A Most Wanted Man (16 page)

Next, she e-mailed her builders and tradesmen with the same urgent message:
Very sorry, friends, please absolutely no work at new flat until further notice. Unforeseen legal problems over lease, all will be resolved in next few days. Will recompense you fully for any loss of earnings.
Tschüss,
Annabel Richter.

And to the shopping list lying at her side she added
new padlock,
because people don’t necessarily read their weekend e-mails before setting off to work on a Monday.

Her cell phone was ringing. Eight o’clock. Every Saturday morning, public holidays included, at the stroke of eight, Frau Dr. Richter called her daughter, Annabel. On Sundays she called Annabel’s sister, Heidi, because Heidi was the elder. Family ethic did not allow that either daughter could be lying in late or making love on a Saturday or a Sunday, or on any other morning.

First, her mother’s “State of the Nation” address. Annabel was already smiling.

“I am being totally indiscreet, but Heidi thinks she may be pregnant again, she will know for certain on Tuesday. Until then, the news is embargoed, Annabel. You understand?”

“I understand, Mother, and how lovely for you. Your fourth grandchild already, and you still a child yourself!”

“As soon as it’s official, you may congratulate her, naturally.”

Annabel forbore from saying that Heidi was furious, and only her husband’s entreaties had prevented her from having an abortion.

“And your brother, Hugo, has been offered a job in the human psychology wing of a large teaching hospital in Cologne, but says he isn’t sure they are real Freudians, so he may not take it. Really, he’s too stupid sometimes.”

“Cologne might suit Hugo fine,” Annabel said, without adding that she spoke to Hugo three times a week on average, and knew very well what his plans were: namely to stay put in Berlin until his torrid love affair with a married woman ten years his senior had either burned itself out or blown up in his face, or—which with Hugo was pretty much the norm—both.

“And your papa has agreed to deliver the keynote speech to a conference of international jurists in Turin. So being him, he has already started writing it, and I shan’t get a word out of him till September. Have you made it up with Karsten yet?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Good.”

A small pause.

“How did your tests go, Mother?” Annabel asked.

“Idiotic as usual, my dear. When somebody tells me the results are negative, I’m depressed because I’m a natural optimist. Then I have to think myself round.”

“Were they negative?”

“There was one small positive voice, but it was immediately drowned out by the negatives.”

“Which one was positive?”

“My stupid liver.”

“Have you told Papa?”

“He’s a man, darling. He’ll either tell me to have another glass of wine, or he’ll think I’m dying. Go for your cycle ride.”

Now for her master plan.

Hugo’s life, as ever, was precariously poised. His lady-love’s husband was an itinerant businessman of some kind with the inconsiderate habit of coming home at weekends. Accordingly, Hugo spent his Saturday and Sunday nights at his hospital, on call in the staff hostel, and seeing his patients by day. The trick therefore was to catch him after 8
A.M.
when his night shift ended, and before 10
A.M.
when he began his rounds. The time now was eight-twenty, and therefore ideal.

For security reasons, she required a public telephone and, for her ease of mind, a place she was familiar with. She selected a former hunting lodge turned café in the deer park at Blankenese, normally fifteen minutes of hard cycling away. She made the distance in twelve and had to order a herbal tea and sit and stare at it while she got her breath back. In the corridor leading to the lavatories was an old-fashioned red English phone box. At the counter, she negotiated a handful of coins in readiness.

As usual with Hugo, they talked half in banter, half in earnest. Perhaps because she was feeling so earnest she overdid the banter.

I’ve got this nightmare client, Hugo, she began. Highly intelligent but a psychological wreck. Speaks Russian only.

He needs to chill out and be looked after professionally.

His personal circumstances are dire and can’t be described over the phone.

“I think you would be the first to agree he’s in serious need of help,” she said, trying not to make it sound like a plea. But addressing Hugo’s soft heart was a mistake.

“Would I? I’m not sure I would at all. What are his alleged symptoms?” he demanded sharply, in his professional voice.

She had written them down. “Delusions. One minute he thinks he’s going to run the world, the next he’s shivering like a mouse.”

“We all are. What is he—a politician?”

She let out a hoot of laughter, but had the uncomfortable feeling Hugo wasn’t joking.

“Unpredictable outbursts of rage, abject dependence one minute, then all his own man again. Does that make sense? I’m not a doctor, Hugo. He’s worse than that. He really needs help. Now. Urgently. With total confidentiality built in. Aren’t there places like that? There must be.”

“Good ones, no. Not that I know of. Not for what you want. Is he dangerous?”

“Why should he be?”

“Do you see signs of violence in him?”

“He plays music to himself. He sits for hours and looks out of the window. He makes paper airplanes. I don’t think that’s violent.”

