The Spanish Game (3 page)

5

‘It’s possible, Jenny, that one day you’ll walkinto a public art gallery and lookat nothing at all. A total absence. Something with no texture, no shape, no solidity. No materials will have been used up in its construction, not even light or sound. Just a room full of nothing. That will be the exhibit, the gimmick, the thing you’re encouraged to lookat and talkabout over cranberry juice at Soho House. Emptiness. Actually the
opposite
of art.’

Jenny was glad that Ben wasn’t talking about his father any more. She preferred it when his mood was less anxious and abrasive. It was another side to him, more relaxed and quick-witted; she wondered if it was even flirtatious. But Ben looked like the faithful type: he was only thirty-two, after all, and there were pictures of his wife all over the studio walls, nudes and portraits of a quality that had persuaded her to sit for him in the first place.

‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked, and began gathering up her clothes. Ben was cleaning his brushes at the sink, wrapping the bristles in a rubber band and covering any exposed paint with small wraps of cling film.

‘Since we got engaged,’ he said. ‘About three years.’

‘It’s such a great house.’ Jenny’s stomach flattened out as she stretched into a thick woollen polo neck, her head disappearing in the struggle to find sleeves.

‘Alice’s father bought it cheap in the late seventies. Thought it would make a good investment.’

The head popped out, like somebody breaking free of a straitjacket.

‘Well he thought right,’ she said, shaking out her hair. ‘And it’s useful for you to be able to workfrom home.’

‘It is,’ Ben said. ‘It is. It’s a great space. I’m very lucky.’

‘A lot of artists have to rent studios.’

‘I know that.’

She was oblivious to it, but talking about the house always made Ben feel edgy. Three storeys of prime Notting Hill real estate and not a brick of it his. When Carolyn, his mother, had died seven years before, she had left her two sons a few hundred pounds and a small flat in Clapham that they rented out to unreliable tenants. Alice’s father, by contrast, was wealthy: on top of her basic salary as a journalist she had access to a substantial trust, and the house was bought in her name.

‘So what are you cooking for your brother?’

Ben was glad of the change of subject. Turning round, he said: ‘Something Thai, maybe a green curry.’

‘Oh. Bit of a dab hand in the kitchen, are we?’

‘Well, not bad. I find it relaxing after a day in the studio. And Alice can’t boil an egg. So it’s either that or we eat out every night.’

‘What about Mark? What about your brother? Can he cook?’

Ben laughed, as if she had asked a stupid question.

‘Mark doesn’t know one end of a kitchen from the other. Anyway, he’s always out at night, with clients or away at the club. Spends a lot of his time travelling overseas. He doesn’t get much chance to be at home.’

‘Really?’ Jenny was putting on her shoes. ‘What time’s he due back?’

She’s interested
, he thought.
They always are
. They see photos of Mark in the hall and they want a chance to meet him.

‘I’m not sure. He just called on the phone from Heathrow.’

‘Right.’

From her reaction, it was clear that Jenny would not have time to stay. Picking up her bag, she soon made for the stairs and it remained only to pay her. Ben had thirty pounds in his wallet, six five-pound notes which he pressed into her hand. They were walking towards the front door when he heard the scratch of a key in the lock. The door opened and Alice walked in, talking rapidly into her mobile phone. She did a double-take when she saw Ben standing at the foot of the staircase beside a tall, slightly flushed pretty girl and he raised his eyebrows as a way of saying hello. Jenny tooka step back inside.

‘That’s not the
point
,’ Alice was saying. Her voice was raised to a pitch just below outright aggression. ‘I told her she’d have a chance to read through the piece. To checkit. That was a promise I made.’ Jenny found herself standing awkwardly between them, like an actor waiting to go onstage. ‘So if you go ahead and print it, her whole family, who I’ve known since I was six fucking years old, are going to go…’

Ben smiled uneasily and felt the dread of the phone call’s aftermath, another workcrisis the dutiful husband would have to resolve. ‘Thanks, then,’ Jenny whispered to him, moving towards the door. ‘Same time tomorrow?’

‘Same time,’ he said.

