The hidden man

38

It was a cold night and Ben walked at pace along Finchley Road, searching for the entrance to the club. He hoped to discover Macklin and Mark waiting for him in the foyer, or just pulling up in a cab, because what if somebody he knew — a friend, perhaps, maybe even a gallery owner — spotted him as he walked inside alone? How would that look? A married man of thirty-two using lap-dancers for kicks?

Moving north into residential Hampstead, he noticed red rope cutting off a section of pavement and a chunky, stubbled bouncer breathing clouds of air into thick leather gloves. A blue neon sign hung over the door and two skinny office boys wearing chinos and polo necks had just mustered the courage to go inside.

‘Evening, sir.’

The bouncer was built like a bag of cement. With a single, murderous flick of his eyes he analysed Ben’s shoes, trousers, jacket and tie, and then waved him past the rope. Ben moved towards a small booth inside the door and paid an entrance fee of fifteen pounds. The girl who took the money had a copy of OK magazine hidden beneath the counter.

‘Just head down the stairs, love,’ she said, music thumping from below. ‘Somebody’ll take care of you in the lounge.’

Ben was struck by how smart the club appeared; somehow he had been expecting condoms on the floor, lurid pink lights and posters of models wearing plastic swimwear. At the foot of the staircase he was greeted by a middle-aged waiter wearing black tie and ferocious aftershave. Beyond him, through double doors, he could see girls in next to nothing drifting past the glass.

‘Good evening, sir.’ The waiter had a southern European accent, possibly Greek. ‘I show you to a table?’

‘Actually I’m meeting some people,’ Ben told him.

‘My brother, Mark Keen. One of his colleagues, Thomas Macklin. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them. They’re with some Russians…’

‘Oh yes.’ The waiter seemed to know all about them. ‘The party from Libra,’ he said, leading Ben through the double doors. ‘They haven’t arrived yet. But I can show you to their table. Mr Macklin has made a reservation with us.’

It was like the Savoy all over again, deference and respect if you could pay for it. Two girls, both blonde and staggeringly tall, looked up and caught Ben’s eye as he walked the floor. He smiled back, aware of bikinis and high heels, of other women scoping him from near by. Maybe he should do this more often. The club was comparatively small, a low-ceilinged room no bigger than a decent-sized swimming pool, decked out with expensive mirrors and dimmed lights.

Ben had been expecting something on the scale of Libra, perhaps three or four floors with room to move, but this was an intimate space, with a seating area of just ten or fifteen tables and a tiny spotlit stage skewered by a chrome pole.

He passed the office boys — already sitting down and drinking beers — and was shown to a long table flush against the far wall. Ben sat at the top end, facing the stage, his back tucked into a corner.

The waiter asked if he wanted a drink.

‘That would be great.’ He was making himself feel more comfortable, shuffling into his seat. ‘I’ll have a vodka and tonic, please. Iceand lemon.’

There were five other men in the club. Aside from the office boys, two thick-set Arabs with heavy moustaches were being entertained by a gaggle of girls at a table near the stage. One of them had his right hand on the neck of a bottle of champagne and his left curled around the narrow waist of a woman whose face Ben could not see. Above them, a black girl was dancing in sinuous loops on the stage, one of twenty or thirty lap-dancers dotted throughout the bar. Ben felt exposed, as if he did not belong in such a place. Yet the atmosphere was enticing; it fed into his excitement about the Russians, the sense of being involved in something clandestine and underground. He began looking around for Mark, checking his watch theatrically, and lit a cigarette to give an impression of cool. Maybe they’ve stood me up, he thought, though it was still only ten past ten. Then a song he had hoped never to hear again- Michael Bolton singing ‘How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?’ — began playing on the sound system and a lap-dancer was walking towards him.

She was six foot and blonde, wearing a tight leather dress. Not Ben’s type: plastic and exercised. When she sat down she deliberately let her leg touch his.

‘Hi there, honey.’ An American accent, with breath that smelled of mints. ‘My name’s Raquel. Mind if I join you?’

Ben found himself nodding, but he was looking around the room. He didn’t want to appear rude, but needed to find a way of making the girl go away.

‘This your first time here, honey?’ she asked. Her skin looked tanned under the lights.

