The Spanish Game (12 page)

‘He only left it to me because he didn’t
know
you. He probably thought you would give it away or something.’

‘
Probably
thought?’ Ben picked on the phrase as if it carried some sort of significance. It was now obvious to Mark that he was looking for a fight.

‘Sorry, am I supposed to know what he was
thinking
? Tell me, brother, and let’s be honest about this. If things hadn’t worked out the way they had, if Dad had just been run over by a bus six months ago, what would you have done with forty-five grand in cash and a tiny fucking flat in Paddington?’

He waited for an answer. Ben remained silent.

‘Well, there you go. You would have given it to me, or to Alice to pay her backfor whatever you owe her.’

He should not have said that. A mistake. Ben’s face tightened into retaliation.

‘I don’t owe Alice anything, OK? I make money out of my work. Whatever her dad gives her is between them. It has nothing to do with me or with anybody else.’

‘Sure. Right. I’m sorry.’

Ben moved past him, his shoulder brushing Mark’s chest. They went into the sitting room.

‘That’s obviously what he was thinking, though.’

Following him, Mark said, ‘What was that?’

‘He knew that kind of money could really help me out. He knew all about Alice’s family, the imbalance between us. It was just spite.’

Now Mark raised his voice.

‘Oh get off it, will you? You and I both know that’s a lot of shit. The will was altered for the last time over a year ago. He didn’t know anything about Alice’s family. He wasn’t striking out at you from beyond the grave, or whatever kind of conspiracy theory you’re trying to cookup.’

Ben’s eyes conceded the truth of this, but he said nothing.

‘Listen,’ Mark tried to end the argument. ‘Dad was proud of the fact that you were making a living doing the thing you loved. He told me that. Please just take his money. Buy yourself a couple of suits, take Alice on holiday and sort out whatever it is you two are fighting about. Seb pays me eighty grand a year. I have my own flat. I’ve got equity, a company car, all the clothes and gadgets a bloke could need. You’re a married man. You might have kids soon. Think about that.’

‘Always so organized,’ Ben muttered.

‘Eh?’

‘Always thinking about the future. Always an answer for everything.’

‘Well, at least one of us has his head out of the clouds.’

‘And that’s you, is it, Mark? Tell me, has this thing got to you at all?’

They might have been teenagers again, bickering in the school holidays. The exchange was a graphic illustration of their relationship: Mark doing his best to push forward out of the past while justifying his more practical nature to an incessantly analytical brother who preferred blame and self-pity.

‘What? Are we competing about Dad now? Who’s more fucked up? Who’s losing most sleep? You think I have to stand in a window looking moody and smoking a cigarette or I’m not
grieving
properly?’

It wasn’t a bad comeback. Mark was quite pleased with it. For a moment Ben was silenced, although the respite did not last long.

‘I’m just saying it’s weird the way a guy like Jock McCreery, or that Yank Robert Bone, or any one of the stiff-backed suits from MI6 seemed more affected by what’s happened than you do. You forgive and forget so easily. Nothing
gets
to you. Nothing makes you
feel
.’

Now Mark squared up to him. He was taller than Ben, not stronger, but with an advantage of height and age.

‘Jesus Christ. You know what the trouble with artists is, don’t you? They have too much time to think. You invite misery on yourselves, fucking wallow in it. Then you marry a girl like Alice to justify your black moods. You’re endorsing one another. It’s pathetic. You wanna move on, brother. I thought you’d seen the light that night outside the pub, but I realize I was mistaken. Benjamin doesn’t change his nature that quickly, never has. He feels too sorry for himself. Why don’t you try growing up a bit? Just because I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve doesn’t mean I’m not
feeling
anything.’

‘What did you mean about Alice? What did you mean by that?’

But Mark had backed off to the door, empty handed and set on leaving. Before long Ben would be blaming him for arranging the failed reunion with Keen, for making him betray their mother, for any small resentment or prejudice that had been troubling him over the past three weeks. That was the thing he dreaded, Ben needling his conscience with hideous expertise. Best just to get away and not see him for a while.

‘I’m gonna go,’ he said. ‘I’m not standing here taking this. You close up when you leave, do the lock. Next time we see each other maybe you’ll be better company. In the meantime, try not to drag us all down with you.’

22

‘Why don’t I put you in the picture, Yerm, clear a few things up?’

Macklin was walking east down Longacre with Vladimir Tamarov. He was at least six inches shorter than the Russian and they were moving quickly with a cold evening wind behind them.