‘About midday?’

‘Midday.’

‘Your wife’s
lovely
,’ she mouthed, standing below him on the threshold. ‘Really
pretty
.’

Ben merely nodded and watched as Jenny turned towards Ladbroke Grove. Only when she was out of sight did he close the door.

‘But that’s exactly what I’m
saying
, Andy.’ Alice had kicked off her shoes and was now stretched out on the sofa. A great part of her lived for arguments of this kind, for the adrenalin surge of conflict. ‘If the article appears as it is…’ She pulled the phone away from her ear. ‘
Fuck
, I got cut off.’

‘What happened?’

Ben came over and sat beside her. Her cheekas he kissed it was cold and smelled of moisturizer and cigarettes.

‘You remember that piece I wrote about my friend from school, the girl who was arrested for drug smuggling?’ Alice was redialling Andy’s number as she spoke. Ben vaguely remembered the story. ‘It was supposed to be a feature but the news deskgot hold of it. Now they’ve gone and made the girl out to be some kind of wild child who should have known better, exactly what I promised Jane we wouldn’t do.’ She stared at the read-out on her mobile phone. ‘Great. And now Andy’s switched his phone off.’

‘Her name is Jane?’ The observation was a non sequitur, but Alice didn’t seem to notice.

‘She came to me because she knew the press would be on to her sooner or later. She thought she could trust me to tell her side of the story. I’m the only journalist her family knows.’

‘And now it’s been taken out of your hands?’

He was trying to appear interested, trying to say the right things, but he knew that Alice was most probably lying to him. She would have leaked the story to the news deskin the hope of winning their approval. Alice was ambitious to move from features into news; the more scoops she could push their way, the better would be her chances of promotion.

‘That’s right. Which explains why Andy isn’t returning my calls.’

‘And how did Andy get hold of the story?’

Her answer here would prove interesting. Would she confess to showing the interview to a news reporter, or claim that it was taken from her desk? Each time there was a crisis of this kind, Alice inevitably found someone else to blame.

‘I just mentioned it to a colleague over lunch,’ she said, as if this small detail did not in itself imply a breach of trust. ‘Next thing I know, the news editor is demanding that I hand over the interview so that he can farm it for quotes.’

Ben noticed that she had stopped trying to reach Andy’s mobile phone.

‘So why didn’t you just refuse?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you just tell him you’d made a deal with the girl?’

‘It doesn’t worklike that.’

Of course it doesn’t
. ‘Why not?’ he said.

‘Look, if you’re just going to be difficult about this we might as well -‘

‘Why am I being difficult? I’m just trying to find out -‘

‘Did you pickup my dry cleaning for the party?’

The inevitable change of subject.

‘Did I
what
?’

‘Did you pickup my dry cleaning for the party?’

‘Alice, I’m not your fucking PA. I’ve been busy in the studio all day. If I have time, I’ll get it tomorrow.’

‘Great.’ And she was on her feet, sighing. ‘Too busy doing what? To walkfive hundred metres to the main road?’

‘No. Too busy working.’

‘
Working?
’

‘Is that where we’re going with this?’ Ben pointed towards the attic. ‘Painting isn’t work? There’s no such thing as a busy day when you’re an artist?’

Alice tookoff her earrings and put them on a table.

‘Was that her?’ she asked, trying a different tack. ‘The one at the bottom of the stairs?’

‘Jenny? Yes, when you came in. Of course it was.’

‘And is she nice?’

‘
Nice?
’

‘Do you get on with her?’

A pause.

‘We get on fine, yes. She just lies down and I start painting. It’s not really about “getting on”.’

‘What
is
it about then?’

‘So you’re now picking a fight with me about a model?’

Alice turned her backon him.

‘It’s just that I thought you were painting older people nowadays. Isn’t that the idea for the new show?’

‘No. Why would you thinkthat? It’s just nudes. Age doesn’t come into it.’

‘So you still hire a girl purely on the basis of looks?’

