Hidden Man (27 page)

Ben looked at the kitchen door leading out into the garden.

‘What, that? No. I go out there the whole time.’

‘Then let’s get some air. Let’s go outside for a chat.’

The garden was colder than it looked, furniture damp to the touch and a settling of dew on the grass. Mark
peered over neighbouring fences - both sides to check if they could be overheard - then returned to the terrace where he sat in a narrow wicker chair buckled by English weather. Ben remained on his feet and said, with undisguised derision, ‘Well this makes a nice change.’

Mark was wondering where to begin. Somehow he had always known that he was going to tell Ben. It was just a question of the timing.

‘What are we doing out here, brother? It’s fucking freezing.’

Mark leaned forward in the chair, little creaks and snaps. Then he looked away from the house, towards the south end of the garden and said, ‘We’re out here because I know the real reason why Dad was killed.’

Ben took the news evenly, with no discernible movement beyond a slight creasing around the eyes.

‘Say that again?’

‘Sit down, Benjamin.’

Mark only called him ‘Benjamin’ when things were serious. He had called him ‘Benjamin’ when the cancer was quickening and their mother had six weeks to live. Ben buttoned up his coat, settled on the edge of the garden table, and waited.

‘I’m not supposed to tell you this.’ Mark looked very serious, all the playfulness and swagger gone from his face. He seemed burdened by some terrible responsibility, an expression that managed to irritate his brother still further. ‘For the last couple of months
I’ve been working for a man called Bob Randall. He’s an officer with MI5.’

Ben found that he could not laugh.

‘
MI5?
’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that explains a lot.’ The lightness of this reply belied Ben’s total surprise; he experienced a jealous kick of sudden and unexpected resentment.

‘Seb and Tom Macklin have been under surveillance for almost a year. Tom has been laundering money for a Moscow crime syndicate run by a man called Viktor Kukushkin. He’s tricked everybody, maybe even Seb; nobody knows to what extent the boss is involved. For months, Tom’s been buying up real estate, fixing invoices, moving money around the clubs, dealing with a character called Vladimir Tamarov who’s Kukushkin’s number one over here. They’re running hookers in from eastern Europe, pushing class As, the whole lot.’

Ben was shaking his head.

‘And Dad found out about this while he was working for Divisar?’

‘It looks that way.’ Mark glanced up at the house.

It was as if the entire edifice of Elgin Crescent might be eavesdropping on their conversation. ‘That’s why we have to talk out here. I don’t want to come over all Harry Palmer, but there’s a very small chance your place is wired.’

Now Ben laughed.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, dismissing the notion
because it gave him a moment of power. ‘What do I have to do with it? Nobody bugs the home of a
painter
.’

‘Fine,’ Mark replied, and was forced to concede that he had perhaps overreacted. ‘Still, it’s better not to talk about anything sensitive when you’re inside the house.’

‘OK, James,’ Ben whispered, mocking Mark’s tone. He pursed out his lips and looked camp. ‘Are you licensed to kill, brother? Have you got gadgets and herpes?’

Mark didn’t laugh.

‘Macklin has been redirecting some of the Kukushkin money into a secret offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands. Before Dad died he had several conversations with a banker out there called Timothy Lander.’

‘I’ve heard that name.’ Ben stood up and the backs of his legs felt damp beneath his clothes. ‘McCreery used it. Told me exactly the same thing.’

‘About Lander?’

‘About Lander.’

‘Well, there you go.’ Mark was glad that Ben at last looked appropriately respectful. ‘Five and Six are both trying to find the same guy. I reckon Lander queried what was going on, told Dad about it, and Macklin had him shot before he whiffed the gig to the Russians. Either that or he simply found out that Viktor and Tom were in bed together and threatened to go to the police.’

‘So the whole Kostov thing really is bullshit?’

‘Total bullshit. A red herring. Probably dreamed up by Kukushkin to throw us off the scent. That’s why 2I asked you where the letter came from. Kukushkin’s people in New York probably rented out the PO Box, got hold of Bone’s stationery, then faked the letter. That’s why there was no fixed address. The Russian mob’s full of former KGB and soldiers who did time in central Asia. They’d know all about what Western intelligence got up to out there during the Soviet invasion. It would have been easy to make something up, to take the names of dead men like Mischa and Kostov and re-invent their lives for a smokescreen. I bet Jockis running a trace on the PO Box right this minute, finding out who’s been renting it.’

