The Eyes of Lira Kazan (16 page)

Steve beckoned him in, shut the door, and leaving him standing in the hall went off to dig around among his CDs. There were great heaps of them, decades of music, which went well with the rows of empty beer bottles arranged around the kitchen floor. The flat smelt of permanent adolescence, a life completely opposite to Eyvin's banker's existence. Steve came back with two CDs in boxes labelled with British groups Félix had never heard of. He took them,
not asking what was in them. But he certainly knew more than Steve who gently pushed him out of the door.

“I'm sorry, but I don't want you to stay here.”

“I understand. Were you friends for long?”

“We shared rooms for six months at the beginning of university. He called me a month ago, I hadn't heard from him for a year. He blew in, left the discs and went off again. Then he texted me your name and that's all.”

When Steve had heard about his death he had done nothing, moved nothing in his flat. He hadn't sought to understand or to protect himself. “It's a shit world,” was all he said.

There was a sweet smell of limes coming from the flat opposite. The half-open door revealed a neat interior with tablecloths and paper flowers. Félix nodded his agreement; yes, it was a shit world. He suddenly felt like some kind of stain on this landing. He had to go and leave Steve to his electric guitars, and the African family to cook their dinner. He must take Eyvin's CDs with all the secrets and crimes they contained far away from these people's simple lives and just leave them in peace. He said goodbye and set off down the stairs, ignoring the lift, with, in his pocket, the musicless CDs.

 

Back at Mark's, Félix settled down in front of the computer. Six years of bank statements unfurled beneath his eyes. There were dates, debits, credits, strings of noughts like a row of bubbles. Millions, billions of dollars moving around the world. The crazy growth of Grind Bank was re-enacted before his eyes. And now it was foundering in the icy waters of the Faroe Islands. Félix became drunk on the figures. He had never had such a document at his fingertips before. It was a complete confession. All the gaps were filled in. This was the holy grail for any investigator: the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together, dark corners were lit up. He plunged into it, trying to decipher every line, cross-checking them
with the documents he had brought from Nice, the notes taken from Louchsky's house, Linda Stephensen's bank statements. He lost all sense of time. Eyvin had died under torture, without talking, for the sake of these documents. Félix wanted to be worthy of him. There was one thing he was sure of: the men who had killed him were the same as those who had attacked Lira. He must find her.

The judge rang at the appointed time and, as agreed, asked vague questions, to which Félix gave anodyne answers that his superior could decode. They were quite sure they were being listened to. “The flapping ears are at work,” the judge used to say without knowing that one day they would be listening to him. They invented words, images, codes, like schoolboys, without realizing that they had now gone over to the other side – they were now the pursued, not the pursuers. When Félix said the tailor's address he had been given had been brilliant, the judge understood that Eyvin had left behind a bombshell.

“Well, take care not to get soaked. Don't go out without your umbrella.”

Mark came home, dressed as usual with sober elegance. He stroked the back of Félix's neck, talking to him in the way he used to: “You OK, old fellow?” He wanted a drink and went to get one for Félix as well. Félix turned off his computer. Mark knew that he was looking for Lira, but not that his flat was now full of explosive documents. Félix watched him, listened to him cursing and laughing about his day, the delays at the building site and so on. He wanted to let himself be enveloped by the atmosphere of this splendid apartment. Their reunion had gone well the night before and there had been no grand explanations. Love seemed possible once again. But Félix found himself incapable of taking advantage of the situation. He was completely immersed in these figures and obsessed with all these secrets.

“I'll take you to see some Russians this evening. Who knows, she might be there,” Mark said. Félix didn't know if
he was joking or if he had already had enough of hearing about this Lira.

 

An hour later they went into the reception rooms of one of the big hotels on Hyde Park that was frequented by powerful Russians and their entourage of admirers and confidants. All the talk was of country houses, salerooms, smart restaurants and the best schools for their children. Mark felt quite at home. He had only arrived two months earlier but had already adapted himself to the customs and language of the high-earning London expat community – even to the extent of pouring scorn on the fuddy-duddy French. He found a table and ordered two vodkas. Félix only half-listened as he told him about the latest developments on his building site. The drinks came.

“You know what these are called?” said a man at a neighbouring table, pointing at their glasses.

“No.”

“Putins!”