Ben stood up from the sofa and decided to get away. He would go backup stairs to the studio, put on a record and wait until Alice had calmed down.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’ve had a bad day at work. Somebody fucked you over. Try not to take it out on everyone else.’ Alice stubbed out her cigarette and said nothing. ‘Why don’t we start again later? Mark’s arriving in less than an hour. Have a bath and chill out.’

‘Don’t tell me to “chill out”. Just give me a straight answer to my question.’

Ben had to stop and turn.

‘To what question?’

And Alice reacted as if he were deliberately concealing something.

‘Fine,’ she said, and pointedly looked at her watch. ‘What time does the dry cleaner close?’

‘How the fuck should I know?’

‘Well, I’m just wondering what I’m going to wear to this party tomorrow night, now that you haven’t picked up my dress.’

‘So go and get it. You’re a big girl.’

‘Well, I don’t have much choice, do I?’

And Ben was halfway upstairs, heading backto the studio, when he heard the front door slam behind him.

6

Stephen Taploe called the waitress over with an impatient wave of his hand and asked for the bill. It had become necessary to conduct the rest of the conversation outside the cafe, because there were now three men standing idly behind Keen’s chair, sucking on bottles of Mexican lager. The bill came to a little under nine pounds and Taploe put the receipt carefully in his wallet. He was very exact when it came to filing for expenses.

The two men crossed the road and turned towards Brook Green, a steady head-on wind blowing dried leaves and litter along the pavement. Choosing his moment with care, Taploe said, ‘What do you know about a man called Sebastian Roth?’

The question took Keen by surprise. His first thought was that someone inside Divisar had breached client confidentiality.

‘Why don’t you tell me what
you
know about a man called Sebastian Roth and I’ll see if I can be of any assistance?’ he said. ‘Sort of fill in the blanks.’

Taploe had anticipated that Keen would be evasive; it bought him time.

‘I know what any person can read in the papers. Roth is thirty-six years old, an entrepreneur, very well connected with the present Labour government, the only son of a Tory peer. He went to Eton, where he was neither particularly successful nor popular and dropped out of Oxford after less than a year. After a stint in the City he opened the original Libra nightclub about six months before Ministry of Sound and at least a year before Cream first tookoff in Liverpool. Those three are still the night clubs of choice for the younger generation, though it’s mostly compact discs now, isn’t it? That’s how they make their money.’ Keen remained silent. ‘Judging from the photographs in certain magazines -
Tatler
,
Harpers & Queen
and so on - Roth looks to have a new girlfriend on his arm every week, although we think he’s something of a loner. Very little contact with his family, no relationship at all with either of his two siblings. Libra is his passion, extending the brand, controlling the business. Roth spends a lot of time overseas, collects art, and has recently finished conversion on a house in Pimlico valued at over two million pounds. I also happen to know that one of his representatives came to your company some months ago asking for assistance.’

Keen slowed his pace.

‘You know that I can’t discuss that,’ he said.

‘Then allow me discuss it for you.’ It was all going very well for Stephen Taploe, the one-upmanship, the gradual trap. He flattened down his moustache and coughed lightly. ‘Roth has a lawyer friend, an individual by the name of Thomas Macklin. Helped him build the Libra empire, the Paris and New Yorksites, the merchandising arm in particular. I believe you’ve made his acquaintance?’

‘Go on.’ The hard soles of Keen’s brogues clipped on the pavement as they turned left into Sterndale Road.

‘In the past four months, Macklin has made eight separate trips to Russia. On three of these journeys he took internal flights from St Petersburg to Moscow, where he remained for several days.’

‘May I askwhy he was being followed?’

To encourage a greater openness in Keen, Taploe opted to be as candid as the situation would allow.

‘He wasn’t being
followed
, exactly. At least, not at first. But on Macklin’s third visit to the Russian capital he was observed by local law enforcement officials talking to a known member of the Kukushkin crime syndicate under observation in a separate case. Nothing unusual there, you might think, but the meetings then occurred again, on trips four, five and six. Each time with the same man, albeit in a different location.’

‘What was the contact’s name?’