“How high’s the window?”

“Hugo, shut up!”

“Does he look at you strangely? I’m asking you. It’s a serious question.”

“He doesn’t
look.
I mean, he looks away. Most of the time he just looks away.” She collected herself. “All right then, a
nearly
good place. Somewhere that will take him in, keep an eye on him, not ask a lot of questions and just—give him the space, help him put himself together.”

She was talking too much.

“Has he got money?” Hugo demanded.

“Yes. Plenty. Any amount.”

“Where from?”

“All the rich married women he sleeps with.”

“Is he spending it wildly? Buying Rolls-Royces and pearl necklaces?”

“He doesn’t really know he’s
got
any money,” she replied, starting to get desperate. “But he
has.
He’s all right. I mean financially. Other people have got it for him. Christ, Hugo. Does it really have to be this difficult?”

“He speaks only Russian?”

“I told you.”

“And you’re fucking him?”

“No!”

“Do you intend to?”

“Hugo, be sensible for once, for heaven’s sake.”

“I
am
being sensible. That’s what’s making you cross.”

“Look, all I need—all he needs—the bottom line is, can we get him into somewhere fast—say within a week—even if it’s not perfection? If it’s just adequate and
very
private. Not even the people at the Sanctuary know we’re having this conversation. That’s how private it’s got to be.”

“Where are you?”

“In a phone box. My cell phone’s shot.”

“Today’s the weekend, in case you haven’t noticed.” She waited. “And Monday’s a conference all day. Call me on my cell phone on Monday evening, nine-ish. Annabel?”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’ll rake around. Call me.”

“Frau Elli,” Brue began skittishly.

The trip to Sylt and the lunch at Bernhard’s beach house had gone off predictably, with the usual social mix of senile rich and bored youth, lobster and champagne, and a trek over the dunes during which Brue repeatedly consulted his cell phone in case he had missed a call from Annabel Richter, but alas he hadn’t. By evening bad weather had closed the airfield, obliging the Brues to bunk down in the guest cottage, which in turn prompted Bernhard’s wife, Hildegard, stoned on cocaine, to render exaggerated apologies for not being able to offer Mitzi sleeping arrangements better suited to her appetites. A row threatened, but deft Brue as usual quelled it. On Sunday he had played bad golf, lost a thousand euros and afterwards been forced to eat liver dumplings and drink Obstler with an elderly shipping baron. Now at last it was Monday morning, the nine o’clock meeting of senior staff had ended, and Brue had invited Frau Ellenberger to be so good as to remain behind if she had a moment, which was a move he had been planning all weekend.

“It is but a small thing I ask of you, Frau Elli,” he began in stagey English.

“Mr. Tommy, be it never so small, I am yours to command,” she answered in the same vein.

These absurd rituals, played out over a quarter of a century, first by Brue’s father in Vienna and now by the son, were supposed to celebrate the unbroken chain of Frères.

“If I were to say
Karpov
to you, Frau Elli—Grigori Borisovich Karpov—and if I were to add the word
Lipizzaner
—how do you suppose you might react?”

The joke was long over by the time he had completed his question.

“I think I would be sad, Herr Tommy,” she said in German.

“Sad
how,
exactly? Sad for Vienna? For your little flat in the Operngasse that your mother so loved?”

“For your good father.”

“And for what he asked of you in respect of Lipizzaners, perhaps?”

“The Lipizzaner accounts were not correct,” she said, eyes down.

It was a conversation they should have had seven years ago, but Brue had never believed in lifting stones unnecessarily, least of all when he had a shrewd idea of what he might find underneath.

“But you have nonetheless continued—very loyally—to manage them,” he suggested gently.

“I do
not
manage them, Herr Tommy. I have made it my business to know as little as possible about how they are managed. That is the task of the Liechtenstein fund manager. That is his province and that, I assume, is how he earns his living, whatever we may think of his ethics. I do only what I promised your father I would do.”

“And that included, I believe, stripping the personal files of past or present Lipizzaner account holders.”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you did in the case of Karpov?”

“Yes.”

“And the papers in this file, therefore”—he held it up—“are all the papers that remain to us?”

“Yes.”

“In the world. In the oubliette, in the cellar in Glasgow, here in Hamburg.”

“Yes,” she said with emphasis, after a small hesitation that did not escape Brue’s notice.

“And apart from these papers, do you have any
personal
memory of Karpov—from those days—from the odd thing my father may have said or not said about him?”

“Your father treated the Karpov account with…”

“With—?”

“
Respect,
Herr Tommy,” she replied, blushing.

“But my father treated all clients with respect, surely?”

“Your father spoke of Karpov as a man whose sins should be forgiven, even in advance. He was not always so indulgent towards our clients.”