‘First time, yes.’

The legs of Ben’s chair caught on a piece of loose carpeting and he was forced to sit at an awkward angle.

‘You’re American,’ he stated obviously.

‘That’s right.’

Everything he could now invent to excuse himself from the conversation sounded like a lie. That he was waiting for friends. That he was happy just sitting alone. That he thought America was a terrific place and really misunderstood by most Europeans. It was like being drunk and trying to persuade someone you were sober. Finally Ben said, ‘I’m waiting for Macklin. For Thomas Macklin.’

And Raquel’s face lit up.

‘Oh, you’re waiting for Tom?’

At last.

‘You know him?’

‘Sure. Everyone knows Tom. Comes in here all the time.’

And again Ben felt her leg against his, a lighter touch this time, the soft enticement. Raquel was sliding her hand across his knee, saying, ‘So, you wanna little dance?’

‘No, no thanks. I’d prefer just to sit here. On my own. They’ll be here any minute…’

To Ben’s right, the black girl was now gorgeously topless, gripping the pole like a microphone, and nowhere for his eyes to fall. Suddenly Raquel was swaying into his lap, her breasts a silicone mould. He said, ‘Look, this isn’t such a good idea,’ but his voice lacked clarity and resonance. Her face was suddenly so close to his cheek that he could feel the heat of her skin against his own.

‘Naughty boy, Benjamin. Naughty boy.’

Macklin. Fuck.

Ben practically threw Raquel off his lap and was greeted by a startling spectacle: Thomas Macklin wearing an electric blue suit, flanked by two unidentified men in jacket and tie, his brother beside them, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

‘Hello there, Benny boy. Having yourself a good time?’ Macklin leaned over to shake his hand. ‘I see you’ve made Raquel’s acquaintance. How are you, sweetheart? Looking gorgeous as ever.’

Raquel kissed Macklin full on the lips and said ‘Hi, Tom’ with a white smile. Ben was hot with embarrassment as he rose awkwardly from his chair.

‘Brother, these are some of my colleagues from work.’ The grin on Mark’s face was still evident. ‘You know Tom, of course. And this is Vladimir Tamarov, a lawyer from Russia, and his associate, Juris Duchev, from Latvia. They’re helping us out with the Moscow thing, trying up some loose ends.’

Ben got a good look at them. Duchev was past forty, balding and squat, with tired, bloodshot eyes and skin the colour of pancake mix. He was wearing black flannel trousers and a Soviet-era woollen jacket that looked utterly out of place in the club. His expression was so hard and unkind he might never have smiled. Vladimir Tamarov also wore a look of absolute indifference to his surroundings. Tall and athletically built, he was dressed in what might have passed for Armani, with an expensive-looking watch visible on a thick, tanned wrist. His hair gleamed with oil, combed in swept-backstrands that ended in dry curls at the back of his neck.

‘Good to meet you,’ Ben told him, standing uncomfortably with his weight on one leg. It occurred to him that he was shaking hands with the men possibly responsible for his father’s death. Did Mark realize that? Had he thought this through?

‘Good to meet you also,’ Tamarov replied, ignoring a peroxide blonde who drifted past him wearing a black lace corset and thigh-high leather boots.

There were quickremarks now and drink orders, the group settling down at the table. Ben was conscious that he owed money to Raquel, but she seemed happy to remain at his side, her hand now confidently parked in Macklin’s lap. Tamarov sat on Ben’s right, his backto the wall, with Mark and Duchev beside one another at the other end of the table.

‘Where’s Philippe got to?’ Macklin asked, turning and looking back towards the entrance. His voice was loud and controlling, any civility erased by drink.

‘Went to the gents, I think,’ Mark said.

‘Taking his fucking time about it. So, how you been, Benny boy?’

‘Not too bad, Tommy boy,’ Ben replied, and was surprised to see Tamarov smiling as he removed his jacket.

‘You not like me calling you that?’ Macklin grabbed Ben’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. ‘Hey Keeno!’ Again he was shouting down the table. ‘Little brother here doesn’t like me calling him “Benny boy”. Now what do you think about that?’

Tamarov glanced at Ben, the unspoken solidarity of sober men, and raised his eyebrows in a way that suggested he was tired of Macklin’s behaviour, that he thought of him as foolish and embarrassing. Ben nodded back, and wondered if he had gained his trust.

