Against the rising tide of the commentator’s indignation a crawling column of black limousines escorts a glass-sided hurdy-gurdy up the wooded hillside to the seminary gates. The procession halts, car doors fly open as young men in dark designer suits leap out and form ranks to accompany the coffins. The scene changes to a grim-faced Deputy Chief of Police in full uniform and medals posed rigidly at an inlaid desk surrounded by testimonials and photographs of President Medvedev and Prime Minister Putin:
Let us take comfort in the knowledge that one Chechen at least has already voluntarily confessed to the crime,
he tells us, and the camera holds his face long enough for us to share his outrage.
We return to the graveyard, and the strains of a Gregorian funeral lament as a choir of young Orthodox priests in flowerpot hats and silky beards proceeds with icons aloft down the seminary steps to a double graveside where the principal mourners are waiting. The picture freezes, then zooms in on each mourner as Yvonne’s subtitles surface beneath them:
TAMARA, wife to Dima, sister to Olga, aunt to Katya and Irina: poker upright, under a wide-brimmed beekeeper’s black hat.
DIMA, husband to Tamara: his bald, racked face so sickly in its stretched smile that he might as well be dead himself, despite the presence of his beloved daughter.
NATASHA, daughter to Dima: her long hair swept down her back in a black river, her slender body swathed in layers of shapeless black weed.
IRINA and KATYA, children of Olga and Misha: expressionless, each clutching a hand of Natasha.
The commentator is reciting the names of the great and good who have come to pay their respects. They include the representatives of Yemen, Libya, Panama, Dubai and Cyprus. None from Great Britain.
The camera fixes on a grassy knoll halfway up a hillside darkened by thuja trees. Six – no, seven – neatly suited young men in their twenties and early thirties are clustered together. Their beardless faces, some already running to fat, are directed at the open grave twenty metres down the slope beneath them, where the erect figure of Dima stands alone, his upper body tilted backwards in the military manner that he favours as he stares, not into the grave, but at the seven suited men gathered on the knoll.
Is the photograph still or moving? Dima has remained quite motionless, so it’s hard to tell. So also have the men gathered on the knoll above him. Belatedly, Yvonne’s subtitle appears:
THE SEVEN BROTHERS.
One by one, the camera takes a look at each of them in close-up.
*
Luke has long ago given up trying to judge the world by its face. He has studied these faces numberless times, but still finds nothing in them he wouldn’t find across the desk from him in any Hampstead estate agent’s office, or in any gathering of black-suited, black-briefcased, business types in the bar of any smart hotel from Moscow to Bogotá.
Even when their long-winded Russian names appear, complete with patronymics, criminal nicknames and aliases, he can’t bring himself to see in their owners’ faces anything more interesting than another edition of prototypes from the uniformed ranks of middle management.
But keep looking, and you begin to realize that six of them, either by design or chance, form a protective ring round the seventh at their centre. Look still more closely, and you observe that the man they are shielding is not a day older than they are and that his creaseless face is as happy as a child’s on a sunny day, which isn’t quite the face you expect to meet at a funeral. The face is such a picture of good health, in Luke’s view, that you are almost obliged to assume a healthy mind behind it. If its owner were to pop up uninvited on Luke’s doorstep one Sunday evening with a hard-luck story to tell, he would have a difficult time turning him away. And his subtitle?
THE PRINCE.
Abruptly, the said Prince detaches himself from his brothers, trots down the grassy slope and, without shortening his stride or reducing his pace, advances with arms outstretched on Dima, who has turned to confront him, shoulders back, chest out, chin thrust proudly forward in defiance. But his curled hands, so fine in contrast to the rest of him, seem unable to leave his sides. Perhaps – it crosses Luke’s mind each time he watches – perhaps he is thinking that this is his chance to do to the Prince what he dreamed of doing to the husband of Natasha’s mother – ‘with these, Professor!’ If that is so, then wiser and more tactical thoughts finally prevail.