“Did he say
why
they should be forgiven?”

“Karpov was special. All Lipizzaners were special but Karpov was very special.”

“Did he say what the sins were that should be forgiven in advance?”

“No.”

“Did he suggest there might be—how shall I put it?—an untidy love life to deal with? Children out of wedlock scattered around, and so forth?”

“Such things were widely implied.”

“But not specifically addressed? No mention of a beloved illegitimate son, for instance, who might step off the street one day and announce himself?”

“Many such contingencies were spoken of regarding the Lipizzaners. I cannot say I have a particular memory regarding one of them.”

“And
Anatoly.
Why is Anatoly a name to me? Is it something I overheard? ‘Anatoly will fix it?’”

“There was an Anatoly who was a go-between, I believe,” Frau Elli replied reluctantly.

“Going between—?”

“Between Mr. Edward and Colonel Karpov, when Karpov was not available, or did not wish to be.”

“As Karpov’s lawyer then?”

“As”—she hesitated—“as his
enabler.
Anatoly’s services extended beyond the merely legal.”

“Or
illegal,
” Brue suggested but, receiving no recognition for his wit, made one of his tours of the room. “And without putting you to the bother of opening up the oubliette, can you tell me, in broad-brush terms, not for publication, what percentage of the overall Liechtenstein fund is owned by the Karpov account?”

“Each Lipizzaner account holder was awarded shares in proportion to his investment.”

“So I gather.”

“If the account holder chose at any time to increase his investment, then the shareholding increased also.”

“That sounds like sense.”

“Colonel Karpov was one of the earliest of the Lipizzaners, and the richest. Your father called him our founder member. In four years his investment was increased nine times.”

“By Karpov?”

“By credit transfers into his account. Whether Karpov himself made the payments, or others made them on his behalf, was not known. The credit notes, once they were effective, were destroyed.”

“By you?”

“By your father.”

“Any straight cash deposits at all? Banknotes in a suitcase, as it were? Old-style? Back in Vienna days?”

“Not in my presence.”

“How about when you weren’t there?”

“Sums of cash were from time to time credited to the account.”

“By Karpov himself?”

“I believe so.”

“And by third parties?”

“Possibly.”

“Such as Anatoly?”

“The signatories were not required to identify themselves formally. Cash was passed across the counter, the beneficiary’s account was indicated, a receipt was issued in whatever name was given by the depositor.”

Another tour while Brue reflected on the uses of the passive voice.

“And when, do you suppose, did the last credit transfer hit the Karpov account?”

“My understanding is, the credits continue to come in, even to the present day.”

“Literally the present day—or just until recently, say?”

“It is not my place to know, Herr Tommy.”

And not your day either, thought Brue. “And the value of the Liechtenstein fund amounted to
what,
roughly, by the time we left Vienna—before it was divvied out among the shareholders, obviously?”

“By the time we left Vienna there was only one shareholder, Herr Tommy. Colonel Karpov stood alone. The others had fallen by the wayside.”

“Really? And how did
that
happen?”

“It is not known to me, Herr Tommy. My understanding is, the other Lipizzaners were either bought out by Karpov or disappeared by natural means.”

“Or
un
natural?”

“That’s all I am able to say, Herr Tommy.”

“Give me a ballpark figure. Off the top of your head,” Brue urged.

“I cannot speak for our Liechtenstein trust manager, Herr Tommy. That is not something within my competence.”

“A Frau Richter rang me, you see,” Brue explained, in the tone of a fellow coming clean. “A
lawyer.
I expect you picked up her message this morning when you were going through the weekend crop.”

“I did indeed, Herr Tommy.”

“She had some questions to ask of me regarding…a certain client of hers, and ours, allegedly. Pressing questions.”

“So I understood, Herr Tommy.”

He had decided. All right. She was being sticky. She was of an age. And where Lipizzaners were concerned, she had always been sticky. But he would make an ally of her, tell her the whole story, win her round. If he couldn’t take Frau Elli into his confidence, then who on earth?

“Frau Elli.”

“Herr Tommy.”

“I think it would be very nice if you and I had a heart-to-heart talk about—well, shoes and ships and—”

He smiled and broke off, waiting for her to come in with one of her favorite Lewis Carroll quotes, but in vain.

“So what I suggest
is,
” he went on, like someone who has had a jolly good idea, “a
big
pot of your lovely Viennese coffee and some of your mother’s homemade Easter biscuits, and two cups. And while you’re about it, tell the switchboard I’m in conference and so are you.”

