The Spanish Game (26 page)

44

Ben worked it out inside ten minutes.

Robert Bone had been dead for three weeks. The CIA, alerted to the murder, had obtained access to Bone’s house in New Hampshire and found a copy of his letter to Ben on a PC or word processor. SIS had been alerted immediately and the linkto Keen’s death established. Teams - perhaps from Special Branch - were then dispatched to obtain the original version of the letter from Elgin Crescent and the second copy posted to Mark’s flat in Torriano Avenue. That was why Mark had never received the letter; that was why the original had gone missing from the shoebox in the studio. SIS had then instructed McCreery to convince Ben that Bone’s theory about Kostov was a deception spun by the Americans. The meeting at the British Museum had been engineered: McCreery had waited until Ben was alone and then coolly plied him with Guinness and lies. SIS were covering up, trying to disguise the fact that a renegade KGB officer was killing its former associates and employees. McCreery had known all along who was responsible for his friend’s murder, yet he had concealed the truth to protect the public reputation of British Intelligence.

What Ben could not work out, however, was any link between Kostov and Kukushkin. Nor was it clear what Bone had done to trigger such an act of vengeance. Ben assumed that the CIA had also been involved in Mischa’s recruitment, but it was a question to which he felt he would never know the answer. It was possible that Bone’s death was simply a coincidence, a random act of American violence visited upon the wrong man. Not for the first time Ben felt weighed down by ignorance, embarrassed both by his slender grasp of the facts and by the ease with which McCreery had duped him.

Towards nine o’clock, out of simple expedience, he decided to tell Alice about his brother’s workfor MI5. At first her reaction to the news was measured and sanguine. Sitting by an open window in the kitchen, a draught of winter air goosepimpling her skin, Alice listened very quietly as Ben documented the extent of Macklin’s involvement with Russian organized crime and seemed pleased that Roth would almost certainly suffer as a consequence of it.

‘He knows nothing about this,’ she said, with a conviction that annoyed Ben. ‘When he finds out, he’s going to go crazy.’

Ben asked her how she could be so sure, and she barely skipped a beat.

‘Just from talking to him. I get the impression Macklin pretty much runs Libra nowadays. Seb’s too busy with other projects.’

‘What kind of other projects?’

‘Well, the restaurant I was writing about, for a start.’

‘But Macklin’s involved in that too.’

‘Only in a legal capacity. Tom’s just a partner.’

They sat in the kitchen over a supper of takeaway pizza and flat bottled Coke. Ben enjoyed the process of knitting things together, of finding their structure and shape. At one point he put his elbows on the table and seemed to draw an idea out of the air.

‘You should
write
about this,’ he said, ‘about all the shit that Libra are up to. You should write about Kostov, about the whole fucking thing. That’s what they fear. That’s what SIS will stop at nothing to prevent. It might really help your career.’

Alice only shrugged in response and moved uncomfortably in her chair, as if something were digging into her back.

‘Something just occurred to me,’ she said. ‘SIS can’t know anything about this. They can’t know about Kukushkin’s involvement with Libra. And Randall probably has no idea that Kostov is going around killing MI6 agents.’

‘Explain.’

Alice started kneading the flesh in the palm of her hand, as if it would somehow help her to think.

‘It’s simple. If McCreery knew what Macklin was up to, if he was aware that Kukushkin was laundering money through Libra, he could have blamed your father’s murder on the Russian mafia. That’s the obvious line MI6 would have taken.’

‘But what about Bone’s letter?’

‘That’s just what I’m saying. When you were talking to McCreery in the pub, why didn’t he tell you about Macklin’s links to the mob? That would have been the perfect response to the Kostov story. It would have taken you right off the scent. But instead he blames a diving instructor in the Cayman Islands and some random private bank in Lausanne.’

Ben was nodding, searching for a flaw in the theory. ‘And Randall?’

‘Same thing.’ Alice stood up. ‘Randall doesn’t know about Kostov. And he’s never even heard of Mischa. McCreery’s people are keeping this to themselves. The last thing SIS want is MI5 laughing at them. They must be going crazy trying to track Kostov down.’

Ben was amazed by the simplicity of it. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘And Mark wasn’t going to say anything to Randall because he didn’t believe Bone’s letter, especially when he heard what McCreery thought about it. He thought the whole Kostov thing was bullshit.’

‘Precisely.’ Alice walked into the sitting room, looking for cigarettes. ‘We have to tell your brother,’ she said.