Gradually, if a little late, his hands grudgingly rise for the embrace, which begins tentatively but then, by force of men’s desire or mutual detestation, becomes a lovers’ clinch.
Slow motion to the kiss: right cheek to left cheek, old vor to young vor. Misha’s protector kisses Misha’s murderer.
Slow motion to the second kiss, left cheek to right cheek.
And after each kiss, the little pause for mutual commiseration and reflection, and that choked word of sympathy between grieving mourners which, if spoken at all, is heard by none but themselves.
Slow motion to the mouth-to-mouth kiss.
*
Over the tape recorder that sits between Hector’s lifeless hands, Dima is explaining to the English apparatchiks why he is prepared to embrace the man whom, most in the world, he would prefer to strike dead:
‘Sure we are sad, I tell to him! But as good vory we understand why was necessary to murder my Misha! “This Misha, he became too greedy, Prince!” we shall tell to him. “This Misha, he stole your goddam money, Prince! He was too ambitious, too critical!” We do not say, “Prince, you are not true vor, you are corrupt bitch.” We do not say, “Prince, you take orders from State!” We do not say, “Prince, you pay tribute money to State.” We do not say, “You make contract killings for State, you betray Russian heart to State.” No. We are humble. We regret. We accept. We are respectful. We say, “Prince, we love you. Dima accepts your wise decision to kill his blood disciple Misha.”’
Hector switches the player to pause and turns to Matlock.
‘He’s actually talking here about a process we’ve been observing for some time, Billy,’ he says, almost apologetically.
‘We?’
‘Kremlin-watchers, criminologists.’
‘And you.’
‘Yes. Our team. We too.’
‘And what is this process your team has been observing so closely, Hector?’
‘As the criminal Brotherhoods draw closer to each other for reasons of good business, so the Kremlin is drawing closer to the criminal Brotherhoods. The Kremlin threw the book at the oligarchs ten years ago: come back inside the tent, or we tax the shit out of you or chuck you into prison, or both.’
‘I do believe I read that for myself somewhere, Hector,’ says Matlock, who likes to deliver his shafts with a particularly friendly smile.
‘Well, now they’re saying the same to the Brotherhoods,’ Hector continues unruffled: ‘Organize yourselves, clean up your act, don’t kill unless we tell you to, and let’s all get rich together. And here’s your irrepressible friend again.’
The news footage restarts. Hector freezes frame, selects a corner and enlarges it. As Dima and the Prince embrace, the man who now calls himself Emilio dell Oro, clad in black ambassadorial overcoat with astrakhan collar, stands midway up the slope, gazing down in approval on the match – while over the tape recorder Dima reads in staccato Russian from Tamara’s script:
‘The chief arranger for the Prince’s many secret payments is Emilio dell Oro, corrupt Swiss citizen of many former identities who by wickedness has obtained the Prince’s ear. Dell Oro is the Prince’s advisor in many delicate criminal matters for which the Prince being very stupid is not qualified. Dell Oro has many corrupt connections, also in Great Britain. When special payments must be arranged for these British connections, this is done on the recommendation of the viper dell Oro after personal approval by the Prince. After a recommendation is approved, it is the task of the one they call Dima to open Swiss bank accounts for
these British persons. As soon as honourable British guarantees are in place, the one they call Dima will also provide names of corrupt British persons who are in high positions of State.’
Hector again switched off the recorder.
‘Doesn’t he go on then?’ Matlock complained sarcastically. ‘He’s a right tempter, I’ll say that for him! Nothing he won’t tell us, if we give him everything he wants and then some. Even if he has to make it up.’
