No Kiss For The Devil

20

Natalya Fisher was a short, plump academic in her sixties with a soft, generous mouth. Dressed in various shades of grey, even her eyes had the quality of wood smoke, settling lightly on Palmer and Riley as the two investigators entered her cluttered office. But her smile was genuine and warm, and sharp with interest.

She indicated two chairs and bade them sit, then surprised them by leaping up and opening a window, before firing up a cigarette. ‘You have to excuse me,’ she continued uncompromisingly, waving away a cloud of noxious smoke. ‘But I have lived with worse things than smoking bans, and I need my nicotine. Please, join me if you wish. Nobody will disturb us here.’ Her accent was soft, overlaid with a mixture of influences, but echoing her origins a long way east of this dusty, paper-strewn hideaway. She took a huge drag of the cigarette, the tip glowing like molten steel, and sat down with a sigh of pleasure, lifting her legs and waggling her feet as if she had just walked a long way. ‘Now,’ she continued, ‘Donald Brask said you were interested in whatever I can tell you about certain Russians, yes?’

‘That’s right,’ said Riley. ‘Specifically, oligarchs.’

‘Oligarchs?’ Natalya queried flatly, ‘or mafiya?’ Her eyes flicked between the two of them, the hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. Donald must have given her an idea of what they wanted to discuss, but she sounded sceptical.

Riley said, ‘Aren’t they the same thing?’

‘No. Not really. But there’s an old Russian saying which says that one snowflake never settles far from the other.’ She inhaled deeply and blew smoke towards the window, where it billowed with startling clarity into the outside air like smoke over the Vatican. ‘Put another way, if you discover cow shit in your living room, why go looking for sheep?’

Palmer grunted. ‘Another old, Russian saying?’

‘No,’ she admitted, and gave him a coy grin. ‘I just made that up. What I mean is, you shouldn’t be too surprised if you find that oligarchs — what you in the west used to call moguls, I think — are viewed elsewhere as not so very different from the mafiya.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘Same heads, different hats.’ She shuffled her feet and seemed to go into deep thought for a moment, before stirring. ‘You have to understand, such men are still relatively new to Russia. They came to prominence under Gorbachev and Yeltsin, many with friends — even family — in the old Party.’

‘The Communist Party?’ interjected Palmer.

‘Yes. That surprises you?’

‘A little. They’re hardly soul-mates, I’d have thought.’

Natalya raised an eyebrow. ‘Where money and power are concerned, Mr Palmer, all men are soul-mates. The first oligarchs made their money because they were allowed to, not necessarily because they were clever. It suited everyone to have the appearance of a free market. There were many crooks, of course, and corrupt officials, and they are drawn together like maggots to fresh meat. Then, with new investment from outside, came the others — the modern businessmen. Smarter, politically and financially, they soon realised that without connections, even their money and power could be taken away very easily. Some of them stayed, working with the new administration, others moved abroad, taking their fortunes with them.’

‘Buying football clubs and big yachts,’ said Riley dryly.

‘As you say, buying their big toys. Many of the early oligarchs were not sophisticated and lost everything. But there are many others who survived.’ She studied the tip of her cigarette. ‘In my experience, there are three levels of these people you call oligarchs. Level Three is the lowest. They are rich, with many interests, but not influential enough to be really important. The reason for this is, they don’t have the right… mmm… resources.’

‘Resources?’

‘Friends. Contacts. Nothing is accomplished in Russia without knowing people. People with power… people who can provide assistance.’ She tapped ash from her cigarette into the palm of her hand without apparent discomfort. ‘Level Two,’ she continued, fluttering her hand over a waste bin, ‘are those with lots of money and influential friends. In my opinion, these are the ones who always want more. They work to make more contacts who can help them become richer and more powerful.’

‘But isn’t that how you said most of them got there in the first place?’ said Riley. ‘Through patronage?’

‘Most. But not all.’ Natalya’s eyes squinted through the smoke. ‘With all these things, there are changes; people are moved, contacts are lost… some fall out of favour, which in my country is often fatal. Then there are those I call Level One. They operate in what mountaineers would call rarefied air. They are very few in number, extremely rich, extremely powerful with many friends in high places. They have everything, but they still need to protect what they have. Some are in the east, others have come to the west to live and run their empires in exile… but even these men are missing something that not even their money can buy.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A welcome home.’ She pulled a face at the blank looks of her two visitors. ‘All Russians,’ she explained, ‘wherever they live, eventually want to go home. A Russian out of his homeland is first of all a man with an aching heart. It pulls him back, even when he knows that going back is the last thing he should contemplate. That is why you will notice many Russians have a darkness around them — a sadness which eats into the soul.’ She flicked the cigarette butt out of the window with practiced ease. ‘It makes them drink too much and dream of what they used to know. Because in the end, they wish to take their place where they were born.’

‘Even the oligarchs?’

‘Sure. Especially them. Can you imagine, to have all that money, yet not be able to buy a ticket home?’ She dusted the front of her skirt and gave her visitors a measured look, as though judging their powers of understanding. ‘Money in the west does not equate to happiness in the homeland. You think having big yachts or a football club or owning a small island is to warm the heart of such a person? It is playing with money and newspaper headlines only — a sport for bored men, usually trying to impress beautiful women.’ She smacked a hand against her chest. ‘But it does nothing to fill up the void in here.’

‘But going back,’ Riley guessed, ‘would mean losing everything?’

Natalya nodded. ‘For some, yes. But they don’t give up, these men. They are like children going home from school.’ She smiled and raised a demonstrative finger. ‘What better way to impress your parents than by taking home a big school prize?’ She peered at them for a sign of understanding, no doubt as she did with her students in class. ‘For the right prize, parents would forgive almost anything.’ She smacked a hand on her thigh. ‘That is the heart of their thinking — a welcome home.’

