on which he had apparently scribbled himself a march route for the meeting, and again fast-forwards the tape.
‘Map,’ Dima barks in Russian.
‘Bugger it. Too late,’ Hector mutters, and runs back a stretch.
‘Also conditional upon reliable British guarantees, will be very secret, very important map.’
Dima resumes, reading rapidly, as before, from script in Russian:
‘In this map will be recorded international routes of all black monies under control of the one they are calling Dima who is speaking to you.’
At Matlock’s bidding, Hector yet again pauses the tape.
‘What he’s talking about here isn’t a map, it’s a link chart,’ Matlock complains, in the tone of a man correcting Dima’s inadequate vocabulary. ‘And I’ll just say this regarding link charts, if you’ll bear with me. I’ve seen a few link charts in my time. They tend to resemble multicoloured rolls of barbed wire leading in no direction known to man, in my experience. Useless, in other words, in my judgement,’ he adds with satisfaction. ‘I put them in much the same category as pronouncements regarding mythical criminal conferences on the Black Sea in the year 2000.’
You should see Yvonne’s link chart, it’s absolutely wild, Luke wants to tell him in a fit of miserable hilarity.
Matlock on a winning streak does not lightly let go. He is shaking his head and smiling ruefully:
‘You know something, Hector? If I had a five-pound note for every piece of pedlar material from untried sources that our Service has fallen for ove
r the years – not all in my time, I’m glad to say – I’d be a rich man. Link charts, Bilderberg plots, world conspiracies, and that old green shed in Siberia that’s full of rusty hydrogen bombs, they’re all one to me. Not rich by the standards of their ingenious fabricators, maybe, or your standards either. But for the likes of me, very comfortably off indeed, thank you.’
Why the hell doesn’t Hector cut Bully Boy down to size? But Hector appears to have no stomach left for retaliation. Worse still, to Luke’s despair, he doesn’t bother to play the last section of Dima’s historic offer. He switches off the tape recorder, as if to say ‘tried that one, didn’t work’, and with a chagrined smile and a rueful ‘Well, maybe you’ll be better off with some pictures to look at, Billy’, takes up the remote control for the plasma screen and switches off the light.
*
In the gloom, an amateur video camera shakily roams the battlements of a medieval fort, then descends to the sea wall of an ancient harbour crowded with expensive sailing boats. It is dusk, the camera is of poor quality, unequal to the failing light. A ninety-foot luxury yacht in blue and gold lies at anchor outside the harbour walls. It is dressed overall with fairy lights, its portholes are lit. Distant dance music reaches us from across the water. Perhaps someone is celebrating a birthday or a wedding? From its stern hang the flags of Switzerland, Britain and Russia. At its masthead, a golden wolf bestrides a crimson field.
The camera closes on the bow. The ship’s name, inscribed in fancy Roman and Cyrillic gold lettering, is Princess Tatiana.
Hector is providing a flat, dispassionate commentary:
‘Property of a newly formed company called First Arena Credit Bank of Toronto, registered in Cyprus, owned by a foundation in Liechtenstein which is owned by a company registered in Cyprus,’ he announces drily. ‘So a circular ownership. Give it to a company, then get it back from the company. Until recently she was called the Princess Anastasia, which happens to be the name of the Prince’s previous squeeze. His new squeeze is called Tatiana, so we may draw our conclusions. The Prince being presently confined to Russia for his health, the SS Princess Tatiana is out on charter to an international consortium called, funnily enough, First Arena Credit International, a different entity entirely, registered, you’ll be surprised to hear, in Cyprus.’
‘What’s wrong with him then?’ Matlock asks aggressively.
‘Who?’
‘The Prince. I don’t think I’m being stupid, am I? Why’s he confined to Russia?’
‘He’s waiting for the Americans to drop some thoroughly unreasonable money-laundering charges they levelled against him a few years back. The good news is, he won’t have to wait long. Thanks to a spot of lobbying in Washington’s halls of greatness, it will shortly be agreed that he has no case to answer. Always helpful when you know where influential Americans keep their illegal offshore bank accounts.’
The camera leaps to the stern. Russian-style crew in striped shirts and matelot hats. A helicopter about to land. Camera returns aft, descends uncertainly to sea level as the picture darkens. A speed-launch pulls alongside, passengers aboard. Busy crew in attendance as passengers in their finery cautiously ascend ship’s ladder.
Go back to stern. The helicopter has landed but its blades still slowly rotate. Fine lady in billowing skirt descends red-carpeted steps, clutching hat. Followed by second fine lady, then a bevy of fine men in blazers and white ducks, six in all. Fuzzy exchange of hugs. Faint shrieks of greeting over dance music.
Cut back to second speed-launch pulling alongside, delivering pretty girls. Skin-tight jeans, fluttery skirts, many bare legs and shoulders as they ascend ladder. A brace of fuzzy trumpeters in Cossack uniform sound halloos of welcome as pretty girls come aboard.
Pan awkwardly on guests assembled on main deck. There are so far eighteen. Luke and Yvonne have counted them.