But whether Matlock was convincing himself was another matter. Even if he was, Hector’s reply must have rung like a death sentence in his ears:
‘Then maybe he made this up too, Billy. One week ago today, the Cyprus headquarters of the Arena Multi Global Trading Conglomerate filed a formal application with the Financial Services Authority to establish a new trading bank in the City of London, to operate under the name of First Arena City Trading and to be known henceforth and for all time by the acronym FACT, hence the FACT Bank Limited, or PLC, or incorporated or what-the-fuck. The applicants claim to have the support of three major City banks and secured assets of five hundred million dollars and unsecured assets of billions. Lots of billions. They’re coy about just how many billions for fear of frightening the horses. The application is supported by a number of august financial institutions, domestic and foreign, and an impressive line-up of home-grown illustrious names. Your predecessor Aubrey Longrigg and our Minister-of-State-in-Waiting happen to be two illustrious names. They are joined in their representations by the usual contingent of bottom-feeders from the House of Lords. Among the several legal advisors retained by Arena to press its case with the Financial Services Authority is the distinguished Dr Bunny Popham of Mount Street, Mayfair. Captain de Salis, formerly of the Royal Navy, has generously offered himself as the spearhead of Arena’s public-relations offensive.’
*
Matlock’s big head has fallen forward. Finally he speaks, but still without raising his head:
‘It’s all right for you, isn’t it, Hector, sniping from the sidelines. And your friend Luke here. What about the Service’s standing where it counts? You’re not Service any more. You’re Hector. What about the outsourcing of our Intelligence requirements to friendly companies, banks by no means excluded? We’re not a crusade, Hector. We’re not hired to rock the boat. We’re here to help steer it. We’re a Service.’
Meeting little in the way of sympathy in Hector’s gaunt stare, Matlock selects a more personal note:
‘I’ve always been a status quo man myself, Hector, never been ashamed of it either. Be grateful if this great country of ours gets through another night without mishap, is me. That doesn’t do for you, does it? It’s like the old Soviet joke we used to tell each other back in the Cold War: there’ll be no war, but in the struggle for peace, not a stone will be left standing. An absolutist is what you are, Hector, I’ve decided. It’s that son of yours who gave you so much pain. He’s turned your head. Adrian.’
Luke held his breath. This was holy ground. Never once, in all the intimate hours he and Hector had passed together – over Ollie’s soups, and malts in the kitchen after hours, huddled together watching Yvonne’s stolen film footage or listening yet again to Dima’s diatribe – had Luke risked so much as a glancing reference to Hector’s errant son. Only by chance had he learned from Ollie that Hector was not to be troubled on a Wednesday or a Saturday afternoon, except in dire emergency, because those were his visiting times at Adrian’s open prison in East Anglia.
But Hector appeared not to have heard Matlock’s offending words or, if he had, not to heed them. And as to Matlock, he was so fired up with indignation that he was quite likely unaware that he had spoken them at all.
‘Plus another thing, Hector!’ he barks. ‘What’s wrong, when you come down to it, with turning black money to white, at the end of the day? All right, there’s an alternative economy out there. A very big one. We all know that. We’re not born yesterday. More black than white, some countries’ economies are, we know that too. Look at Turkey. Look at Colombia, Luke’s parish. All right, look at Russia too. So where would you rather see that money? Black and out there? Or white, and sitting in London in the hands of civilized men, available for legitimate purposes and the public good?’
‘Then maybe you should take up laundering yourself, Billy,’ says Hector quietly. ‘For the public good.’
Now it’s Matlock’s turn not to have heard. Abruptly he changes tack, a trick he has long perfected:
‘And who’s this Professor we’re hearing about anyway?’ he demands, talking straight into Hector’s face. ‘Or not hearing about? Is he your source for all this? Why am I being fed snippets all the time, no hard data? Why haven’t you cleared him with us – or her? I don’t remember anything about a professor crossing my desk.’
‘Want to run him, Billy?’
Matlock gives Hector a long, silent stare.
‘Be my guest, Billy,’ Hector urges. ‘Take him over, whoever he or she is. Take over the whole case, Aubrey Longrigg and all. Hand it to the organized crime people, if you prefer. Call in the Met, the security services and the guards armoured while you’re about it. The Chief may not thank you, but others will.’