‘So Jock knows about all this?’ Beneath his relaxed demeanour, Ben felt humbled by the realization that for weeks he had been a small, nearly irrelevant player in a drama of bewildering scale and complexity.

‘Not my end of it,’ Mark replied. ‘I have to keep that hush-hush. Far as I know, Five have just used the local cops in Moscow. The other day my controller said they were finally bringing in SIS to help trace Lander, but otherwise the Friends have been kept right out of it.’

‘Listen to you,’ Ben said. ‘Got all the lingo. The old man would be proud of you. Like looking in a mirror.’

Ben had meant this only lightly, but Mark’s face hummed with pride. He said, ‘Thankyou,’ and reached out to hold Ben’s wrist. His touch was very
warm and certain. ‘I’m doing this for him, brother,’ he said. ‘And for us. Got to try and help. Got to dismantle the whole Kukushkin thing. Want to make sure nothing like this can ever happen to anybody else.’

‘Well, I think that’s great.’ And Ben felt that he was twelve or thirteen years old again, looking on his older brother with a rapt and fascinated attention. He possessed little of Mark’s instinctive decency, his natural sense of right and wrong. A part of him dismissed this element of his brother’s personality as wrong-headed and idealistic; yet there was something to be envied in Mark’s secret life, a sense that he was honouring their father’s memory.

‘What are you thinking?’ Mark asked.

‘Just that I hope you’re being careful. And that if you need any help I’ll do what I can.’

‘I appreciate it. Thankyou.’

‘And you trust this guy Randall? You really think he knows what he’s doing?’

‘A hundred per cent.’

A cold wind cut across the garden and Mark stood up out of the wicker chair, rolling his neck like a doll. Ben experienced another stab of frustrated envy, a craving to be involved.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?’ he said.

Mark looked at him and stepped down on to the grass. He was touched by Ben’s concern and already feeling the relief of having confessed his secret to the
one person he could trust. Perhaps Ben’s presence would take the sting out of the job; perhaps Ben could act as a buffer for all the stress and concern.

‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing you could really do, mate.’

‘It’s just that I get so fucking bored all day up there in the studio. Maybe if I could just do something, even if it was only for Dad…’

‘Well, look,’ Mark began, recognizing the sentiment, ‘why don’t you come and meet the Russians sometime, make it look like there’s nothing going on? I’m going to a place with Tom on Friday, supposed to befriend one of them and get him on my side.’

Ben leaped on this.

‘Christ, yeah,’ he said. He had not expected such a big role. ‘Sure I’d do that if you thought it would help.’

‘It’ll make good cover.’ Mark was discovering a certain logic to the idea. ‘They’d never suspect anything if the two of us were out together.’

But how would he square it with Randall and Quinn? Why, when he had been so at ease with the masquerade, had Mark suddenly called on Ben for support? He made light of his decision with a joke.

‘It’s actually a lap-dancing place in Finchley Road. You might enjoy yourself.’

‘Or find something out,’ Ben added quickly. ‘Maybe stumble on some useful information…’

‘Well, that’s right. The important thing is not to say anything to anyone, not to let on that you know. And
don’t mention what we’ve talked about to Alice, and certainly not to Jock.’

‘Fuck Jock,’ Ben said, with authority.

‘Forget everything until we talk. I’ll give you the address of the place when I’ve got it. Until then keep your mouth shut. We’ll sort everything out tomorrow.’

38

It was a cold night and Ben walked at pace along Finchley Road, searching for the entrance to the club. He hoped to discover Macklin and Mark waiting for him in the foyer, or just pulling up in a cab, because what if somebody he knew - a friend, perhaps, maybe even a gallery owner - spotted him as he walked inside alone? How would
that
look? A married man of thirty-two using lap-dancers for kicks?

Moving north into residential Hampstead, he noticed red rope cutting off a section of pavement and a chunky, stubbled bouncer breathing clouds of air into thickleather gloves. A blue neon sign hung over the door and two skinny office boys wearing chinos and polo necks had just mustered the courage to go inside.