‘I told ya,’ Mark replied, wearing the mask of work, the banter and the easy charm. ‘Ben don’t like to be messed around, Thomas. He’s the artist in the family, the thinker.’

‘Ah, you are the artist?’ Tamarov said, drawing Ben out of the exchange. His voice was low and matter-of-fact, a heavy accent.

‘That’s right.’

‘Mark tells me earlier you are painter, this is correct?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I buy paintings, collect for my pleasure.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes.’

It was an early skirmish. Was Tamarov telling the truth? Drinks were being set down — champagne and vodka all round — and Ben concentrated on the swarm of bikinis and miniskirts now descending on the table. Mark shifted along so that a Thai girl with flowers in her hair could sit between him and Duchev. Duchev, looking like a coal miner who had wandered into the wrong party, grimaced as a thick-boned brunette tapped him on the shoulder and invited herself to sit down. They began speaking and Ben assumed that she was Latvian. Raquel then began massaging Macklin’s shoulders, saying how much she liked his suit and helping herself to champagne. He would have to speak to Tamarov.

‘So why do you do it, please?’ the Russian asked.

He had a very direct and concentrated manner, cold, striking eyes that could detect the flaw in a man.

‘Why do I do what?’

‘Painting. Why did you become artist?’

For the sake of the job, it seemed important to Ben to take care with his answer.

‘I do it because it’s the only thing I know how to do,’ he replied. ‘I can’t bank. I can’t farm. I can’t teach. But I can draw. And I have a need to do it, to get this stuff out of me.’

It was an answer he had employed many times before, but Ben now added to it by drumming his chest in a manner that he thought might appeal to a Russian. The music in the club was now very loud, the throb of a Latin salsa.

‘I see.’ Tamarov seemed unaffected by events around him: the laughter, the wisecracks, the two bored black girls near by, yawning into their mobile phones. ‘And how do you feel about the way art is going in this country?’ he said. ‘In England?’

‘You ask a lot of questions,’ Ben said, and regretted it. That wasn’t the way to win him round. Tamarov let him fall through an embarrassed silence, twisting ice in his glass. Forced into a quick reply, Ben said:

‘I think a lot of so-called modern art is bullshit. I’m trying to do something more lasting. More authentic.’

‘I see. Yes, the way that painting is presented here concerns me. You have this so-called artist, a man who leaves his clothes in a Tate gallery, and he is made famous for this. But then England has chemists, engineers, you have architects, and nobody knows their names. Why is this please?’

Tamarov looked very much as though he wanted an answer.

‘Well, it’s just laziness on the part of the media, laziness on the part of the public,’ Ben told him.

Raquel was laughing at something Macklin had said and he could feel her leg moving under the table.

‘People respond to modern art in the same way that they respond to sex.’

Tamarov frowned.

‘To sex?’

‘That’s right. To sex. They respond purely on the basis of appearance. There’s nothing deeper going on.

“Does this installation turn me on?” “How does this video make me feel?” Those are the kind of questions they’re asking themselves.’

Tamarov asked for a translation of the word ‘installation’ and Ben did his best to provide one. Then the Russian began nodding slowly, as if deep in thought.

‘Well, this is true,’ he said finally. ‘An appreciation of older paintings, the work of Matisse or Renoir, this is much closer to love. My feelings for them will become deeper, as they would for perhaps a friend.’

Ben could only smile awkwardly. It occurred to him that he was in the middle of a lap-dancing club holding a conversation about art and friendship with a money-laundering Russian gangster who could have murdered his father.

‘Your British culture is only about shocking people,’ Tamarov continued. ‘This is what happens when the morons take over. They play to the — what is the expression Sebastian is always using — the lowest common deconimator. Is this correct?’

‘Lowest common denominator, yes,’ Ben said, noting the clear reference to Roth. ‘And they are the lowest common denominator. I mean, what are their obsessions? Celebrities, gossip and fucking.’

