Our Kind of Traitor

  Ben, if only you could see me now. See the best of me, not always the bad stuff. A week ago, Ben had pressed a Harry Potter on him. And Luke had tried to read it, really tried. Coming home dog-tired at eleven at night, or lying wakefully alongside his irretrievable wife, he’d tried. And fallen at the first fence. The fantasy stuff made no sense to him – understandably, he might argue, given that his whole life was a fantasy, even his heroism. Because what was so brave about being caught, and allowed to run away?

  ‘So it’s good, isn’t it?’ Ben had said, tired of waiting for his father’s response. ‘You enjoyed it, Dad. Admit.’

  ‘I did and it’s terrific,’ Luke said handsomely.

  Another lie and they both knew it. Another step away from the person he most loved in the world.

  *

  ‘Stop talking, everybody, at once, please. Thank you!’ Bunny Popham, queen of the roost, is addressing the unwashed. ‘Our brave gladiators have finally agreed to grace us with their presence. Let us all immediately adjourn to the Arena!’ A patter of knowing laughter for Arena. ‘There are no lions today, apart from Dima. No Christians either, unless the Professor is one, which I can’t vouch for.’ More laughter. ‘Gail, my dear, kindly show us the way. I have seen many gorgeous outfits in my day but none, if I may say, so nicely filled.’

  Perry and Dima lead. Gail, Bunny Popham and Emilio dell Oro follow. After them, a couple of clean envoys and their girls. How clean can you get? Then the podgy boy all alone except for his vodka glass. Luke watches them into a coppice of trees and out of sight. A shaft of sun lights up the flowered pathway and goes out.

  *

  It was the Roland Garros all over again: if only in the sense that neither then nor afterwards did Gail have any consecutive awareness of the great tennis-match-in-the-rain that she was so diligently following. Sometimes she wondered whether the players had any either.

  She knew Dima won the toss because he always did. She knew that he chose to stand with his back to the advancing clouds rather than serve.

  She remembered thinking that the players put up a pretty good show of competitiveness to begin with and then, like actors when their concentration flags, forgot that they were supposed to be engaged in a life-or-death duel for Dima’s honour.

  She remembered worrying about Perry sliding on the slippery wet tape that marked out the court. Was he going to do something as bloody silly as sprain his ankle? Then about Dima doing the same thing.

  And although, like yesterday’s sporting French spectators, she was meticulous in applauding Dima’s shots as well as Perry’s, it was Perry that she kept her eyes glued on: partly for his protection, partly because she had a notion that she might be able to tell by his body language what sort of luck they’d been having down there in the changing room with Hector.

  She remembered also the faint squelch of the slowing ball as it slurped into the wet clay, and how now and then she let herself be transported to the last phase of yesterday’s Final, and had to relocate in time present.

  And how the balls themselves got increasingly ponderous as the game dragged on. And how Perry in his distraction kept playing the slow ball too early, either hitting it out or – a couple of times to his shame – missing it altogether.

  And how Bunny Popham at some point had leaned over her shoulder to ask her whether she would prefer to make a run for it now before the next cloudburst, or stay with her man and go down with the ship?

  And how she had taken his invitation as an excuse for vanishing to the loo and checking her mobile on the off-chance that Natasha might have expanded on her most recent communication. But Natasha hadn’t. Which meant that matters stood where they had stood at nine this morning, in the ominous words that she knew by heart, even while she reread them:

  This house is not bearable Tamara is only with God Katya and Irina are tragic my brothers do only football we know a bad fate awaits us all I shall never look at my father in his face again Natasha

  Press green to reply, listen to a vacuum, ring off.

  *

  She was also conscious that, after the second rain break – or was it the third? – gouges began to appear in the sopping clay, which had evidently reached a point where it simply couldn’t take any more water. And that in consequence an official gentleman of the Club appeared and remonstrated with Emilio dell Oro, pointing to the state of the court and telling him with sideways brushing movements of the hands ‘no more’.

  But Emilio dell Oro must have had special powers of persuasion, because he took the official gentleman confidingly by the arm and led him under a beech tree, and by the end of the conversation the official was scurrying back to the clubhouse like a chastened schoolboy.

