The Spanish Game (28 page)

‘Then we’ll just have to have a word with our American friends, try and sort something out,’ McCreery offered. He kept a straight face while saying it.

‘And what happens to Libra Moscow?’ Taploe asked, as if it was pointless to dwell on the frank impossibility of Macklin’s or Tamarov’s arrest. Better just to wrap things up and try to salvage his career.

‘Well, that was one of the things Sebastian and I talked about this morning,’ Dulong said gratefully.

‘Roth’s in London?’ Taploe asked.

‘That’s correct.’ She took a plastic clip out of her bag and used it to pin up her hair. ‘At this stage he thinks the club will most probably be franchised to a local entrepreneur in Moscow. Gradually Libra will sever ties. He’s going to stay in London for the foreseeable future and take hands-on control of the London operation. There may even be a stock-market float.’

‘I see, I see.’ Taploe smiled, sickening Quinn with the speed of his compliance. A queasy mood of settled business had suddenly pervaded the room.

‘And Kostov?’ he said. Quinn had noticed they had left the Russian out.

McCreery cleared his throat.

‘Well, there at last there’s some good news. While we’ve been sitting here our colleagues should have finalized plans for Kostov’s extradition.’

Quinn stirred.

‘How does that work?’

‘Very simply.’ McCreery clasped his hands together and produced a punchy smile. ‘Kostov has been tracked to one of Kukushkin’s properties. He’s been under surveillance for several days.’

Taploe was confused.

‘He was working for Viktor Kukushkin?’

‘Not exactly. Dimitri does some very occasional work for the organization, but only as a favour to keep him in rubles. Kukushkin and Kostov are old friends, you see, from school and university. Grew up in the same Moscow suburb. Twenty years ago, Kukushkin was a big player in the Party machine so, like a lot of ex-KGB, Kostov was able to maintain some very strong links with organized crime. He was farmed out to Byelorussia after the Mischa fiasco, but Kukushkin kept an eye on him. And when he started to benefit from Gorbachev’s reforms, he brought him back into the fold, found him somewhere to live, that sort of thing.’

Taploe stretched. ‘What sort of work does Kostov do for him?’

He might have been enquiring after the time.

‘As I said, very little. We don’t really know much beyond the fact that Kukushkin has always looked after him. Some instruction, perhaps. The odd tip-off. A lot of Kostov’s breed worked euphemistically as “consultants” of one kind or another, though it’s unlikely he would have been all that effective. Kukushkin was heavily involved in strong-arming government ministers into transferring state money to privatized brokerage houses in the early days of Yeltsin. We’re fairly sure Kostov helped out on that. He was always best when operating as a bit of a thug…’

‘… and eventually he came across Keen’s name because of his work for Divisar?’ Taploe said.

‘Almost certainly,’ Dulong replied. ‘Not that Kukushkin knew anything about it.’

Quinn sensed they were concealing something, and challenged them on it.

‘You said Kostov was under surveillance.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Who from? Moscow law enforcement?’

Dulong bought herself some time by wiping her nose on a small white handkerchief concealed in her bag. McCreery looked uncertainly at the floor and knocked his wedding ring against the table. Quinn realized he had found the lie. Their eyes had gone.

‘Come on, out with it. Who’s watching him?’

‘
We
are.’ McCreery spat the confession as if it had been taken under duress. ‘SIS are watching the apartment block.’

‘He’s not under police arrest?’

‘No.’

And thus the full picture emerged. All loose ends tied. Quinn’s mouth slackened in disbelief as he recognized that McCreery’s little problem had been resolved with a grim sleight of hand.

‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he whispered. ‘Fuckin’ hell. Six have talked to Kukushkin, haven’t they? You’ve struck a fucking deal.’

Dulong balled the handkerchief under the sleeve of her blouse and indicated to McCreery that she would be prepared to answer the question.

‘We have channels in Moscow,’ she said. ‘The
quid pro quo
involves Kostov’s handover…’

But Quinn did not let her finish.

‘In return for what?’

‘In return for the conditions we have already outlined. Prosecution immunity for Tamarov, d’Erlanger, Macklin and Duchev. Total withdrawal of UK operations. Surely the latter is of some comfort to the Service after all your hard work?’

Taploe stepped between Quinn and Dulong as if he felt a professional obligation to speak on behalf of MI5. Quinn looked up at his pale, exhausted features - a man failed now, surely beyond redemption - and felt that his whole future would depend on Taploe’s response. If he caved in to the SIS plan, he would quit; if he showed some semblance of disgust, they could at least walk away with a moral advantage. Taploe briefly touched his moustache.