‘He’s not returning my calls. I already tried three times.’

‘Then leave him another message. The sooner he finds out about this, the better.’

45

But Mark was already on his way to the St Martin’s Lane Hotel and steadfast in his refusal to speakto Ben. It had been a mistake to involve him in his work for MI5. Drawn at last into something more complicated than the application of paint to a canvas, little brother had waded way out of his depth.

Mark’s attitude seemed justified when he listened to the tone of Ben’s first telephone message just after six o’clock. He was walking in the door from Libra and ignored the call when he noticed its origin as Elgin Crescent. The subsequent message, played aloud into the sitting room, was a rushed and word-swallowing garble about ‘fucking Jock’ and ‘Sudoplatov’ and it angered Mark that Ben had carelessly mentioned their names on a land line. Two hours later, after sending no fewer than three text messages urging Mark to ‘CALL ME’, Ben telephoned again, but Mark was shaving in the bathroom with the radio on and the news of Bone’s death passed him by.

He regretted his confession in the garden; everything had been simpler before Ben’s inexpert participation. Prior to Wednesday, Mark had thought of his work for Randall as a private, dignified tribute to his father’s memory, and he was annoyed with himself for having lacked the courage to continue that task in secret. At least tonight he had the opportunity to meet Tamarov alone and to develop their relationship free of Ben’s interference.

Taploe had made his final contact at seven thirty to ensure that Mark was set. As had been the case on Sunday, he again avoided mentioning that Ian would be tailing Mark’s car to the meeting, and had said nothing about the Watchers who would be positioned across from Tamarov’s table in the St Martin’s Lane Hotel. This was standard operational procedure: he didn’t want Mark second-guessing the position of MI5 staff while the meeting was in progress.

‘Rest assured we’ll be keeping a close eye on you all the way in,’ he said. ‘Just go where Tamarov takes you, don’t try to rush anything along. It’s important that you appear amenable without seeming eager or greedy. Remember, he sees you as essential to Kukushkin’s long-term success. Accept his offer of a job, but askthe right questions about control and hierarchy. Tell him you need a break after what has happened to your father and that Roth will understand your situation.’

At ten past eight, Mark picked out his favourite Hayward suit and then, as a conscious expression of his duty to Keen, a pale blue Brooks Brothers shirt which had belonged to his father. It fitted perfectly, tailored as if for the same two bodies. In a further moment of conscious sentiment, Mark then selected a pair of silver cufflinks that his mother had given him as a twenty-first birthday present. He had fifty minutes to reach the hotel for the nine o’clock appointment, and time for a beer in the sitting room before walking to the car. There was no sense in being rushed.

He was turning on the television when Tamarov contacted his mobile. Glancing at the display, Mark felt a thud of worry that he was calling to cancel the dinner. Muting the TV, he put his drink on the floor and said, ‘Vladimir?’

‘Yes, Mark, hello.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘A change of plan, my friend. A change of plan.’ His voice was jovial and easygoing; it was hard to picture the expression on his face. ‘I meant to call before but I have been very busy with work. I am sorry.’ It sounded as though the Russian was calling from a deserted building; there was an echo of open space. ‘Perhaps we can meet for dinner an hour later. I have altered our reservation. This is appropriate?’

Mark smiled at the mistaken idiom and said, ‘Yeah, no problem.’

‘But I am thinking I should introduce you to Christina at the restaurant before we meet for dinner. I am standing with her now.’

‘Christina?’

‘She would be your assistant in Hackney. It’s not possible for her to come to the West End because she is working here. Do you remember where to come?’

‘Sure.’ It did not cross Mark’s mind that he should tell Randall about the change in circumstance.
Just go where Tamarov takes you. Don’t try to rush anything along
. Besides, Christina might be pretty.

‘You will come by cab?’ Tamarov asked. It didn’t sound as though he cared about the answer. ‘By car?’

‘Car, probably,’ Mark replied, and used the excuse that Randall had given him. ‘Stops me drinking too much.’

Tamarov laughed enormously.

‘Then this is easy for you. The traffic is not so bad. Avoid King’s Cross with the roadworks and breakdowns. I came through Highbury Islington and got here in ten minutes. Just avoid the one-way system near the restaurant.’

‘You were speeding, Vladimir?’ Mark joked, trying to match his breezy mood.

‘Not me,’ Tamarov replied. ‘Juris. The Latvian, he drives like a maniac.’