  And amid these scattered observations and rememberings there was the ever-present lawyer in her, at it again, fretting about the membrane of plausibility that seemed from the outset to be on the point of breaking, which didn’t necessarily signify the end of the free world as we know it, just as long as she was able to get to Natasha and the girls.

  And then, while she’s having these random thoughts, lo and behold, Dima and Perry are shaking hands across the net and calling it a day: a handshake not of reconciled opponents, to her eye, but of accomplices in a deception so blatant that the last few loyal survivors huddled on the stands should be booing rather than applauding.

  And somewhere in the middle of the mix – since there are no limits to the day’s incongruities – up pops the podgy Russian man who’s been following her around, and tells her he would like to fuck her. In those very words: ‘I would like to fuck you,’ then waits to hear yes or no: an over-earnest thirty-something city boy with bad skin and an empty vodka glass in his hand and bloodshot eyes. She thought she misheard him first time round. There was hubbub inside her head as well as outside. She actually asked him to repeat himself, God help her. But by then he’d lost his nerve, and confined himself to trailing after her at five yards’ distance, which was why she had been content to place herself under the wing of Bunny Popham, the least bad option available to her.

  And that in turn was how she came to confess to him that she too was a lawyer, a moment she always dreaded, since it resulted in awkward mutual comparisons. But for Bunny Popham it was just an excuse to be shocking:

  ‘Oh, my dear’ – lifting his eyes to Heaven – ‘I am overcome! Well, all I can say is, you can have my briefs any time.’

  He asked which Chambers, so she told him, which was only natural. What else was she supposed to do?

  She had thought a lot about packing. That too, she remembered. Stuff like whether she would use Perry’s new tennis bag for their dirty clothes, and equally weighty matters associated with getting out of Paris and on the road to Natasha. Perry had kept on their room for tonight so that they could pack last thing this evening before catching the train back to London, which in the world they had entered was how normal people travelled to Berne when they are potentially under surveillance and not supposed to be going there.

  *

  The massage room supplied bathrobes. Perry and Dima were wearing them. They were sitting three at the table again, where they had been sitting for the last twelve minutes by Perry’s watch. Ollie in his white coat was bowed over his laptop in the corner with his massage bag at his feet, and occasionally he scribbled a note and passed it to Hector, who added it to the pile in front of him. The claustrophobic atmosphere was reminiscent of the Bloomsbury basement without the smell of wine, and there was something similarly reassuring about the noise of real lives near by: the grumble of pipes, voices from the locker room, the flushing of a lavatory, the putter of a faulty air conditioner.

  ‘How much does Longrigg get?’ Hector asks, after glancing at one of Ollie’s notes.

  ‘One half one per cent,’ Dima replies tonelessly. ‘On the day Arena get its banking licence, Longrigg get first money. After one year, second money. Year later, finish.’

&
nbsp; ‘Paid to where?’

  ‘Switzerland.’

  ‘Know the account number?’

  ‘Till Berne I don’t know this number. Sometimes I get only name. Sometimes only number.’

  ‘Giles de Salis?’

  ‘Special commission. I hear this only, no confirmation. Emilio say to me: de Salis get this special commission. But maybe Emilio keep it for himself. After Berne I know for sure.’

  ‘A special commission of how much?’

  ‘Five million cold. Maybe not true. Emilio is fox. Steal everything.’

  ‘US dollars?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Payable when?’

  ‘Same as Longrigg but cash down, not conditional, two year not three. One half on official foundation Arena Bank, one half after one year trading. Tom.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hear me, OK?’ The voice suddenly alive again. ‘After Berne I get everything. For signing, I gotta be willing party, hear me? I don’t sign nothing I’m not willing party to, I gotta right. You get my family to England, OK? I go Berne, I sign, you get my family out, I give you my heart, my life!’ He swung round on Perry. ‘You seen my children, Professor! Jesus God, who the fuck they think I am any more? They fucking blind or something? My Natasha she go crazy, don’t eat nothing.’ He returns to Hector. ‘You get my kids to England now, Tom. Then we make deal. Soon as my family’s in England, I know everything. I don’t givva shit!’