Film freezes and becomes a series of clumsily advancing close-ups, much enhanced by Ollie. Caption reads SMALL ADRIATIC PORT NEAR DUBROVNIK June 21 2008. It is the first of many captions and subtitles that Yvonne, Luke and Ollie in committee have superimposed as an accompaniment to Hector’s spoken commentary.
The silence in the basement is palpable. It’s as if everyone in the room including Hector has drawn in his breath at the same time. Perhaps they have. Even Matlock is leaning forward in his chair, staring fixedly at the plasma screen before him.
*
Two well-preserved, expensively tailored men of affairs are in conversation. Behind them, the bare neck and shoulders of a middle-aged woman with lacquered white bouffant. She has her back turned to us and wears a four-row diamond collar and matching pendant earrings, the cost anyone’s guess. At left of screen, an embroidered cuff and white-gloved hand of a Cossack waiter is offering a silver tray laden with glasses of champagne.
Close on the two men of affairs. One wears a white dinner jacket. He is black-haired, heavy-jawed and of Latin appearance. The other wears a very English double-breasted navy blue blazer with brass buttons or, as the British upper echelons prefer to have it – Luke should know, they’re where he comes from himself – a boating jacket. By comparison with his partner, this second man is young. He is also handsome in the way that young men of the eighteenth century were handsome in the portraits they donated to Luke’s old school when they left it: broad brow, receding hairline, the haughty sub-Byronic gaze of sensual entitlement, a pretty pout, and a posture that manages to look down on you however tall you are.
Hector has still not spoken. The committee’s decision was to let the subtitles say what anyone would know from half a glance: that the double-breasted boating jacket with brass buttons belongs to a leading member of Her Majesty’s Opposition, a Shadow Minister tipped for stratospheric office at the next election.
It is Hector, to Luke’s relief, who ends the awkward silence.
‘His remit, according to the Party handout, will be to put British trade into point position in the international financial marketplace, if anyone can tell me what that means,’ he remarks caustically, with a slight resurgence of his old energy. ‘Plus of course putting an end to banking excesses. But they’re all going to do that, aren’t they? One day.’
Matlock has found his tongue:
‘You can’t have business without making friendships, Hector,’ he protests. ‘That’s not how the world works, as you of all people should know, having dirtied your hands out there. You can’t condemn a man just for being on someone’s boat!’
But neither Hector’s tone nor Matlock’s implausible indignation can ease the tension. And it is no consolation at all that, according to Yvonne’s subtitle, the white dinner jacket belongs to a tainted French marquis and corporate raider with strong ties to Russia.
*
‘Anyway. Where did you get this lot from?’ Matlock suddenly demanded, after a spell of silent brooding.
‘What lot?’
‘The film. Amateur video. Whatever it is. Where d’you get it?’
‘Found it under a stone, Billy. Where else?’
‘Who did?’
‘A friend of mine. Or two.’
‘What stone?’
‘Scotland Yard.’
‘What are you talking about? The Metropolitan Police? You’ve been tampering with police evidence, have you? Is that what you’ve been doing?’
‘I would like to think I have, Billy. But I very much doubt it. Would you care to hear the story?’
‘If it’s true.’
‘A young couple from the London suburbs saved up for their honeymoon and took a package holiday on the Adriatic Coast. Walking the cliffs, they happened on a luxury yacht at anchor in the bay and, seeing that there was a spectacular party in progress, filmed it. Examining the footage in the privacy of their home in let us say Surbiton, they were amazed and thrilled to identify certain well-known British public figures from the worlds of finance and politics. Thinking to recoup the cost o
f their holiday, they sent their prize hotfoot to Sky Television News. The next thing they knew, they were sharing their bedroom with a squad of uniformed gun-toting policemen in full-body armour at four o’clock in the morning, and being threatened with prosecution under the Terrorism Act if they didn’t hand over all copies of their film immediately and forthwith to the police, so very wisely they did as they were told. And that’s the truth, Billy.’
*
Luke is beginning to realize that he has been underrating Hector’s performance. Hector may appear bumbly. He may have only a bit of scruffy old card in his hand. But there is nothing scruffy about the march route he’s put together in his head. He’s got two more gentlemen to introduce to Matlock and, as the frame widens to include them, it becomes evident that they have all along been party to the conversation. The one is tall, elegant, mid-fifties, and of a vaguely ambassadorial demeanour. He dominates our Minister-of-State-in-Waiting by nearly a head. His mouth is open in jest. His name, Yvonne’s caption tells us, is Captain Giles de Salis, RN, retired.
This time, Hector has reserved the job description for himself:
‘Leading-edge Westminster lobbyist, influence-broker, clients include some of the world’s major shits.’
‘Friend of yours, Hector?’ Matlock asks.
‘Friend of anybody willing to brass up ten grand for a tête-à-tête with one of our incorruptible rulers, Billy,’ Hector retorts.
The fourth and last member of the piece, even in fuzzy enlargement, is high society’s quintessence of vitality. Fine black piping defines the lapels of his perfect white dinner jacket. His mane of silver-fox hair is dramatically swept back. Is he perhaps a great conductor? Or a great head waiter? His ringed forefinger, raised in humorous admonition, is like a dancer’s. His graceful spare hand rests lightly and inoffensively on the upper arm of the Minister-in-Waiting. His pleated shirt-front sports a Maltese Cross.