46

Torriano Avenue curves steeply uphill, left to right, but Ian Boyle had a good view of the street from his position in the Southern Electric van. He saw Mark emerge from the house at 20.25 wearing a black coat and carrying a mobile phone. It was like catching sight of an old friend in the distance: the easy, sloping walk, the way Mark’s head bobbed from side to side as if swayed by thought or music. On a typical London evening in late winter, indistinct of colour and temperature, locals drifted into the corner shop at the foot of the hill and emerged with flimsy green plastic bags filled with cans and milk and videos. A very faint mist was visible in the glow of the streetlights as Ian dialled Taploe’s number.

‘Yes?’

‘Boss. He’s leaving now. Getting into the car.’

‘Good. Contact me again if anything changes. I’m just sitting here waiting at my desk.’

Ian started the engine as Mark started his. Sounds inaudible to one another, just two vehicles leaving the street. He let Mark reach the top of the avenue before pulling out and followed the black Saab as it slipped into a stream of cars heading south along Brecknock Road.

Ian had been listening to Jazz FM while he waited and he turned up the volume on a Billie Holiday cover of ‘Summertime’, humming the tune in the shunting traffic. The job was so routine he drove almost on autopilot, keeping the van a hundred metres back from the target, separated by three, sometimes four other cars. He knew Mark to be a decent driver, quick and liable to switch lanes smoothly in the quest for space. One time, ages ago now, back when Taploe had his suspicions, he had been tailing Mark from Heathrow and lost him at the Hogarth roundabout, just disappeared into the Chiswick streets never to be seen again. Ian thought the same thing was about to happen when he saw the Saab make an unexpected turn off York Way, the two-lane north-south artery feeding traffic into King’s Cross. He was sitting high up in the van and had a decent view of Mark’s car as it steered left towards Islington.

‘Where you going, mate?’ he muttered to himself, and had to accelerate through a changing amber to stay on Mark’s tail.

They were on Market Road now, not the route Ian would have taken to the West End but maybe Blindside knew a short-cut, a trick. After all, there were roadworks in King’s Cross until April 2047, so maybe he was doing them both a favour. Still they kept heading east, crossing Caledonian Road, then directly into the heart of Islington.

‘What’s he up to?’ Ian said again, shutting off the radio to concentrate. That was when Taploe put the call through to his mobile.

‘Boss?’

‘Ian?’

‘What’s going on? I’m tailing Blindside to the hotel but it’s arse about face. He’s on his way east, taking me into Highbury.’

‘There’s some confusion,’ Taploe said.

Ian was speaking hands-free, a microphone clipped to the sun-visor above the wheel.

‘What kind of confusion?’

Taploe took a while to respond.

‘Katy has just handed me some intel. We think Tamarov may have changed the meeting. We think he may be en route to Heathrow.’

‘
Heathrow?
’

‘It’s not confirmed yet. Where’s Blindside?’

‘Like I said. Going east. I’m on…’ Ian had to look for a street sign. ‘St Paul’s Road. Nowhere near Covent Garden, in other words. Maybe he’s got errands to run.’

Again Taploe waited before responding. It sounded as if the boss was holding four conversations simultaneously.

‘That’s not the case,’ Taploe said eventually. ‘We had a tap on a call Tamarov made half an hour ago. He told Blindside he was with the Latvian in Hackney, at the new restaurant. Asked him to get there prior to the meeting at St Martin’s Lane. Then someone else phoned the hotel and changed their reservation to ten o’clock.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ Ian asked. ‘Why Heathrow?’

‘The problem is, we traced the first call to Paddington Station. Got it to within sixty feet.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘Still trying to establish that. A conversation took place immediately after Tamarov had spoken to Blindside. In Russian, the phone moving west.’

‘He was talking to our friend?’

‘To our friend.’ Taploe cleared his throat, a noise that sounded like nerves. ‘He’s not in Hackney. We think Duchev may be on his way to Helsinki. Michael lost him at five. Again it’s not confirmed. I’m trying to obtain a translation of the conversation. Of the transcript. These things take time.’

Up ahead, Ian saw Mark’s Saab, black as a silhouette, swing fast into the right-hand lane of Ball’s Pond Road, as if preparing to make a turn south. A pretty girl was jay-walking through the traffic and he thought he saw her smile in Mark’s direction. In his rear-view mirror two motorcycles, fifty feet back, were crawling single-file in the narrow gap between cars.