  But if Perry is moved by this appeal, Hector’s aquiline features are set in rigid rejection.

  ‘No bloody way,’ he retorts. And riding roughshod over Dima’s protests: ‘Your wife and family stay where they are until after the signing on Wednesday. If they disappear from your house before the Berne signing, they put themselves at risk, you at risk, and the deal at risk. Do you have a bodyguard at your house, or has the Prince taken him away?’

  ‘Igor. One day we make him vor. I love this guy. Tamara love him. Kids too.’

  We make him vor? Perry repeats to himself. When Dima is sitting in his suburban palace in outer Surrey, with Natasha at Roedean and his boys at Eton, we will make Igor a vor?

  ‘Two men are guarding you at present. Niki and a new man.’

  ‘For Prince. They gonna kill me.’

  ‘What time is your signing in Berne on Wednesday?’

  ‘Ten o’clock. Morning. Bundesplatz.’

  ‘Did Niki and his friend attend the signing this morning?’

  ‘No way. Wait outside. These guys are stupid.’

  ‘And in Berne, they won’t be attending the signing either?’

  ‘No way. Maybe sit in waiting room. Jesus, Tom –’

  ‘And after the signing the bank will hold a reception in honour of the occasion. Bellevue Palace Hotel, no less.’

  ‘Eleven-thirty. Big reception. Everybody celebrate.’

  ‘Got that, Harry?’ Hector calls to Ollie in his corner, and Ollie raises his arm in acknowledgement. ‘Will Niki and his friend attend the reception?’

  If Dima’s composure is deserting him, Hector’s has acquired a driven intensity.

  ‘My fucking guards?’ Dima protests incredulously. ‘They wanna come to the reception? You crazy? Prince not gonna whack me in the fucking Bellevue Hotel. He gonna wait a week. Maybe two. Maybe first he whack Tamara, whack my children. What the fuck I know?’

  Hector’s furious stare remains unchanged.

  ‘So to confirm,’ he insists. ‘You’re confident that the two guards – Niki and his friend – will not attend the Bellevue reception.’

  With a sag of his huge shoulders, Dima lapses into a kind of physical despair. ‘Confident? I’m not confident of nothing. Maybe they come to reception. Jesus, Tom.’

  ‘Assume they do. Just for argument’s sake. They’re not going to follow you when you take a piss.’

  No answer, but Hector isn’t waiting for one. Stalking to the corner of the room, he places himself behind Ollie’s shoulder and peers at the computer screen.

  ‘So tell me how this plays for you. Whether or not Niki and his friend accompany you to the Bellevue Palace, halfway through the reception – let’s say twelve o’clock midday, as near as you can make it – you take a piss. Give me the ground floor’ – to Ollie – ‘the Bellevue has two sets of lavatories for ground-floor guests. One set is to the right as you enter the lobby, on the other side of the reception desk. Am I right, Harry?’

  ‘Bang on target, Tom.’

  ‘You know the lavatories I mean?’

  ‘Sure I know them.’

  ‘That’s the set you don’t use. For the other set you turn left and descend a staircase. It’s in the basement and not much used because it’s inconvenient. The staircase is next to the bar. Between the bar and the lift. D’you know the staircase I mean? Halfway down it there’s a door that pushes open when it isn’t locked.’

  ‘I drink many times in this bar. I know this staircase. But at night-time they lock. Maybe day too sometimes.’

  Hector resumes his seat. ‘On Wednesday morning the door will not be locked. You go down the staircase. Dick upstairs will be following you. From the basement there’s a side exit to the street. Dick will have a car. Where he takes you will depend on the arrangements I make in London tonight.’

  Dima again appeals to Perry, this time with tears in his eyes:

  ‘I want my family to England, Professor. Tell this apparatchik: you seen them. Send the kids first, I follow. That’s OK by me. Prince wanna whack me when my family’s in England, who givva shit?’

  ‘We do,’ Hector retorts vehemently. ‘We want you and all your family. We want you safe in England, singing like a nightingale. We want you happy. We’re in the middle of the Swiss school term. Have you made any plans for the children?’