They all laughed. Félix looked around him. There were a few rich Arabs mingling with the Russians, and a fire blazed in the hearth even though it was still mild outdoors, but everything here was done for the sake of the decor. These prosperous men with their designer-clad wives had come to London for business and financial reasons, but also in order to enjoy a romantic splendour that had never been tainted by revolution. Félix watched these caviar immigrants, as they were known; Lira would not have been at home here, he was sure. He imagined her as a quite different type, more like an energetic terrier. Where could she possibly be? Mark, still deep in conversation with the vodka-drinker, nudged him. Félix started listening to them.

“Louchsky's the most secretive and busy of the lot. Everybody is amazed at how fast he's rising,” the friendly neighbour was saying. “Look, over there, that's someone who knows him well, his lawyer – mine too – he's called Jonas Rassmussen.”

The name rang a bell in Félix's mind. He watched the man working the room. He seemed to know everybody. He probably acted for them all. He had a hard face and jaw, and the toned body of somebody who worked up a sweat every day in a top-of-the-range gym. Félix knew he had seen that name, maybe in one of the card indexes, perhaps a payment by Louchsky to his lawyer. Or had he seen it earlier, in one of the dossiers?… Then he remembered: the logbook. The man had been on board the Stephensen yacht, several times. He was approaching them. He came up and greeted the neighbour, his client. Félix pressed his fingers together, signalling to Mark to keep his mouth shut. Rassmussen must have sensed their stares – he looked at them long enough for the neighbour to introduce them, as two visiting Frenchmen.

“Where are you from in France?” Rassmussen asked, in French.

“Nice,” said Mark.

“What an idiot,” Félix thought. Next thing you knew he would be telling them that he worked at the law courts.

However Rassmussen seemed to think they were staying in the hotel, which would certainly exclude them from being mere civil servants, and then his phone vibrated, summoning him back to business. Félix was relieved to see him go. He could still feel the man's penetrating, all-seeing stare – this man who must at this very moment be frantically searching for what Félix had in his possession.

 

University College Hospital
Night Report
7th September

 

 

 

 

Room 24

 

30mg morphine administered at 1.00 a.m. to patient Lira Kazan. She had become delirious in her sleep, agitated, trying to remove her bandages, shouting and confused.

He could still see the same car in his rear-view mirror. And he could feel Baïna still kicking the back of his seat, swinging her short legs, reminding him that he still had children and that school had just finished. He must force himself to listen to all the names of her new school friends, and try to remember them; he must buy such and such a satchel, and a special kind of pencil – she wanted to have the same things as the others… He had to put out of his mind, just for a moment, the thought of Lira lying on her hospital bed refusing to go home to her country, suspicious that her husband was secretly organizing her return, afraid, desperate to carry on with her work. He must forget Helen – she could probably do something for Lira, but she no longer answered his calls.

Baïna was still talking. Nwankwo smiled, agreeing to all her demands. He looked again at the car behind them and then, still in the mirror, at his eight-year-old daughter with her bright and cheerful little face and her African braids, specially done for her first day at school. She hadn't asked him why he was no longer sleeping at home. On the first evening she had just said: “It's because of Uche, isn't it?” Her big brother had just sighed, now as silent as the grown-ups, and the little one hadn't reacted at all. Nwankwo hadn't denied it. He knew that when he arrived at the house he would kiss the children, spend a few moments alone in the kitchen with Ezima – they were neither together nor apart, they were just nowhere – and then leave. He was living with his colleague Julian Bolton. He had asked him to suggest a hotel the day after the interrogation in Helen's office. Bolton had said that he had a spare room with a bathroom, that he was divorced and diabetic and would appreciate the
company and didn't mind the risk. Nwankwo had refused at first and had spent two nights in a hotel; then he relented, bowing to friendship despite the possible danger. He had even thought that perhaps Lira could come and stay there for a while.

He was becoming fed up with this car on his heels – it was beginning to scare him. He saw a service station and turned in. He didn't need petrol but it would be a way of finding out if he were really being followed. The other car carried on past. It had been a false alarm. They set off again ten minutes later, Baïna armed now with a noisy packet of sweets.

They hadn't gone more than a quarter of a mile when Nwankwo recognized the same car, now coming towards them. A man on the back seat was pulling out a gun. Nwankwo swerved onto the verge, off the crowded road; he hooted and accelerated, shouting: “Get down, Baïna! Get onto the floor!”