When Tamarov smiled, it was strange to see a face so controlled, so basically intimidating, giving way to an amusing idea. It was the reaction, Ben realized, of a man who liked what he saw, a thought that appalled and gratified him in equal measure. He was doing a good job. Then there was a sudden commotion at the table, Macklin breaking off from Raquel and swinging round in his chair. Twice he shouted: ‘Hercule!’ in a voice loud enough to be heard above the music and Ben looked up to see a skinny, well-dressed man approaching the table, drunk and disoriented, with a stunning Indian girl in tow.

‘Sorry, Tom.’ Philippe d’Erlanger had only a faint Belgian accent and he was speaking quickly. ‘I am coming back from the toilet and I meet Ayesha and we do a little dance together and I was delayed. Hello, I’m Phil.’

‘Good to meet you.’ And now Ben was shaking the hand of a drunk Belgian who ran eastern European prostitutes out of a restaurant in Covent Garden. It worried him that a part of him found this exciting.

‘You are Mark’s brother, yes? Benjamin?’

‘Benny boy!’ Macklin corrected, a clammy hand going back onto Ben’s shoulder. He could feel the weight of it, the sweat, and wanted to throw vodka in Macklin’s face.

Raquel was laughing as he said, ‘That’s right, I’m Ben. Mark’s younger brother.’ D’Erlanger sat down.

‘So you work at Libra?’ he asked, noting a tiny particle of cocaine at the base of the Belgian’s nose.

‘Used to, in the past,’ he replied. ‘Now I own a restaurant. This is Ayesha, by the way.’

The Indian girl was perched delicately on d’Erlanger’s lap, her fingers playing gently in his hair. She looked at Ben and flirted shamelessly, eye contact that he felt as an energy moving right through his body. Her thighs were slim and dark, the left leg crossed over the right so that the light cotton of her dress rode up almost to the waist. Ben nodded at her and took a sip of his drink.

‘So you two were dancing back there?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it was very agreeable.’ D’Erlanger was grinning inanely. ‘They have a separate area where you can be more private. VIP, I thinkthey call it. Very Important Persons.’

He laughed uproariously at his own joke, but Ben noticed the exhaustion in his face, tired, jaundiced skin and bruises beneath the eyes. A nocturnal creature. Stress-driven. Greedy.

‘So this is better than Moscow, no?’ he was saying, this time to Tamarov. ‘More relaxed, I think.’

‘What do you mean?’ Tamarov asked.

D’Erlanger turned back to Ben. His attention was everywhere.

‘We’ve just been in Moscow,’ he said. ‘Have you ever been, Benjamin?’

Ben said that he hadn’t.

‘Well, I will tell you…’ he rubbed his nose, wiping sweat off his cheek‘… everywhere you go there are security persons, men maybe only twenty or twenty-five years old carrying guns and leather jackets, like they thinkthey are Bruce Willis or something. And not just in nightclubs, but in supermarkets, in cinemas, in shops. What are they called, Vladimir?’

‘Okhrana,’ Tamarov told him.

‘That’s right. Okhrana. The Muscovites are obses-sed with staying alive, with security. We go to one restaurant with Thomas and Juris — it’s called the Prado or Prago or something…’

‘Praga,’ Tamarov said.

‘Thankyou, yes, Praga, and this is a typical Stalin wedding cake near the Kremlin where you have maybe eight or nine different restaurants, themed and so on, and we cannot move because of all these clowns, these clowns with their Range Rovers and their bullet-proof vests and Walther PPKs…’

Again d’Erlanger laughed at his own joke. Ayesha smiled backadoringly, his oldest friend in the world. Then, when she thought that no one would notice, she stared intently backat Ben, a second moment of flirtation which tookhim by surprise. There was a promise of paradise in her eyes.

‘So Vladimir he books a table for us and we have to pass through metal detectors, body searchings, as if we are terrorists or something.’ Ben could hardly concentrate. ‘Can you imagine this at my restaurant, Benjamin? You come to eat at my place in Covent Garden and I have one of my waitresses take you into a backroom and maybe do a strip search before you can order a soup…’

Again d’Erlanger laughed hugely. Ayesha was still trying her best to look amused but Tamarov had a face like stone. Movement at the opposite end of the table ended the conversation. Mark had stood up and was excusing himself from the Thai girl. Seeing this, Ben said, ‘I’m just going to the bathroom.’ Nobody paid him much attention. ‘You going too, Mark?’