Taploe, his voice now pinched with stress, said: ‘I think we should get Blindside out of there. Tell him the meeting is off.’

‘You sure about that, boss?’

A beat.

‘I’m sure about that.’

Taploe didn’t sound it. He was relying on technology, a satellite hunch, on little more than a feeling that something was wrong. Up ahead, Mark indicated on the green light and Ian followed him.

‘Can you see the Saab?’ Taploe asked. He sounded demoralized and Ian felt for him: if Duchev had done a runner twenty-four hours after the boss had tried to pitch him, there’d be hell to pay.

‘He’s making a right-hander,’ he said. Then a white Fiat Punto stalled in front of Ian’s van and the lights were changing back. One of the motorcyclists passed Ian’s window, frog-walking his machine. Ian leaned on the horn. There was a second passenger, leatherclad in black, riding pillion on the back of the bike. They buzzed past the Punto and ran the red light.

‘Fuck,’ Ian said and hit the horn again. Both the bike and the Saab were no longer visible around the corner. He wondered where the second motorcycle had gone. It was the training, the intuition. One of the motorcycles was missing.

‘What’s going on?’ Taploe’s voice rose on the question. ‘Get to him, Ian. He’s not answering his mobile. Get Blindside back to Kentish Town.’

‘I’m trying, boss,’ he said. ‘I’m trying. Somebody stalled in front of the van.’

Ian noticed exhaust fumes emerging from the tailpipe of the Punto and looked up to see the back of a green Range Rover edging slowly around the corner.
Good
, he thought,
there’s traffic on the other side, something to hold Mark up
. Then he saw the missing bike, two feet back in the passenger side mirror, long female hair dropping below the helmet. Speaking to Taploe in his office, he said, ‘I think everything’s OK, boss. I thinkeverything’s OK.’

Mark had been listening to demo tapes all the way from Torriano Avenue: new tracks from Danny Tenaglia, and a set by a French DJ he’d never heard of who was looking for a gig in London. He had turned the music up high as a reaction against the microphones installed in his car. The volume allowed him to maintain his privacy. Mark was shutting out the spooks.

Without thinking, he had thrown his mobile phone into the back of the Saab, an awkward armt-wist and stretch behind his seat. As a consequence he spent most of the journey wondering if the constant stream of voice calls and text messages was important Libra business or yet more attempts by his brother to get in touch. Mark was aware, too, that Randall might be trying to make contact, but he was committed to acting alone tonight, without interference or advice from his controller. He felt that things had worked best in the past when he had been left to his own devices; when you introduced a third party, it seemed, the business of spying became altogether more complicated.

On Ball’s Pond Road he opened an
A to Z
and realized that he would have to make an immediate right-hand turn at the next junction to avoid the one-way system on the approach to the restaurant. Flicking out an indicator, Mark pulled the Saab quickly into an adjacent lane, catching the eye of a pretty young girl who was weaving on foot across the traffic. She smiled at him and he grinned back, making the turn at speed. Somebody behind him blasted their horn: the noise was loud and relentless and it smothered the first and second rings of another call on his phone. Steering with his right hand, Mark stretched into the back seat and began padding around for the mobile, hitting papers, freebie T-shirts, a map, cans and bottles. He could not find the phone without looking.

‘Where are you?’ he muttered, his bicep starting to ache. Then the traffic came to a halt and he was able to twist right round in his seat. The phone was buried in his coat and Mark wrenched it out of the folds, seeing ‘Rand’ on the read-out in black.

‘Hello?’

A motorbike pulled up parallel to the driver’s door, its engine a soothing pulse. The first shot, fired by the passenger riding pillion, obliterated the window of the Saab and passed three inches behind Mark’s neck.

Taploe said, ‘Mark?’

The sound he could hear from the room in Thames House was at first indistinguishable from squelch or static. Then he heard traffic noise, and the blast of a distant horn.

The shooter could see clearly now, watching Mark turn dazed in his seat, looking up at the bike and reaching for the handle of the door. His hair and his clothes were covered in glass, shards like roughened diamonds that bit deep into his skin. The second shot killed Mark outright, a sound Taploe heard as a sustained scream because a woman had stepped out of a nearby shop and was approaching the Saab from the pavement. The bike moved off immediately, up to forty miles per hour inside five seconds and gone before Ian could see it. Alerted by the first shot, he had come around the corner on foot, and it was just as if the world had ceased to move on a switch.