  ‘After Moscow funeral, I tell to them, fuck school, maybe we make holiday. Go back to Antigua, maybe Sochi, fool around, be happy. After Moscow, I tell them any shit. Jesus.’

  Hector remains unmoved. ‘So they’re at home, out of school, waiting for your return, thinking you may be making a move, but not knowing where to.’

  ‘Mystery holiday, I tell them. Like secret. Maybe they believe me. I dunno no more.’

  ‘On Wednesday morning, while you’re at the bank and celebrating at the Bellevue, what will Igor be doing?’

  Dima rubs his nose with his thumb.

  ‘Maybe go shop in Berne. Maybe take Tamara to Russian church. Maybe take Natasha to horse-school. If she don’t be reading.’

  ‘On Wednesday morning, Igor needs to go shopping in Berne. Can you tell that to Tamara over the telephone without making it sound unusual? She should give Igor a long shopping list. Provisions for when you come back from your mystery holiday.’

  ‘Is OK. Maybe.’

  ‘Only maybe?’

  ‘Is OK. I tell Tamara. She’s a bit crazy. She’s OK. Sure.’

  ‘While Igor’s out shopping, Harry here, and the Professor, will collect your family from the house for their mystery holiday.’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Or a safe place. One or the other, depending how quickly arrangements can be made for you all to be brought to England. If, on the strength of the information you have so far given us, I can persuade my apparatchiks to take the rest on trust – particularly the information you are about to obtain in Berne – we shall fly you and your family to London on Wednesday night by special plane. That’s a promise. Witnessed by the Professor here. If not, we shall put you and your family in a safe place and look after you until my Number One says “come to England”. That’s the truth of the situation as best I understand it. Perry, you can confirm that.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘At the second signing in Berne, how will you record the new information that you will receive?’

  ‘I got no problem. First I be alone with bank manager. I gotta right. Maybe I tell him, make me copies
of this shit. I need copies before I sign it over. He’s my friend. If he don’t do it, whatta fuck? I got good memory.’

  ‘As soon as Dick gets you out of the Bellevue Palace Hotel, he’ll give you a recorder and you record everything you’ve seen and heard.’

  ‘No goddam frontiers.’

  ‘You’ll cross no frontiers until you come to England. I promise you that too. Perry, you heard me.’

  Perry has heard him, but for a moment nonetheless he remains lost in thought, long fingers bunched to his brow as he stares sightlessly ahead of him.

  ‘Tom tells the truth, Dima,’ he concedes at last. ‘He’s given me his promise too. I believe him.’

  14

  Luke picked up Gail and Perry from Zurich-Kloten Airport at four o’clock on the following afternoon, Tuesday, after they had spent an uneasy night in the flat in Primrose Hill, both wakeful, each worried about different things: Gail mostly about Natasha – why the sudden silence? – but also about the little girls. Perry about Dima and the unsettling thought that Hector would henceforth be directing operations from London, and Luke would have command and control in the field with back-up from Ollie and, by default, himself.

  From the airport, Luke drove them to an ancient village Gasthof in a valley a few miles to the west of Berne’s city centre. The Gasthof was charming. The valley, once idyllic, was a depressing development of characterless apartment blocks, neon signs, pylons and a porno shop. Luke waited for Perry and Gail to check in, then sat with them over a beer in a quiet corner of the Gaststube. Soon they were joined by Ollie, not in a beret any more, but a broad-brimmed black fedora hat which he wore rakishly over one eye, but otherwise his irrepressible self.

  *

  Luke quietly delivered himself of the latest news. His manner towards Gail was taut and distant, the very opposite of flirtatious. Hector’s preferred option, he informed the gathering, was a non-starter. After taking soundings in London – he did not mention Matlock in front of Perry and Gail – Hector saw no chance of obtaining clearance to fly Dima and family to England immediately after tomorrow’s signing, and had therefore set in motion his fall-back, namely a safe house within Switzerland’s borders until he got the green light. Hector and Luke had thought long and hard about where this should be, and concluded that, given the family’s complexity, remote was not synonymous with secret.