‘Yeah, for a piss,’ his brother replied, passing behind Macklin’s chair. Ben nodded conspicuously at Tamarov as he squeezed himself out and walked with Mark to the gents.

Inside it was quiet, two doors separating them from the rest of the club. Ben checked that they were alone as Mark washed his hands at the sink.

‘I have to talk to you,’ he said. There was a note of urgency in his voice. ‘Something’s come up.’

‘Not now, brother,’ Mark whispered. ‘This is hard enough as it is.’

The door swung open and a stooped, elderly man walked into the bathroom. Mark moved away from the sinkand locked himself in one of two cubicles. Ben pretended to look at himself in the mirror and adjusted his tie. The man left without washing his hands.

‘D’Erlanger has been to Moscow with Macklin and Tamarov. He must be involved in something out there…’

‘Ben…’

‘What were you talking to Duchev about?’ Mark came out of the booth. He was frowning.

‘What?’

‘You guys were talking about something while I was with Vladimir.’

‘He’s retiring. He’s bought some property in Spain. He doesn’t like the weather in Latvia and wants to build his own house south of Granada. Why?’

Instantly, Ben said, ‘Well, you could use that.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You could rob him of his dream.’ In the tight confines ofthe bathroom Ben was rushing on sheer adrenalin, eager to help out. ‘If Randall needs evidence on Kukushkin from within, Duchev would be the man to give it to him. They could recruit him as an agent, threatening to take away the land…’

‘What?’ Mark looked appalled. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Just that. Just what I was saying.’

‘Have you done a line, brother?’

‘Of course I haven’t done a line. You think I’d do coke before something like this…?’

Mark was shaking his head, an exhausted, disappointed smile.

‘This was a big mistake, bringing you in on this. I didn’t realize how fucked you’d get. I don’t know what I was thinking…’

‘What?’

‘I should never have got you involved.’

Ben came towards him.

‘You got me involved because you can’t do this thing on your own. You need me to help you out, to do it for Dad…’

‘No.’ Mark was intractable. ‘I don’t need you to help me out. It’s not safe. I asked you along tonight so you could see the Russians for yourself, to prove to you that Bone’s letter was a fake. I didn’t get you along so that you could start playing I Spy like it’s a game or something. The two of us just being in here is bad enough. You shouldn’t have followed me from the table.’

Ben turned away, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

‘You’re drunk, brother,’ he said. ‘You’re paranoid.’

‘I am not drunk, Benjamin. I am not paranoid. You just need to calm down.’ Mark was very careful not to raise his voice. ‘Do you know anything about Duchev? Do you realize how dumb it would be to try to recruit someone like that? This is one of Kukushkin’s most trusted employees. This is a guy who, four years ago, took a leading Moscow mafioso into the countryside in the boot of a car, found a nice isolated spot, chopped off his fingers, hammered out his teeth and then set fire to his vehicle. The bloke was still alive. That was just a job for Kukushkin, a favour. All in a day’s work. That’s what I’m dealing with, brother. This is the kind of person I’m up against.’

‘What about Tamarov?’

‘What about Tamarov? Go back to your paints and charcoals. He’s just sussing you out. Can’t you see that? He’s sussing both of us out. These guys, they value loyalty and honour above everything else. You make friends with him and he’ll become fucking depraved if he realizes what we’re up to. A man like Tamarov is either your best fucking friend in the world or the worst mistake you ever made. That’s what I need you to bear in mind so that you don’t fuck this thing up.’

‘You should get out of this,’ Ben said calmly. ‘I can see you’re not…’

Mark flashed him a look of contempt.

‘Drop it,’ he hissed.

‘All I said was that d’Erlanger went to Moscow. That’s all I came in here to tell you.’

‘And?’ Mark’s hand was coiled into a fist, leaning on the bathroom sink. ‘You think that’s big news? What do you think MI5 do all day if they’re not tracking — ’

He did well to stop talking as quickly as he did. The internal door of the bathroom had shifted fractionally in a movement of air created by someone entering on the other side. When Tamarov came into the room his eyes narrowed in the brighter light and he stopped in his tracks. He looked first at Mark, then at Ben, and said, ‘Everything OK?"

Ben let his brother do the talking.