‘I have to say first and foremost that I don’t admire what has happened here today.’ This seemed encouragingly unequivocal. ‘To negotiate with criminals, to strike deals with members of a recognized organized crime syndicate makes me feel very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable indeed.’ Quinn inched forward. Perhaps it was going to be OK; perhaps there were standards after all. ‘Nevertheless, I can understand why such a decision has been taken and, although I do not condone it, I recognize that, at the very least, the Kukushkin organization cannot now, at least in the medium to long term, flourish on the UK mainland…’

For a large man Quinn stood with surprising speed, his hands raised up as if to blockout Taploe’s charade. Twisting to gather his notes, he folded them under one arm and moved towards the door.

‘Paul? Where are you going?’ Taploe said.

‘Into the private sector.’

‘What?’

There were shadows of black sweat under his arms.

‘You really think Kukushkin is just going to hand Kostov over, friend or no friend? You really think he’ll keep his side of the bargain, let him get to court?’

The tone of the question was at once mocking and profoundly serious.

‘That’s the
quid pro quo
,’ Dulong answered uncertainly.

‘You don’t believe us?’ McCreery said. ‘You still remain sceptical?’

Quinn shook his head.

‘Oh, it’s not that I don’t believe you, Jock. It’s not that I don’t believe you.’

‘What, then?’

He was stepping through the door.

‘It’s the thing I knew would happen.’ He was muttering the words, almost to himself. ‘The thing I feared. The compromise.’

‘Paul?’ Taploe said again.

Quinn looked up. His face might have been that of a man who has been informed of a tragedy: washed out, shocked, yet oddly indignant.

‘Yeah? What is it Stephen? What is it you’re going to say?’ He was in the corridor now, eyes accusing them, looking back as if on a lost innocence. ‘You think I got into this business to listen to what you just said?’

‘You have to understand that…’

But Quinn had walked away. Dulong, McCreery and Taploe were left staring out into an empty corridor. After a time, McCreery said, ‘Temper, temper,’ and Dulong had the nerve to smile. Taploe, however, felt a greater sense of shame than he had ever experienced at any point in his career.

‘So it’s settled, then?’ McCreery said.

‘It’s settled,’ Taploe replied, after a long delay. His voice was very low.

‘And you, Elizabeth?’

‘Settled,’ said Dulong.

‘Good. Then we move on. I’m not sure I want to spend another moment of my life worrying about Dimitri bloody Kostov.’

49

The Russian is sitting alone on the back seat of a brand-new Audi A4. Smooth, cushioned upholstery, a smell of leather and artificial pine. It is dusk in the suburbs of Moscow, banks of low white clouds bringing late spring snow to the capital. Through the back window of the vehicle, nineteen storeys up, he can make out the balcony of the flat where he has lived for the past eleven days, his latest refuge in a long line of hotel rooms and apartments. The flat, belonging to an associate of Viktor Kukushkin, has a single window looking out on to five grey, deserted breeze-block towers, each of them defaced with structure cracks and graffiti. Kostov is not going to miss that view. He is looking forward to the house in the country.

Three hundred metres from the car, across a flat expanse of buckled concrete randomly interrupted by weeds, two young boys are playing football against a white brick hut. It is below freezing and the light is failing all the time, but their eyes must have adjusted to the pre-dark gloom because the yellow ball cracks regularly against the wall. If he strains for it, Kostov can hear the rubber contact of their shoes against the asphalt, voices echoing amongst the buildings, the sudden gasps and shouts.

He adjusts his position in the back seat and leans on a large canvas bag containing most of his clothes and possessions. A man of sixty-three with his whole life in the back seat of a car. Kostov grimaces at the thought. There are aches in every part of his body - in the back of his head, along the sciatic nerves of his thigh, behind his knees - and the temperature inside the vehicle only makes this worse. This is not the cold of London or New England; it is the bone chill of Russia under snow. He raps on the window and urges the driver inside.

Leaning on the roof, Juris Duchev finishes his telephone call and steps into the car, bringing with him an odour of sweat and impatience. Like Kostov, he is also wearing a black winter coat and thick gloves, one of which he removes in order to light a cigarette.

‘You want one, Dimitri?’ he asks in Russian, turning to the back seat.

‘Not for me,’ Kostov replies. ‘Not for me. Just turn on the fucking engine. Get me some heat in here.’

The smoke now deep in his lungs, Duchev turns the key in the ignition and the engine hums into life. Fans pump blasts of cold air into the car through vents in the dashboard and floor.

‘It’s fucking freezing,’ Kostov complains.

‘Just give it time,’ he is quietly told.

Do they know? Have they found out about Keen and Bone? Kostov lives with this persistent doubt, the paranoia of imminent discovery. He watches the eyes of Kukushkin’s people all the time for the tell of sudden betrayal. For days he has suspected SIS of following him around town, two skinny foreigners with the look of British diplomats. Somebody, someday, will put two and two together. Somebody, someday will find the link between Kostov and Christopher Keen.

‘I thought you lived in London nowadays?’ he asks. ‘How come you’re back in Moscow?’