‘Evening, sir.’

The bouncer was built like a bag of cement. With a single, murderous flick of his eyes he analysed Ben’s shoes, trousers, jacket and tie, and then waved him past the rope. Ben moved towards a small booth inside the door and paid an entrance fee of fifteen pounds. The girl who tookthe money had a copy of
OK
magazine hidden beneath the counter.

‘Just head down the stairs, love,’ she said, music
thumping from below. ‘Somebody’ll take care of you in the lounge.’

Ben was struckby how smart the club appeared; somehow he had been expecting condoms on the floor, lurid pinklights and posters of models wearing plastic swimwear. At the foot of the staircase he was greeted by a middle-aged waiter wearing blacktie and ferocious aftershave. Beyond him, through double doors, he could see girls in next to nothing drifting past the glass.

‘Good evening, sir.’ The waiter had a southern European accent, possibly Greek. ‘I show you to a table?’

‘Actually I’m meeting some people,’ Ben told him.

‘My brother, Mark Keen. One of his colleagues, Thomas Macklin. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them. They’re with some Russians…’

‘Oh yes.’ The waiter seemed to know all about them. ‘The party from Libra,’ he said, leading Ben through the double doors. ‘They haven’t arrived yet. But I can show you to their table. Mr Macklin has made a reservation with us.’

It was like the Savoy all over again, deference and respect if you could pay for it. Two girls, both blonde and staggeringly tall, looked up and caught Ben’s eye as he walked the floor. He smiled back, aware of bikinis and high heels, of other women scoping him from near by. Maybe he should do this more often. The club was comparatively small, a low-ceilinged room no bigger than a decent-sized swimming pool,
decked out with expensive mirrors and dimmed lights.

Ben had been expecting something on the scale of Libra, perhaps three or four floors with room to move, but this was an intimate space, with a seating area of just ten or fifteen tables and a tiny spotlit stage skewered by a chrome pole.

He passed the office boys - already sitting down and drinking beers - and was shown to a long table flush against the far wall. Ben sat at the top end, facing the stage, his backtucked into a corner.

The waiter asked if he wanted a drink.

‘That would be great.’ He was making himself feel more comfortable, shuffling into his seat. ‘I’ll have a vodka and tonic, please. Iceand lemon.’

There were five other men in the club. Aside from the office boys, two thick-set Arabs with heavy moustaches were being entertained by a gaggle of girls at a table near the stage. One of them had his right hand on the neck of a bottle of champagne and his left curled around the narrow waist of a woman whose face Ben could not see. Above them, a blackgirl was dancing in sinuous loops on the stage, one of twenty or thirty lap-dancers dotted throughout the bar. Ben felt exposed, as if he did not belong in such a place. Yet the atmosphere was enticing; it fed into his excitement about the Russians, the sense of being involved in something clandestine and underground. He began looking around for Mark, checking his watch theatrically, and lit a cigarette to give an impression of cool.
Maybe they’ve stood me up
, he thought, though it was still
only ten past ten. Then a song he had hoped never to hear again- Michael Bolton singing ‘How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?’ - began playing on the sound system and a lap-dancer was walking towards him.

She was six foot and blonde, wearing a tight leather dress. Not Ben’s type: plastic and exercised. When she sat down she deliberately let her leg touch his.

‘Hi there, honey.’ An American accent, with breath that smelled of mints. ‘My name’s Raquel. Mind if I join you?’

Ben found himself nodding, but he was looking around the room. He didn’t want to appear rude, but needed to find a way of making the girl go away.

‘This your first time here, honey?’ she asked. Her skin looked tanned under the lights.

‘First time, yes.’

The legs of Ben’s chair caught on a piece of loose carpeting and he was forced to sit at an awkward angle.

‘You’re American,’ he stated obviously.

‘That’s right.’

Everything he could now invent to excuse himself from the conversation sounded like a lie. That he was waiting for friends. That he was happy just sitting alone. That he thought America was a terrific place and really misunderstood by most Europeans. It was like being drunk and trying to persuade someone you were sober. Finally Ben said, ‘I’m waiting for Macklin. For Thomas Macklin.’

And Raquel’s face lit up.

‘Oh, you’re waiting for
Tom
?’

At last.