‘Oh, fine,’ Mark replied. ‘Fine. We’re just having a chat about one of the girls. You all right, Vladimir?’

‘Not too bad,’ Tamarov said, standing with his back to them at the urinal.

‘Good.’

‘So you like one of the girls?’

He had twisted his neck round and directed the question at Ben.

‘That’s right,’ Ben replied, falling gratefully in to the lie. His pulse was sprinting like rain and he hardly dared look at Mark. ‘Her name’s Ayesha. The one with Philippe. She’s nice, eh?’

‘Very beautiful, yes. I could tell you liked her. We are talking, Mark, and your brother is very interesting on the subject of modern art. But his eyes they keep moving to this girl. He cannot take them off her.’ Tamarov laughed, zipping up his flies. ‘But you have a problem, I think. Philippe is very drunk and he is carrying a lot of cash. You will have trouble persuading her to leave him.’

Ben smiled — though it looked to Mark more like a grimace — and did his best to keep up the charade.

‘Oh, that’s OK,’ he said. ‘One dance is enough for me. Besides, I’m married, Vladimir, and that American girl took me a bit by surprise.’

‘Yes,’ Tamarov said, washing his hands at the sink. ‘By surprise. Perhaps this is what you were talking about when I came in.’

There was a dreadful silence, the sound of taps and muffled music, and they left the bathroom together. Mark allowed Ben to walk ahead of them and tried to gather his composure. They were at a set of double doors leading backinto the club when Tamarov took hold of his arm.

‘Come with me to the bar,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to you in private.’

‘Sure,’ Mark replied coolly. He desperately wanted water, ice, something to take the dryness from the roof of his mouth. They were moving through the darkened VIP area, Ben up ahead and girls on all sides dancing in the laps of half-hidden men.

‘What will you have?’ Tamarov asked him at the bar.

‘Just something soft,’ Mark replied. He was still irritated by Ben. ‘I have to be up early in the morning.’

Tamarov ordered two Cokes and jerked his head contemptuously in Macklin’s direction.

‘Thomas must also be awake early tomorrow,’ he said, looking across at the table. ‘We have important series of meetings on Saturday, no? But I think he does not care.’

‘Oh, Tom’s all right,’ Mark said, thinking that a display of loyalty would play in his favour. ‘He just likes a drink from time to time. Likes to let his hair down.’

The barman set down two Cokes on the bar and Tamarov paid him with a stiff fifty-pound note. Then he trained his eyes on Mark, saying, ‘What has he told you about me? About who I am?’

Mark didn’t flinch.

‘That you’re a lawyer.’

‘But by now you understand how business works in my country? You understand that in order for your operation to succeed it has been necessary for Thomas and Sebastian to make certain arrangements?’

‘Sure,’ Mark said casually. ‘I understand that.’

Tamarov moved his mouth slowly from side to side, like a man tasting expensive wine.

‘So I want to speak to you privately today because we have not met before tonight and there are matters on my conscience that I need to discuss with you.’

‘On your conscience,’ Mark repeated.

‘Let me be clear.’ Tamarov straightened his back and swallowed a mouthful of Coke. ‘Your father was working for Sebastian at the time of his death. I am aware of this. We were all aware of it. This is how business is done.’

‘I’m not sure I’m following you.’

‘What I want to say is this.’ Now he reached out and put his hand on the shoulder of Mark’s jacket. It was like being touched by a priest. ‘When I heard about your father’s murder, I was shocked. It came to me as a surprise. It came to all of us as a surprise. Do you understand what I am telling you?’

For a time there was nothing between them but pop music and distant, idle chatter. Girls in peripheral vision and Mark calculating all the time. Under pressure, he made a decision.

‘Vladimir, if you’re trying to tell me that you work for Viktor Kukushkin, that you’re one of his lawyers, then that doesn’t surprise me. I’m a big boy. My father told me about Kukushkin’s organization and, to be honest with you, on my trips to Moscow with Tom, I put two and two together.’

Tamarov flattened down the dried curls at the back of his neckand seemed relieved to have cleared the air.

‘I appreciate your frankness,’ he said. ‘But I am trying to tell you something more than this.’