Matlock is never defeated. Nevertheless, his truculent question has the unmistakable ring of concession:
‘All right. Let’s do some plain talking for a change. What d’you want? How long for, and how much? Let’s have your full bag. Then let’s empty it out a bit.’
‘I want this, Billy. I want to meet Dima face to face when he comes to Paris in three weeks’ time. I want to get trade samples out of him exactly as we would from any high-priced defector: names from his list, account numbers, and a sight of his map – sorry, link chart. I want written approval – yours – to take him to first base on the understanding that if he can provide what he says he can provide, we buy him on the nail, at full market price, and don’t piss around while he tries to flog himself to the French, the Germans, the Swiss – or, God help us, the Americans, who will need one quick look at his material to confirm their current dismal view of this Service, this government and this country.’ A bony forefinger shoots into the air and stays there as the fervent light once more rises to his wide grey eyes. ‘And I want to go barefoot. You follow me? That means no tipping off the Paris Station that I’m there, and no operational, financial or logistical support from you or the Service at any level until I ask for it. Got it? Ditto with Berne. I want the case kept watertight and the indoctrination list closed and locked. No more signatories, no whispering in the corridor to best chums. I’ll handle the case on my own, in my own way, using Luke here and whatever other resources I choose. All right, go on, now have your fit.’
So Hector did hear, thought Luke with satisfaction: Billy Boy hit you with Adrian, and you’ve made him pay the price.
Matlock’s outrage was mingled with frank disbelief. ‘Without the Chief’s word even? Without fourth-floor approval, at all? Hector Meredith flying solo all over again? Taking information from unsymbolized sources on your own initiative for your own ends? You’re not in the real world, Hector. You never were. Don’t look at what your man’s offering. Look at what he’s asking! Resettlement for his whole tribe, new identities, passports, safe houses, amnesties, guarantees, I don’t know what he isn’t asking! You’d have to have the entire Empowerment Committee behind you, in writing, before you’d get me signing up to that. I don’t trust you. Never did. Nothing’s enough for you. Never was.’
‘The entire Empowerment Committee?’ Hector inquired.
‘As constituted under Treasury rules. The full Committee of Empowerment, in plenary session, no subcommittees.’
‘So a clutch of government lawyers, an all-star cast of Foreign Office mandarins, Cabinet Office, the Treasury, not to mention our own fourth floor. You think you can contain that, do you, Billy? In this context? How about the Parliamentary Oversight lot? They’re worth a laugh. Both houses
of Parliament, cross-Party, Aubrey Longrigg to the fore, and de Salis’s fully paid-up choir of parliamentary mercenaries, all singing from the same hymn-sheet?’
‘The size and constitution of the Empowerment Committee is flexible and adjustable, Hector, as you very well know. Not all elements have to be present at all times.’
‘And this is what you propose before I’ve even spoken to Dima? You want a scandal before the scandal’s broken? Is that what you’re pushing for? Go wide, blow the source before you’ve let him show you what he’s got to sell, and sod the consequences? Is that seriously what you’re suggesting? You’ll let the shit hit the fan before it’s even turning, all to save your back? And you talk about the good of the Service.’
Luke had to hand it to Matlock. Even now, he did not relax his aggression.
‘So it’s the interests of the Service we’re protecting at last! Well, well. I’m glad to hear it, late as it may be. What are you suggesting?’
‘Hold off your committee meeting until after Paris.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘Against your better judgement and all you hold dear, such as your own arse, you give me a temporary operational licence, thereby entrusting the whole affair to the hands of a maverick officer who can be disowned the moment the operation goes belly up: me. Hector Meredith has his virtues, but he’s an identified loose cannon and he’s exceeded his brief. Media please copy.’
‘And if the operation doesn’t go belly up?’
‘You assemble the smallest version of the Empowerment Committee that you can get away with.’
‘And you’ll address it.’
‘And you’ll be on sick leave.’
‘That’s not fair, Hector.’