‘As well as,’ Palmer put in cynically, ‘guaranteeing you don’t get a visit from a man with a phial of Polonium.’

Palmer felt Riley’s eyes on him as a sudden silence descended on the room. Nobody spoke for several seconds. If Natalya felt insulted because of her background in the KGB, she gave no sign. But then, as Palmer knew well, the KGB hadn’t been known for breeding sensitive souls. All the same, he couldn’t help but wonder what special qualities had permitted a former KGB officer to settle in the UK. Maybe she had interesting photos of someone in authority.

He was beginning to worry that they were wasting their time. So far, the conversation showed signs of moving along a separate and slowly diverging path. If all they were going to get were her opinions on the melancholy soul-searching of her exiled countrymen, it wasn’t going to help them find out what they wanted to know.

‘This searching for approval,’ he said, to jolly things along. ‘Would it make them dangerous?’

‘All such men are dangerous,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Some worse than others. Those looking for something they have lost inside, for example. What you have to decide, Mr Palmer, is which one you are dealing with.’ She blinked and reached for another cigarette. ‘And that, I cannot tell you for sure. I hear rumours, but it is not fact. All I will say is, try taking away any of their toys and you will very quickly find out how dangerous they can be.’ She smiled, amused by the idea, and lit up in a cloud of smoke.

He decided to try another tack. ‘Have you ever heard of Richard Varley?’ He carefully avoided looking at Riley, but was aware of her turning to stare at him. He spelled out the name.

‘Varley? No.’ Natalya frowned at the tip of her cigarette. ‘I used to know a Varliya, once, but that was Anna — a girl at school. She was good at music, but died young. Her parents drank. Everybody drank. Who is he?’ More smoke billowed towards the window.

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. It’s a name we came across.’

‘But is it a real one?’ the professor replied enigmatically and lifted her eyebrows. ‘Is he rich? What does he do?’

Palmer waited, sensing Riley wanted to answer.

‘He’s in publishing,’ she said finally. ‘Business magazines.’

‘Ah. Donald said something about that. If he is in magazines, he is not Russian.’

‘He sounds American.’

Natalya shrugged. ‘Then that is probably what he is. Russians who want to be rich prefer petroleum, metallurgy or real estate. Not publishing.’

‘I see.’

‘These men you speak of — these oligarchs — are ambitious. They wish to dominate… to own. They are what critics would call control freaks. They are also of the earth. The earth and what is in it gives them the control and the ownership they crave.’ Her hand sliced through the smoke like a cleaver. ‘You have men like this, too, of course. It’s not unusual. Just unusual for Russians… until recently, anyway.’

‘What about the magazine?’ said Riley. She produced the copy Richard Varley had given her and passed it across.

Natalya took it and thumbed through it, then turned back to the inside front cover and scoured the publisher’s details. She hummed a few times, then flicked through again before passing it back to Riley with a nod.

‘I have seen this before,’ she said. ‘Is a small publication, but good quality. For where this comes from — Sokhumi in Georgia — very good.’

‘But?’ There was a tone in Natalya’s voice which altered the atmosphere in the room.

‘But nothing. There have been many like this before. They come, they go. This one is around longer than most. But not very big circulation, I think.’

‘At a guess?’

Natalya shrugged. ‘Two hundred copies — maybe three. But not more. Is this the magazine your Richard Varley is running?’

‘Yes.’

Natalya pursed her lips, her mouth elongating like a duck’s bill. Her next words came as a surprise. ‘I do not think so,’ she said finally, the statement drawn out but assured, the tone dry.

‘Sorry?’ Riley leaned forward.

‘This publication,’ the professor said, stabbing a finger towards the magazine, ‘is good. It has a good reputation. But so does Caravan Magazine. You go in caravans?’ She looked between her two visitors, but they merely stared back. She shook her head. ‘Never mind. Is cheap way to take a holiday if you don’t mind rudeness of other drivers and thin walls. But this, this East European Trade, does not make money for Richard Varley. Or anyone else. Believe me.’ She patted her chest again. ‘I know about such things.’

‘Maybe he has other interests,’ Palmer suggested.

‘Almost certainly.’ Natalya agreed. ‘But you must realise these magazines, they are not for direct commercial gain. They are for propaganda.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Is not to make money.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘They are to tell others what you want them to know. No more, no less. The west has them, too. It is nothing new.’ She pursed her lips again and looked longingly at the cigarette packet.

‘But propaganda,’ said Riley, ‘is put out by state organisations… like your former employers.’

‘Of course.’ She nodded vigorously, unaffected by the mention of her previous life. ‘And my former employers, as you call them — the KGB — were very good at this kind of thing. In the sixties, they had a single directorate which was bigger in publishing than many western newspapers.’ She brushed flecks of ash from her knee. ‘But the KGB is no more, of course.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Palmer spoke mildly, the scepticism evident in his voice. ‘And Vladimir Putin’s a boy scout.’

Natalya chuckled appreciatively, a twinkle deep in her eyes. ‘You know the KGB, Mr Palmer?’

He gave her a smile in return. ‘I had to know a bit about them once, for a while. I wouldn’t be overwhelmed if you told me their successors — the FSB — was still doing this kind of work.’

‘Of course.’ She nodded in agreement, and with what might have been a touch of pride. ‘The FSB is responsible for internal security, but also propaganda. Misinformation. It is the way it has always been.’

‘They haven’t changed, then.’

Her next words brought a chill into the small, smoke-filled room. ‘Why should they? If something is not broken, why fix it?’