‘Nightclubbing as a business in Britain is worth two billion quid a year. You want me to say that again? Two billion quid a year, mate. Turnover year-on-year has gone up seven and a half per cent. Wanna know why? It’s not the clubs, Yerm, it’s not your punters on the door. It’s
diversification
. My favourite fucking word in the English language. Clothing, accessories, books, magazines, radio stations, CD compilations. Even T-shirts, for Christ’s sake.’

Tamarov nodded. He was thinking about going backto his hotel.

‘Merchandising, that’s what it’s all about. We make seventy per cent of our profits selling branded merchandise. The clubs are just a small part of it, and getting smaller in my humble opinion. I’ll tell you another lovely English word if you like.
Sponsorship
. About half of all the eighteen to twenty-five-year-olds in this country go clubbing on a Friday or a Saturday night. Millions of ‘em, mate. They’ve got disposable incomes, they’re fashion conscious, and they’re out to get pissed…’

‘I’m sorry,’ Tamarov said. ‘This word, please…?’

‘Pissed, mate. You know, drunk.’

‘OK,’ he replied, without bothering to smile.

‘So you’ve got your big corporations, your mobile phone companies, your clothing brands, your breweries, and all they dream about is access to that market. They want to reach out and touch the kids. Now how do they do that?’

‘Sponsorship,’ Tamarov said, like a student in a language class. If he was annoyed at being patronized by a supercilious English lawyer four years his junior then the Russian’s level tone of voice gave nothing away. In time it might be necessary to remind Macklin who was boss, to apply an element of physical or psychological pressure, but for now he would let him continue. From the pocket of his overcoat he extracted a pair of brown leather gloves and put them on.

‘Exactly.’ Macklin was leading him down Bow Street. ‘These companies pay for specific nights at the club. They put banners up on site. Not so’s it detracts from our brand, mind, but it gets what every boring blue-chip company craves. You got your latest digital WAP fax-modem espresso-making laptop associated with a brand like Libra, that buys you something priceless. It buys you
credibility
. Am I going too fast, mate?’

Tamarov’s face was usefully inexpressive. He merely shookhis head and said, ‘No, no,’ breath clouding out in the air.

‘Good,’ Macklin said. And then his phone rang.

Two hundred metres behind them, Michael Denby, a young MI 5 pavement artist on the Kukushkin team, saw Macklin come to a halt beside the entrance to the Royal Opera House. He immediately stopped and turned towards the window of a nearby shop. Called up as a last-minute replacement for a colleague whose husband had ‘taken ill’, Denby had forgotten to bring either a hat or gloves as protection against the cold. Mobile surveillance was the part of the job he least enjoyed. Taploe picked him, he knew, precisely because he was so ordinary - neither too tall nor too short, neither too fat nor too thin - and therefore less likely to be spotted by an alert target. He jangled coins in his pocket and thought of home as two teenage girls stopped beside him and peered into the window.

‘There they are,’ one of them said, pointing at a pair of shoes. ‘Nice, aren’t they?’

‘Bit tarty,’ her friend replied.

Denby glanced down the street. Macklin and the Russian were moving again, heading south into Wellington Street in the direction of the Strand.

‘So you’ve made up your mind then?’ Macklin was saying into the phone, his voice a rumble of disappointment.

”Fraid so, mate.’ Mark felt guilty that he was letting his friend down. But the argument with Ben had forced his hand: he just wanted to go home and get a decent night’s sleep. ‘There’s a lot of things I’ve got to clear up at the flat,’ he lied. ‘Then the police want a final inventory. I just don’t have time to come down.’

‘Fine. Whatever,’ Macklin said, and snapped the casing shut without adding goodbye. ‘Bad news, Yerm,’ he turned to Tamarov. ‘It’s just gonna be you and me, mate. Keeno’s had to cancel.’

‘This does not matter,’ Tamarov told him, after a moment of contemplation. ‘It does not matter at all. In fact it is better this way. I have important business that we need to discuss and then I would like to go home.’