But the tête-à-tête Brue had proposed did not run its course. Frau Ellenberger did indeed come back with the coffee—though it took longer to prepare than a man might decently expect—and she was, as ever, the soul of courtesy. When called upon to smile, she smiled. Her mother’s Easter biscuits were incomparable. But the moment Brue attempted to draw her out further on Colonel Karpov, she rose to her feet and, staring before her like a child at a school concert, delivered herself of a formal statement.

“Herr Brue, I regret to inform you that I am advised that the Lipizzaner accounts transgress the outer borders of legality. In view of my junior position in the bank at the time, and the undertakings I gave your late father, I am also advised that I must not discuss these matters with you anymore.”

“Of course, of course,” said Brue airily, who prided himself on being at his best when suffering a reversal. “Fully understood and accepted, Frau Elli. The bank thanks you.”

“And Mr. Foreman called,” she said at the door, when Brue hurried after her to help her with the coffee tray.

Why was she talking with her back to him? Why was the back of her neck scarlet?

“Again? What on earth for?”

“He was confirming your lunch today.”

“He confirmed it on Friday, for heaven’s sake!”

“He needed to know whether you had any dietary requirements. La Scala specializes in fish, apparently.”

“I know it specializes in fish. I dine there once a month at least. I also know it’s
not
open for lunch.”

“It appears that Mr. Foreman has made an arrangement with the manager. And he’s bringing his business partner, a Mr. Lantern.”

“His ray of light,” Brue suggested, mordantly pleased by his own wit. But she was still avoiding him as if he had the evil eye, and Brue for his part was wondering what manner of man was this who could persuade Mario the proprietor of La Scala to open his premises for lunch on a Monday of all days, tiny though the restaurant was.

Frau Ellenberger had finally agreed to face him.

“Mr. Foreman comes with solid credentials, Herr Tommy,” she said, with an emphasis he couldn’t read. “You asked me to check him out, so I did.
Mr. Foreman
is personally recommended by your own firm of London solicitors, and by a
major
city bank. He is flying from London
specially.
”

“With his ray of light?”

“Mr. Lantern will come separately from Berlin, where I understand he is based. They are proposing an exploratory luncheon with no commitment on either side. Their project is a substantial one and will require an extensive feasibility study.”

“And I have known this for how long?”

“One week exactly, Herr Tommy. We discussed it at this hour last Monday, thank you.”

Why on earth the
thank you
? Brue wondered. “Has the world gone mad or have I, Frau Elli?”

“That’s what your father used to say, Herr Tommy,” Frau Ellenberger replied primly, and Brue went back to thinking about Annabel: that vibrant, sovereign young woman on a bicycle, who was not dependent on social occasions for her identity.

To his surprise and relief, Messrs. Foreman and Lantern turned out to be rather amusing company. By the time he arrived at La Scala, they had charmed Mario into pointing them to Brue’s favorite table in the window, and advising them which Etruscan white Brue favored so that they could have it ready for him. And there it was now, nestling uncorked in an ice bucket.

Afterwards, Brue puzzled about just how they knew La Scala was his favorite watering hole, but he assumed that since most of banking Hamburg knew he ate there, they did too. Or maybe Foreman had succeeded in charming the information out of Frau Ellenberger, because charm was what Foreman had in bucketfuls. Sometimes you meet a twin, and relate to him immediately. Foreman was Brue’s height and Brue’s age, and had Brue’s shape of head. He was tweedy, in a patrician sort of way that Brue admired, with merry eyes and a smile that was so disarming it made you smile too. And a confiding, low-pitched voice that had learned to take the world as it came.

“Tommy Brue! Well done, sir, well done, all of us,” he murmured, rising to his feet as Brue came through the door. “Meet Ian Lantern, my partner in crime. Mind if we call you Tommy? I’m another Edward, I’m afraid, like your dear papa. Ted for short, though. He would never have put up with that, would he? It was Edward or nothing for him.”

“Or when in doubt,
sir,
” Brue countered, to their collective enjoyment.

Did he take any particular note of this first proprietorial reference to his father? Deep down in himself, where Brue had never lost his balance—or never until Friday night? Not that he was aware of. Edward Amadeus OBE had been a legend in his lifetime and was a legend still. Brue was well used to hearing people speak of him as if they knew him, and he took it as a compliment.

His first impression of Lantern was equally favorable. Young Englishmen, in Brue’s limited experience of the breed, didn’t come like Lantern these days. He was small and trim and well turned out in a charcoal suit with sloping shoulders and one button to the jacket, all in the style of your upwardly mobile executive when Brue had been one himself. His light brown hair was cropped army-style short. He was softly and thoughtfully spoken and had an engaging courtesy. But like Foreman, he radiated a quiet self-assurance that told you he was nobody’s man. He also had what Brue had learned to call a classless accent, which touched the democrat in him.