Now Mark did not respond. It was something Quinn had talked about at the safe house. Page One, Rule One: If you don’t know what’s going on, keep your fucking mouth shut.

Tamarov leaned forward.

‘I must ask you a personal question,’ he said. ‘I hope that you will not be offended by it.’

‘Go on.’

‘It is only that I hope you do not feel that my client was in any way involved in what happened…’

‘Jesus, no.’ Mark could not tell if the lie rang hollow. ‘Christ, that thought never occurred to me. You think I’d still be working for Libra if I thought they had anything to do with what happened? You think I’d drink with you at this bar?’

‘Then I am very relieved.’ Tamarov swayed back and removed his hand from Mark’s shoulder. ‘This has been a burden for me tonight, and for Juris also. As I was saying to you, your father’s tragedy came as a surprise to all of us in the organization.’

‘Juris also works for Mr Kukushkin?’ Mark asked, because he had to.

‘He is an associate,’ Tamarov replied after a pause. Both men glanced back at the table. Ben, Mark was pleased to see, was now talking to Ayesha in the corner. That would keep him out of trouble. Macklin, Raquel, Duchev and Philippe were laughing amongst themselves in a separate conversation.

‘And your brother?’ Tamarov asked. ‘What does he think?’

‘Ben?’

‘Yes. Ben.’

‘Oh, all brother cares about is paintings.’

Tamarov’s mouth dipped.

‘I like him very much,’ he said. ‘Benjamin is good person. It is not easy for him to live with everything that has happened. I also lose my father, when I was seventeen year old.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘A car crash outside Moscow. He was killed with a friend, coming back from a day of fishing in the country. My mother was very sick and I had to inform my younger sister and brother of this news. They are twins, only ten years old at the time. When I tell them what has happened they are screaming, like animals on the floor.’

‘That’s terrible. I’m really sorry.’

Two girls approached them at a gentle sway but Tamarov waved them off.

‘I remember afterwards, going through his…’ he searched for the word ‘… his possessions. My mother was ill for some time and it was left to me, only a young man in Soviet Russia, to arrange the funeral. This was an intimate thing, you understand, for a boy to go through his own father’s books, his clothes.

Later I read an American author. He says: “There is nothing more terrible than to face the objects of a dead man.” I always remember this.’

‘I had to do the same thing,’ Mark said, and for a moment he was out of the role, alone in Keen’s flat that first time: finding a razor lying beside the bath, clogged with his father’s hair; suits and ties in cupboards, never to be worn again; a Bible in a drawer just a stretch away from his pillow; even an unopened packet of condoms gathering dust under the bed.

‘So we have something in common,’ Tamarov announced.

‘Yes we do.’ And for no better reason than that he was unsettled and short of ideas, Mark picked up his drink and proposed a toast.

‘To the future,’ he said.

Tamarov looked pleasantly surprised.

‘Yes, to the future,’ he responded, and smiled. He appeared to be on the point of adding more when Duchev approached. Acknowledging Mark with a granite nod, he said something quickly to Tamarov in a language which was not Russian.

‘ Es atnacu uzzinat ka klajas. Nu, ka iet? ’

‘ Vies iet labi,’ Tamarov replied. ‘ Esmu parliecinats ka bracli neka nezina.’

Latvian, Mark assumed, and attempted to commit certain phrases to memory. Tamarov had used the word labi, which he knew meant ‘fine’ or ‘good’, but he would struggle to remember anything useful for Randall.

‘Juris is wondering where we get to,’ Tamarov said. ‘I was just telling him that we come back and sit down.’

Again the pair spoke briefly in Latvian, this time with distinct names emerging from the flow of language. Philip. Toms. Something about piedzerussies. Mark noticed that Tamarov dealt with Duchev as a young, successful executive might speak to his foreman or chauffeur: with an authority checked by respect for the older man’s experience and loyalty.

‘What’s happening over at the table?’ he asked. Duchev seemed to wait for permission to speak. Air conditioning had rendered the club almost odourless, but Mark could pick out the strong smell of his sweat.

‘We find out,’ he said.

Together they returned to the group and found Macklin holding court at the table, spittles of champagne now staining his electric blue suit. Raquel, Ayesha, Philippe and Ben were listening with rapt attention to a high-volume monologue about prostitution.

