Breaking Cover

27

Liz had met Russian oligarchs before and been to their houses. She thought she knew what to expect, as she told Richard Pearson as they were driven to Altrincham. A vastly expensive and probably famous painting by an Impressionist hanging above a hideous pink velvet sofa; eighteenth-century French furniture with curly gold arms and legs; heavy brocade curtains with lots of gold braid and tassels; not to mention a kitchen full of gleaming fridges stuffed with caviar bulging from Lalique bowls the size of a Labrador’s head, and enough foie gras to fill a dustbin bag.

Pearson laughed. ‘I think you’ve had a bad experience. Sergei Patricov is supposed to be quite sophisticated.’

‘Let’s see,’ said Liz. ‘I bet I’m right – though I’ll admit to a bit of exaggeration.’

But Patricov turned out to be very different. He might have a private jet and a willowy blonde wife (neither was in evidence), but the man himself was dressed like an English country gentleman – a real one, not one off the pages of a lifestyle magazine – in a slightly saggy tweed jacket, Viyella shirt, and polished brown brogues. His living room was tasteful rather than grandiose – the paintings on the wall were good watercolours but not recognisable, the furniture was solid antique brown, and the Persian rugs pleasingly worn.

Patricov did not seem at all surprised by Liz’s presence. To him, she supposed, all foreign authorities were much the same: officials to be tolerated and placated. He was charming from the outset, leading them into the long drawing room of the house, offering coffee or tea, waiting patiently for them to explain their business, so he could respond civilly and wait for them to go away.

Which all made Pearson’s task that much harder, thought Liz, as she watched while Manchester’s most senior policeman discreetly moved their polite small talk towards pithier subjects. ‘As you know by now, there are a fair number of celebrities living in this area.’

Patricov nodded. ‘Of course. It is remarkable what a man is paid these days to kick a ball around.’ There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘I have studied the economics of football in your country. It appeals to me both as a game and as a business proposition.’

‘We’re used to advising our more affluent citizens on their security arrangements. They usually find it useful and I like it because it helps to keep the crime figures down,’ Pearson said with a smile.

‘I would be happy for you to look at the arrangements here. I have hired a man who seems to be excellent – a former member of your Special Forces.’

‘Good choice,’ said Pearson.

Patricov turned to Liz. ‘And you, Madam, are from the Home Office?’

‘I am,’ Liz replied. This was a cover she had used many times. If necessary she could discuss the minutiae of the department’s policies and even its internal structures.

‘You are London-based, yes? You have come a long way to see me.’ It was a question really – why was she here?

‘Yes, I have. Recently, I have been visiting prominent émigrés from your country.’ She smiled. ‘Most of them live much closer to London.’

‘Yes. I believe Weybridge is now known as Moscow West.’ Patricov gave a short laugh. ‘What is it you wanted to talk to me about? My papers are all in order, I hope.’

‘I’m sure they are, but that’s not my area. The Chief Constable mentioned security, and he was primarily thinking of your protection from home-grown criminals. But I have another concern: your security from a different and more dangerous type of criminal – those sent here by aspects of the Russian Government. Specifically, we know that some of your compatriots who have come to live here have been pressurised in various ways by agents from Moscow. And, as you know, some have been killed.’

Patricov’s eyes were narrowing now and a slight frown had replaced his smile. ‘So… you must be from your security services. You are talking about dissidents – those who have loudly proclaimed their dislike of our President.’

‘Not only such people. It depends – Moscow seems to define the term “dissident” quite broadly.’

‘Not in my case, I promise you. I am on very good terms with President Putin.’

‘Some of the Russians living here are not on such good terms.’

He looked at her sharply, and spent a moment measuring his response. ‘I know. Inevitably, I have encountered some of them. There are social events, though I usually avoid that sort of thing. We do things for charity, and then we might talk about the things we miss in Russia. We drink a little,’ he said, adding with a little laugh, ‘perhaps not always a little. And sometimes we sing. But that’s all. No politics, at least not when I have been present.’

‘Do you ever go back to Russia?’ asked Liz casually, though it was a key question – anyone under threat wouldn’t dare.

Patricov paused, then said, ‘I have not in fact been back for some time. But you should not attach any importance to that; my business interests are no longer there. I can go back any time I like. Officials may not put a lei around my neck, like they do in Hawaii, but they will be perfectly happy to see me, I assure you.’

Patricov looked at his watch, then pressed a buzzer that hung discreetly on the inner side of his chair arm. Within seconds there was a tap on the door and a man came in. He didn’t look Russian, and Liz guessed this must be Reilly, head of security and acquaintance of Pearson’s.

Patricov introduced them, and Pearson and Reilly acted as if they didn’t know each other. The Russian said, ‘Where is Karpis? I wanted him to escort Mr Pearson around with you.’

Reilly said, ‘He’s gone out, Mr Patricov. One of the guards saw him drive off about half an hour ago.’

‘Really?’ Patricov looked annoyed. He was about to say something but thought better of it. ‘Never mind, I will come too then.’

For the next half hour they had a guided tour of the grounds. Reilly described the regular patrols his staff made; Liz saw one of them standing on the rear terrace looking vigilant – it seemed rather posed. After inspecting the elaborate CCTV system, they watched as Reilly triggered one of the sensors fixed to the rear gate. Pearson and Liz adopted expressions of interest throughout. When they got back to the house Patricov dismissed Reilly, then turned to them. ‘Adequate?’ he asked, with a hint of challenge in his voice.

‘Most impressive,’ said Pearson solemnly.

‘You would like to see the monitor-room?’

‘That’s not necessary,’ said Pearson. ‘I know it’s linked to the local police station.’ He looked ostentatiously at his watch. ‘We’ve taken up enough of your time, so unless you have any questions for us, we’ll leave you in peace.’

Patricov nodded and shook hands with them both. ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ he said pointedly to Liz. ‘You may reassure your colleagues in London that this is not a hotbed of political activity.’ He laughed at the patent absurdity of this. ‘Now football is a different matter. There I do have designs,’ he said jovially.

As they drove away, Pearson asked Liz, ‘What do you make of that?’

‘Well, we certainly got the charm offensive.’

Pearson smiled and she went on: ‘But I think there’s something fishy about our Mr Patricov. I don’t buy his protestations of love for the Putin regime. It didn’t ring true, especially with what we know from your chap Jenkins.’

‘I agree. He protested too much. And where was Mrs P? Don’t oligarchs like to show off their wives?’

‘Not this one. He’s a bit smoother than the rest. What I wondered was where his henchman Karpis went, and why. Patricov was as surprised as we were to hear he’d pushed off.’

‘It was almost as if Karpis knew we were coming and didn’t want to meet us.’

Liz said, ‘We must be scarier than we look. Either that or he has something to hide.’

Pearson laughed. ‘Maybe it’s both.’