23

Stephen Taploe was at a dead end. For the best part of six months he had assumed that the investigation into Libra’s activities would make his name within the Service. Secret dreams of promotion had raised him out of bed every morning; they had walked with him to the station and comforted him on the tube. He longed for the unfiltered approbation of his colleagues, their admiring smiles and whispered congratulations. But he could sense his entire career stalling on the fruitless search for conspiracy between Libra and Kukushkin. Six months of surveillance had produced - what? A thousand hours of phone taps and eavesdropped conversations revealing little more than Libra’s predictable determination to make a success of the Moscow operation. GCHQ had fax and email intercepts - letters to real-estate agents, tax lawyers, employment agencies - which were consistently mundane, simply the logistical pile-up of documents and contracts that would rain down on any company setting up a business in post-Soviet Russia. As well as occasional police reports from Moscow on the activities of known Kukushkin personnel, they had Watchers tracking Libra’s meetings in London - the last of them between Macklin and Tamarov filed by Michael Denby two days before, complete with a ninety-five pound attachment for ‘expenses’ accrued at a lap-dancing club in Finchley - none of which had revealed anything that could be termed abnormal or suspicious. Taploe had always held with the basic, optimistic belief that massive surveillance would, in the end, bear fruit. But what had Paul Quinn uncovered? The odd attempt by Macklin to exploit a loophole in British tax law and three Russians working on the bar at the club’s London site without adequate employment papers. Meagre tricks played by companies the world over, little ways of wriggling around the law. Taploe and Quinn needed something concrete, something with which to penetrate the cell structure of Russian organized crime in the United Kingdom. That was the purpose of pursuing the Libra connection, as a staging post into a much larger problem. And yet, increasingly, Taploe felt that he had missed his chance.

From his desk- tidy and well organized, it betrayed none of the accumulating chaos of the operation - he retrieved the initial police report into Christopher Keen’s murder. No clues, no leads, no theories. Another dead end. Just blind panic at Thames House that an agent had been murdered and threats to shut the entire operation down. Taploe, in his defence, had pointed out that Keen had not been tortured for information; nor was it a signature mob killing, the motorcycle assassin favoured by Viktor Kukushkin in Moscow. No, in a desperate bid to preserve control of the operation he had argued that Keen’s death was a fluke, a random accident in a season of bad luck. There was no need to over-react, no need to take his team off the case. Just give it time and they would unravel the mystery. Just give it time and they would bring Kukushkin down.

His pleas had at least bought some time. Taploe, in effect, was now on final warning; without results in a matter of weeks, he would be back on Real IRA. He was convinced that a linkexisted between the shooting and Keen’s workfor Divisar, but it was impossible to prove it. Investigations had shown that in the weeks before he died, Keen had been assisting a private bankin Lausanne with clients in the St Petersburg underworld. Perhaps there was a link there. But how to establish that? Where to start?

There was a knock at the door of his office, three floors up at the north-western corner of Thames House.

‘Tea, boss,’ Ian Boyle said, setting a mug down on the desk. His tie hung at half-mast and the collar on his shirt was frayed.

‘Just leave it there.’

‘You all right, boss? Look a bit knackered.’

Taploe ignored the question and conveyed with a twitch of his moustache that he felt it impertinent.

‘Get the file on Mark Keen, will you?’

‘Sure,’ Ian replied, and retreated towards the door.

There was now a siege mentality about the operation, an imminent sense that a plug was about to be pulled. Something close to panic had begun to spread through the team, fanned by Taploe’s failure to redirect the investigation. It was like Ireland all over again: the boss looking downtrodden and frustrated, his ambition coming up against a wall of compromise and bad luck.

Ian returned with the file five minutes later, set it down and left without speaking. Taploe exhaled heavily as the door clunked shut and immediately began flicking through the material: photographs, email printouts, credit-card receipts, phone logs, surveillance reports. In all probability, a file on an innocent man, just as Mark’s father had insisted.

The idea, planted admittedly by Quinn, had been in his mind for three or four days. A last chance. The one person close to the centre with access to unambiguous information who could reveal the truth about Macklin and Roth.

He picked up the phone and dialled Mark’s office direct. A secretary answered at Libra Soho, first ring, with a voice like an advertising jingle. In a single breath she said: ‘Good morning Libra International how may I help you?’

‘Mark Keen, please.’

It felt like the final throw of the dice. To establish a source on the inside. Not the father, who could only ever have been peripheral, but the son.

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘My name is Bob Randall.’

‘Just putting you through now.’

There was a two-second delay, then, ‘Hello. Mark Keen.’

He recognized the voice like an old friend, the street consonants, the slackened vowels.

‘Mr Keen. Hello. My name is Bob Randall. I work for BT. Advanced telecommunications.’

‘Someone forget to pay our bill?’

Taploe felt that he should laugh, and did so.

‘On the contrary, Mr Keen, on the contrary. Not at all. Actually I have a business proposition for you. A little venture that I think Libra might be interested in. I understand you’re the company’s executive director. How are you set for lunch next week?’