‘Thing about hookers,’ Macklin was saying, ‘is you have to watch out for the fibs. I learned this early on, Benny boy, right from the word go. Brass says she’s seventeen, more than likely she’s five years older, ten from time to time. You go for someone who’s thirty, take it from me she’s getting on for the menopause and it’s like fucking your mum. “Mature” is the same deal. You know what they mean by that, don’t you, Ben? Ropey as fuck. Ditto “Sophisticated”. Don’t make me laugh. About as classy as these birds get is watching Countdown on their coffee break.’

Tamarov did not bother sitting down. A tall black girl with muscular, gym-stiffened arms had caught his eye and he returned with her to the bar. Noticing this, Macklin raised his voice and directed it at Duchev.

‘Good for old Vladimir,’ he shouted. ‘Look at your boss having fun. You wanna get some yourself, Juris, before it gets cold. Bit like the Hungry Duck in Moscow, eh?’

Duchev said nothing, and Macklin turned his attention back to Mark and Ben.

‘So, Keeno, I was just telling your brother here about my life of iniquity and vice.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ There was a layer of gleaming sweat like fat melting on Macklin’s face. ‘Shall I tell you my golden rule, Benny boy, my golden little rule?’

‘Why not?’ Ben said tiredly.

‘If it flies, fucks or floats, rent it, don’t buy it.’

When Ben failed to laugh, Macklin launched a further tirade.

‘Well, look at that,’ he said. ‘He’s like Sebastian fucking Roth, your little brother. Clean as a whistle and tied to the sink.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Ben said, and might have lost his temper.

‘I mean our Seb is too busy kissing government arse to have himself a good time. Spends his nights at the opera with the cream of New Labour, having intimate little dinners with the movers and shakers of Whitehall. God knows why he bothers. Fancies himself for a place in the House of Lords, I reckon. Very ambitious, our Mr Seb.’

‘Easy, Tom,’ Mark said, but Macklin was on a roll.

‘Come on, you know what I’m saying, Keeno. Those trips abroad, we hardly ever see him.’ He started talking directly at Raquel, at Ayesha, at anyone who would listen. ‘Me and Mark, we go off to Moscow nowadays and we have ourselves a right good time. But Seb, no, he keeps his distance, hob-nobbing with his cronies in the Kremlin. Who does he think he is?’

‘Tom, leave it,’ Mark said again, and this time his tone was more forthright. Duchev had turned away, but was surely processing every word.

‘Fine,’ Macklin replied. ‘Fine. I’m only telling you the truth. Way I see it, Benny boy, man like you wants to give himself a treat from time to time. I saw you when I came in here, Raquel giving you the once over. You were loving it, mate, loving it. Wasn’t he, sweetheart?’ Raquel smiled obligingly. ‘I’ll tell you this for nothing. I had a Thai bird last night, fucking unbelievable. Nipples like indoor fireworks. You don’t know what you’re missing.’

Ben lit a cigarette. At that moment he would rather have been anywhere else in the world but listening to Macklin talking about his sex life.

‘Philippe’s been there, haven’t you, mate?’ D’Erlanger, who had been quiet for some time, looked awkwardly at the table. ‘Don’t be shy, Hercule, don’t be shy. Down the Caymans, wasn’t it? You and Timmy Lander went retail. He told me all about it.’

Neither Ben nor his brother could prevent the looks of shock that sprang on to their faces.

‘Timothy Lander?’ Mark said quickly.

‘That’s right.’ Macklin’s hand was scraping up Raquel’s back. ‘Night on the tiles, wasn’t it, Poirot?’

‘Do I know him?’ Mark asked. ‘From Libra?’

‘Tim?’ Macklin frowned. ‘Don’t think so, mate. Top bloke, though. Old friend of mine from college; runs a diving school out there.’

‘You sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. Philippe was going out a while back and I asked Tim to — how shall I put this delicately? — show him a good time.’ Macklin appeared to be affected by a memory, pleasure briefly leaving his face. ‘Matter of fact, I tried to hookyour old man up with him, Keeno, when he was planning a holiday out there. Told me he wanted to do some diving out in the Caymans, so I gave him Tim’s number. That was just before the, er, accident, you know. Sorry about that. Here, have another drink.’