‘I just came home,’ Duchev replies. ‘Just came home for new business.’

Duchev loathes Kostov, despises him. Aso-called friend of Viktor whose vengeance has ruined London. He takes his old friend for apartments and money and gives him only trouble in return. Reversing the Audi in the narrow road, he heads for the airport motorway and actually looks forward to the night ahead. The phone call merely confirmed that all the arrangements are in place, the plan to foil the British and to end Dimitri’s lies. Kostov is not being handed over to SIS. Kostov is being taken out to the woods.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks, lolling tiredly on the back seat like a fat, unexercised dog. ‘Viktor told me I was going to his house in the country.’

‘I have a job beyond Sheremetjevo,’ Duchev explains, ‘a package needs collecting. Then we’ll go to the village, Dimitri. Then you can see your new home.’

Driving at fifty miles an hour through blinding April snow, Duchev can track the SIS tail in the Audi’s rear-view mirror. AVolkswagen with St Petersburg plates that has been following Kostov for days. This is his only problem. This is what he has to lose. But right on time, just as the phone call had promised, the strobe of a police vehicle punches through the night, sixty metres behind the Volkswagen and closing all the time. Good, Duchev thinks, Pasha doing what he has been paid to do. Above the roar of the road he can hear the siren and he watches with pleasure as the Volkswagen is pulled to the edge of the motorway. Imagine the swearing in that car right now. Imagine the fat load of trouble those British spies are going to get into just as soon as they get back to the embassy.

And from now on it is easy: Kostov even falls asleep in the back. For an hour Duchev drives in silence, deep into the black night south of Moscow, and at eight o’clock spots the turn-off into the woods. There are no other vehicles behind or in front of him and he turns the Audi without indicating on to a single-track road running east into the forest.

‘Where are we going?’ Kostov asks, muttering from the depths of his sleep.

‘Package,’ Duchev intones, ‘package,’ and reaches for the handle of the gun.

He parks and switches off the engine in a clearing half a mile along the road, surrounded on all sides by high, broad pines. Nobody in sight. Nothing but snow. Then, blinding in the darkness, the sudden momentary flash of Tamarov’s headlights, a signal hidden discreetly ahead amongst a thick clump of trees.

Kostov, dreaming of Mischa, is never conscious of the shot. Asingle bullet to the head, and then perpetual sleep. He is stripped of himself, of his teeth and fingers, while Tamarov soaks the vehicle in petrol. Within five minutes the brand-new Audi and Kostov and his canvas bag are ablaze in a brilliant column of fire that flares and heats the trees. The Russians are already on their way home. Now they can go back to business.

Acknowledgements

I owe a particular debt of gratitude to Pierce Loughran, poet and attorney-at-law, and to my editor at Michael Joseph, Rowland White.

My thanks also to Tif Loehnis and everyone at Janklow and Nesbit, to Dr Ursula Pretzlik, Indra Jefimovs, Ben Stephens, Rupert and Kate Harris, Johnny Sutherland, Richard Prior at The Risk Advisory Group, Kate Mallinson, Jeff Evans, James Holland and Claire Pollock, Otto Bathurst, Bettina Raffle and Beric Livingstone, Pippa Davies, Trevor Horwood, Sarah Day, Elisabeth Merriman, Luke Martineau, Christian Spurrier, JJ Keith, Annabel Hardman, Ed Bettison, Jamie Owen, Melissa Hanbury, Boris Starling, Nick Lockley, Rupert Allason, Jessica Barrington, James Petrie and Carol Barrett, Carolyn Hanbury, Cassandra Goad, Benedict Bull, Polly Hayward, Henry Wilks, and everyone at PFD.

The American writer referred to in Chapter 38 is Paul Auster; Vladimir Tamarov quotes from Auster’s book
The Invention of Solitude
(Faber, 1989). I am also indebted to the following authors and their works:

Inside the Soviet Army in Afghanistan
(RAND, 1988), by Alexander Alexiev;
9-11
(Seven Stories Press, 2001), by Noam Chomsky;
Comrade Criminal: Russia’s New Mafiya
(Yale University Press, 1995), by Stephen Handelman;
Holy War, Unholy Victory: Eyewitness to the CIA’s Secret War in Afghanistan
(Regnery Gateway, 1993), by Kurt Lohbeck;
Lenin’s Tomb
(Vintage, 1994) and
Resurrection: The Struggle for a New Russia
(Picador, 1997), both by David Remnick;
The Laundrymen
(Simon & Schuster, 1998), by Jeffrey Robinson;
UK Eyes Alpha
(Faber & Faber, 1996), by Mark Urban; and
The Third Secret
(HarperCollins, 2001), by Nigel West. Rajan Datar’s 2001 film for the BBC’s The Money Programme,
Big Business Beats
, was also very helpful.

C.C.

Madrid,

January 2003