The first shot shattered the back window. “Baïna!” Nwankwo screamed, but the little girl didn't answer. The second shot hit the bodywork. “Baïna, speak to me! Don't move, just say something!” Nwankwo begged, still driving. If he stopped the others would too, and they would then be shot down like rabbits. Nwankwo had no gun.

“Say something, baby, speak to me!” he shouted, putting his right hand back between the seats. He looked around quickly. Baïna was like a little rigid ball, not moving. He stroked her hair – “Say something, Baïna” – and eventually he heard a few stifled moans. She was alive!

He turned left and drove on, still stroking his daughter, dreading seeing blood on his fingers. When he thought he had gone far enough he drew up. He rushed around to the back, taking Baïna's face between his hands. Her eyes were open, her lips trembling. She had pieces of glass in her curly hair. She had clearly not been hit. He pulled her out and lifted her up, wrapping her legs around him; he put her
head on his shoulder with his large hand over it and went back to sit with her on the driver's seat.

He sat there for several minutes without moving, Baïna huddled against him, saying it was OK for her to cry, that it was normal – she had been scared and so had he and he loved her so much. In the end he was the one who cried, his streaming eyes reflected in the mirror in which he was still looking out for his assassins.

 

US EMBASSY, COPENHAGEN

 

CONFIDENTIAL

 

SECTION 01.081657

 

SEPTEMBER 10

 

SUBJECT: FAILURE OF GRIND BANK. MEETING BETWEEN AMBASSADOR AND SUNLEIF STEPHENSEN.

 

MEETING BETWEEN AMBASSADOR, COMMERCIAL ATTACHÉ AND BANKER SUNLEIF STEPHENSEN, RECENTLY DECLARED BANKRUPT. HE WAS ASKED TO CLARIFY HIS CONNECTION WITH SERGEI LOUCHSKY. HE WAS UNWILLING TO SPEAK BUT DID NOT DENY ANYTHING WHEN IT WAS SUGGESTED THAT GRIND BANK HAD BEEN USED TO LAUNDER RUSSIAN MONEY. HE CLAIMED NOT TO HAVE ORIGINALLY UNDERSTOOD THE FRAUDULENT NATURE OF CERTAIN TRANSACTIONS.

 

STEPHENSEN IS A ROUGH TYPE, SHARP BUT EXTREMELY IMPRESSIONABLE. HE IS NOT A MARKET SPECIALIST AND HE DOES NOT SPEAK LIKE A TYPICAL BANKER. HE SAYS THAT HE FEARS FOR HIS LIFE. HIS WIFE DIED IN SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES IN FRANCE. THE BODY OF HIS PERSONAL ASSISTANT HAS BEEN FOUND, BADLY MUTILATED, A SHORT DISTANCE OUTSIDE LONDON. ACCORDING TO THE DANISH PRESS ALL THE BANK'S RECORDS WERE DESTROYED JUST BEFORE THE RECEIVERS WERE CALLED IN. ONLY A CONFESSION AND DETAILED EXPLANATIONS FROM SUNLEIF STEPHENSEN CAN BACK UP OUR SUSPICIONS AND JUSTIFY A REVOCATION OF SERGEI LOUCHSKY' S US VISA.

 

AS AGREED WE HAVE OFFERED HIM PROTECTION IN EXCHANGE FOR INFORMATION. HE SAID THAT HE NEEDED TO THINK ABOUT IT BUT HE SEEMED INTERESTED IN THE IDEA. HE AGREED TO MEET AGAIN HERE IN A FEW DAYS' TIME.

It seemed to all of them that Ima hadn't stopped crying once since they had left Lagos, climbing down that ladder at the port. It wasn't true – she was crying today, yes, but that was all right, she was crying because she had to leave her doll's house behind. She hadn't cried about all the other things; she had wanted to, but she hadn't dared to; she had learnt to stop herself. She hadn't cried about the cupboards hastily emptied out, the comings and goings, Ezima swearing that she wouldn't remain a second longer, screaming that they had almost killed her daughter, Tadjou the big brother trying to be the man of the family, Baïna lying on the sofa repeating that there was nothing wrong, she hadn't been that frightened, she didn't want to leave her father. And her father, who had become the onlooker to his family's fate, the cause of it even, was there too, clumsily helping them with their departure. No she hadn't cried about all that. She had wanted to, but she had learnt not to.