‘Malere,’ Taploe replied. ‘Kristin Malere. A Lithuanian, originally out of Vilnius. Anyway, as you may or may not be aware, my organization has been developing increasingly strong links with the organized crime division of Russian Internal Affairs. Because Macklin is a British citizen, these meetings were brought to our attention and my team began looking into it.’

‘On the basis of a few meetings with a low-level Baltic hoodlum?’

Taploe sniffed. He did not enjoy having his judgment brought into question by anyone, least of all a disdainful MI6 toff eight years in the private sector.

‘Ordinarily, of course, this would not have aroused our suspicion.’ He wanted Keen to know his place, to feel like an outsider. ‘After all, Mr Macklin was only representing the interests of his employer. As you will be aware, it is often necessary in the present climate to climb into bed with what I like to call some of the unsavoury characters on the Russian landscape.’

Keen looked at his watch.

‘Now, we have reason to believe that Viktor Kukushkin is presently trying to consolidate his position in the UK,’ Taploe said firmly. He wasn’t going to be rushed. ‘Simply as a precaution, we put Watchers from my team on Macklin when he returned home. So imagine our surprise when, just days after arriving backfrom one of his trips to Russia, he met one of Kukushkin’s London representatives at a hotel in Sussex Gardens. Another unsavoury character by the name of Juris Duchev.’ The corners of Keen’s mouth twitched. ‘These meetings started to happen at other hotels in the Greater London area on a fairly regular basis. On at least four occasions we suspect Macklin left with cash sums in excess of eighty thousand pounds. To my knowledge he also banked two six-figure dollar sums in a legitimate, Cypriot-registered shell company named Pentagon Investments.’

Taploe tooka long, deep breath, as if the effort of summing up the Libra case with such clarity and precision had left him briefly exhausted. He was on the point of elaborating further when a squat, thick-set man wearing a pin-striped suit emerged from a nearby house and turned towards them. He was well within earshot and Taploe immediately assumed cover.

‘So you’ll be away all weekend?’ he said quickly. ‘Why don’t you leave me your number and I’ll try to get hold of you then.’

The switch, a very basic precaution, was also second nature to Keen. Given that many of Divisar’s employees were drawn from the secret world, the company operated on much the same basis as the intelligence services. If, for example, Keen happened to be discussing an operation at headquarters and was interrupted by another member of staff entering the room, he would quickly drop into small talk until that person had left the area. There were pockets of expertise within the company, and very little crossover due to the requirements of secrecy; many employees were strangers to one another. Nevertheless, he felt that Taploe had overplayed it, and enjoyed delaying his response for as long as possible.

‘Or you could just call my mobile,’ he replied slowly. ‘Do you have the number?’ His voice was deliberately bored. ‘It’s printed on my card.’

The man was now thirty metres behind them, standing beside a two-door BMW. Keen heard the double sonics of central locking and registered amber hazard lights flaring briefly in the backwindow of a nearby van. Then he heard the driver’s door clunk shut as the man climbed inside.

It was safe to continue.

‘The answer to your question, Mr Taploe, is that I cannot tell you very much.’ Keen sounded assured, imperial. ‘I have neither seen nor spoken to Thomas Macklin in over two months. Whom he chooses to hold meetings with in Moscow, London or Timbuktu is his business, not mine. Ditto any strange bankac-counts. Obviously you suspect money laundering…’

‘Obviously,’ Taploe said quickly. ‘The thing is, we can’t make an arrest until we know the source of the cash. Macklin could realistically claim that he had no knowledge of handling dirty money, or say that he was acting as a lawyer for Viktor Kukushkin and planned to use the funds to buy real estate. But we’d be interested in what you could tell us about your early contact with Libra.’

Keen noted the use of the plural pronoun: making it a point of honour, a duty to the old firm. However, rather than answer immediately, he asked a question of his own.

‘How did you find me?’

Taploe was looking down Augustine Road towards Brook Green. He rubbed his cheek.

‘Your name was recognized when it came up during preliminary research into Divisar.’

Keen sounded a sarcastic note.

‘So - what? - you found out I was in the Office, thought it was your lucky day and ran me as a trace request through the ND? Is that how it still works over there?’

Taploe hesitated. ‘Something like that.’

