Londongrad

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Larry Sverdloff’s office was in a free-standing building in back of the house, out of view of the gardens, or the beautiful rooms I had glimpsed on my way to shower and change.

In a room next to the office were two sofas and an armchair and in them sat five men, leaning forward, waiting, a little anxious.

A couple of them were Russians in open-necked shirts. The three Brits sat straight, they were tense, they looked like supplicants, like people who wanted something, needed something from Larry Sverdloff.

When I came in, they looked up expectantly, then went back to staring at their hands. A woman who said she was Larry’s assistant came out of his office, greeted me and asked me to wait.

“He’ll only be a minute,” she said.

Through the window I could see cars in a parking area, could see one leave, another arrive. I got the sense Larry wanted me to see all this, wanted me to understand his power, his authority.

After a few minutes, Larry came out and said, “Hi, Art, God, I’m sorry I was late. Come in.”

We started for his office, the men who were waiting got up and greeted him. He shook their hands. There was no trace of irony on his face, no glimpse at all of the guy I had been swimming with an hour earlier.

He was comfortable with the power he had over the men in his outer office.

On the wall in Larry’s own office was a huge Matisse, a thing so beautiful, I couldn’t stop looking. Larry followed my gaze, but he didn’t speak, and then from his pocket he got a scrap of paper with a number. “This is somebody you could call if you want help, use my name, okay? It’s a good contact, and safe,” he said.

I was impatient with all of it suddenly. I stayed on my feet.

“Don’t you want to sit, Artie?”

“I’m fine. What’s so fucking hush-hush?”

“Yeah, okay, I was holding back, but I realized if you’re going to find who killed Val and who wants Tolya dead, there are things you should know. Please sit down, it will take a while,” said Larry, glancing out of the window.

“Sure,” I said, sitting on a worn leather chair. “You keep looking around, you ride in an armored car, I don’t get it.”

“You don’t believe it’s necessary?”

“This is England. They don’t even carry guns here. It feels like a lot’s going on for show.”

“You mean you think it’s posturing, that I do all this stuff to show people I have power?”

“You want an answer?”

“Sure.”

“Yes. I mean, what’s it for? You think you’re in so much danger? Come on,” I said.

“They killed Valentina.”

“In New York.”

“They killed Litvinenko. There have been others. I’ve had threats. Even my kids. I try to keep it normal for them, I don’t want them going to school with guys carrying loaded AKs, like some people.”

“Jesus.”

“No matter where I go, I can’t get away, here, California, vacation, it doesn’t matter.”

“Because you owe somebody?”

He smiled just slightly. “Because of who I am.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I’m a Russian. Like Tolya, like you.”

“No fucking chance,” I said under my breath.

Larry got up and looked out of the window, turned back to me but didn’t sit down.

“You can’t escape from it,” he said. “The religion, the politics, the KGB, FSB, the Kremlin, the power, the paranoia, the fear, the fact that until a century ago most of us were serfs, slaves, really, we didn’t even have last names, all surreal, the fact that thirty-seven per cent of the population can’t see the need for indoor plumbing, that men are dying younger and younger, that we’ve produced the most sophisticated music and literature and graphics in the past, and we’re living in the Middle Ages, and we shoot journalists who tell the truth. It’s getting worse.” In Larry’s face was something I hadn’t seen before, a kind of passion, or was it obsession?

“I thought you were a businessman, I thought you were in it for the dough.”

“There will be a lot of shit coming,” Larry said. “Soon. Soon, Artie, they want Georgia, they want Ukraine, I’m betting before the end of the summer, there will be tanks in Tblisi, Art, and nobody will know if it’s a response to the Georgians or if the Georgians wanted it, provoked it. People will take sides, they’ll rattle nukes. There’s only one power and it takes in the whole damn place, the whole former USSR, you get it? You want me to spell it out, you want me to write the name?”

“Sure. I’m only a New York cop, help me out.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper, and said, “Everything comes from the Kremlin,” he said. “Everything goes back to Putin.”

“What does it have to do with Val?”

“Tolya,” he said. “Maybe me. A warning.”

“You have people on it?”

“I have official friends. The number I gave you is one of them, somebody who can help you with Valentina. Use it.”

“Official?”

“I don’t operate like my cousin, I do this stuff inside the system. It works better. And we’ll find them, whoever killed her, the way we found out who killed Sasha Litvinenko.”

“Who?”

“Name is Lugovoi. Maybe you read about it. He’s in Russia, no extradition. They’ll protect him, but nothing is forever.”

“Who’s we? I don’t believe the bullshit about it all being official. There’s other people.”

“You don’t need them,” he said.

“Can you fix for me to meet this guy, Greg?”

“There’s a party tomorrow night. Maybe he’ll be there. Charity thing Tolya cooked up. It would have been for Val, now it will be in her honor,” he said, and his eyes filled up. I couldn’t tell if he was acting or not. “Call me anytime. But be careful.”

“What of?”

“There are people like me here who want things to change in Russia, you know their names, these are people who are in much worse danger, they go on TV, they give interviews, they never travel without whole armies of security.” Larry sat close to me now, and leaned forward. “This is where we put our money, this is what we work for, to make it better in Russia, to stop all this. This is why it’s dangerous.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I said, impatient now.

Larry got up. “The next revolution, Art. I have to go now. See you at the party tomorrow night.”