‘Was there anything Recorded Against?’ Keen asked, employing the Service euphemism. ‘I’d love to know.’

Taploe ignored the question.

‘Why don’t we just talkabout your initial contact with Libra?’

Keen sighed, loathing the dryness of bureaucracy.

‘Very well. This is what I know, although I can’t thinkwhy it will be of any use to you. Thomas Macklin approached Divisar about six months ago. I’d have to checkthe file to be more precise. He was sharp and efficient and he came as Roth’s representative, which is often the way in our business. If push comes to shove, those boys want as much distance between us and them as they can manage. It was a simple job, of the sort I do all the time. Libra were interested in setting up operations in Russia and Macklin had a lot of very sensible questions that needed answering. Due diligence on real estate and freeholders. Wanted to know how to go about recruiting staff, finding suppliers, who Libra’s competitors would be and so forth. I remember he was slightly obsessive about the tax and licensing position. Above all, he needed to know about the roof. What palms needed to be crossed and how much silver.’ To amuse himself, Keen added, ‘You know what a roof is, don’t you, Mr Taploe?’

‘I’ve been working organized crime for two years,’ he replied. ‘Of course I know about the roof.’ It irritated Taploe that Keen was not as concerned by his line of questioning as he might have been; but then that was the birthright of the upper classes, the lizard-thickskin of the FCO. ‘So did Divisar put Libra in touch with the appropriate organizations?’ he asked.

‘That’s not how it works. Kukushkin would have come to them. He’s one of the new-style mobsters, the
avtoritet
. Less regard for tradition than the older
vors
and a lot more unpredictable when it comes to things like chopping people’s fingers off. But, yes, I pointed them in the right direction, told Macklin who the main players were. Divisar did what we were paid to do.’

Taploe listened to this and decided that it was time to play his trump card.

‘And how long was it before you realized that your eldest son was a senior executive at Libra?’

Keen had known that the question was coming; Taploe had been deliberately withholding it as a tactic to arouse his suspicion. Nevertheless, he felt squeezed by it, cornered into obfuscation. His immediate response was defensive.

‘Now what does that have to do with anything?’

Taploe stopped walking and turned to face him. Keen was a good six inches taller and considerably better built, with narrow blue eyes that he used as tools of concealment, to frighten and charm in equal measure. Taploe tried as best he could to look through them.

‘Perhaps you could just answer the question,’ he said. ‘We have no wish to pry into your personal life. It is simply our understanding that since Libra’s first approach you have been able to form some sort of a relationship with your eldest son after… how should I put it?… an
absence
of almost thirty years.’

‘You’re clearly very well informed.’

‘Not as well informed as I’d like to be. Did you know that Mark was working at Libra when Divisar tookthem on as clients?’

Keen waited. He could feel frustration, even anger, beginning to undermine his better judgment. All that residual guilt over Carolyn and the boys rising up in him like a sickness.

‘As I recall,’ he said firmly, ‘there were two preliminary meetings between Macklin and one of my colleagues before I was brought on board. During that time Mark found out that I worked for the company and telephoned me with a view to getting together.’

‘And what was your reaction?’

‘Is that relevant? I wasn’t aware that I was talking to a psychiatrist.’

Taploe had pushed too far. He was annoyed with himself and felt the heat of unease flush through his cheeks. He would have to back down, if only for the sake of the pitch.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s not my business. I am simply interested in Mark’s role in all of this.’

‘Then at last we have something in common.’

‘I can tell you that there’s no evidence to suggest your son knows what Macklin is up to,’ Taploe offered. ‘He didn’t accompany him to Russia on his last two visits, nor has he been seen with any of Kukushkin’s representatives in either Moscow or London.’

‘So why am I here this evening?’ Keen asked. ‘What on earth do you need me for?’

It was a question to which he already knew the answer. Taploe was simply priming himself.

‘Just an act of kindness,’ he said quietly, ‘a favour, for want of a better description.’

‘A favour.’ Keen paused and then repeated the word under his breath, killing its implications, the nuance. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What is it about people in our business that they can never say exactly what they
mean
?’