The question was evidently rhetorical, for he rolled on.
‘Or could it be, Hector, that you are trespassing, at your peril, on the highly sensitive preserves of a sister organization with which, over painful months, I and my Secretariat have thrashed out very hard-won lines of demarcation? Because were that to be the case, my advice to you would be this: package up that material you have just played to me, and any other material of the same ilk that is in your possession and, with immediate effect, pass that material to our sister organization with a grovelling letter of apology for trespassing on its sanctified areas of competence. And when you have done that, I suggest you award yourself, and Luke here, and whoever else you’ve got tucked away in your cupboard, two weeks of well-deserved sick leave.’ Had Hector’s fabled nerve finally run out? Luke wondered anxiously. Had the strain of bringing Gail and Perry to the water taken too much of a toll? Or was he so driven by the high purpose of his mission that he had lost his grasp on tactic?
Lethargically reaching out a finger, Hector shook his head and sighed, and fast-forwarded the tape.
*
Dima calm. Dima reading, whether Billy Boy likes it or not. Dima powerful and dignified, orating from script in his best ceremonial Russian:
‘
Example
. Details of very secret pact in Sochi 2000 between seven bonding
vory
Brotherhoods, signed by the Seven Brothers and called The Understanding. Under this pact, personally brokered by usurper bitch Prince with arm’s-length connivance of Kremlin, all seven signatories agree:
‘
One
: to avail themselves and make communal all proven and successful money routes designed by the one they call Dima, henceforth number-one money-launderer for all seven Brotherhoods.
‘
Two
: all communal bank accounts will be conducted under
vory
code of honour, any deviation will be punished by death of guilty party, accompanied by permanent exclusion of responsible
vory
Brotherhood.
‘
Three
: corporate respectability will be created in following six financial capitals: Toronto, Paris, Rome, Berne, Nicosia,
London
. End destination of all laundered monies:
London
. Best centre of respectability:
London
. Best outlook for long-term banking entity:
London
. Best prospect to save and conserve:
London
. This is also agreed.
‘
Four
: the task of obscuring origins of black money and directing its passage into safe havens will continue to remain the primary and sole responsibility of
the one they call Dima
.
‘
Five
: for all major movements of money, this Dima will have first-signature rights. Each signatory to The Understanding will appoint one clean envoy. This clean envoy will have second-signature signing rights only.
‘
Six
: to effect substantive alteration to above system, all seven clean envoys will be simultaneously required to be present under
vory
law.
‘
Seven
: the pre-eminence of the one they call Dima as master architect of all money-laundering structures agreed under The Understanding of Sochi 2000 is hereby acknowledged.’
‘And amen, as we might say,’ Hector murmurs, and once more switches off the recorder and glances at Matlock for a reaction.
Luke does too, to be greeted, of all things, by Matlock’s indulgent smile.
‘D’you know, Hector, I think I could have made that up myself,’ he says, shaking his head in what must pass for admiration. ‘Beautiful is all I can say. Fluent, imaginative, and puts him right at the top of the heap. How can anyone possibly question the veracity of such a magnificent global statement? I’d give him an Oscar for a start. What does he mean by
clean envoy
?’
‘Clean like cleanskin, Billy. No previous convictions, criminal or ethical. Accountants, lawyers, moonlighting policemen and Intelligence officers, any made brother who can travel, sign his name, owes his allegiance to his Brotherhood and knows he’ll wake up with his balls in his mouth if he robs the till.’
*
Appearing to Luke more like a careworn family solicitor than his irrepressible self, Hector consults a bit of battered card on which he had apparently scribbled himself a march route for the meeting, and again fast-forwards the tape.
‘
Map
,’ Dima barks in Russian.
‘Bugger it. Too late,’ Hector mutters, and runs back a stretch.
‘Also conditional upon reliable British guarantees, will be very secret, very important
map
.’
Dima resumes, reading rapidly, as before, from script in Russian:
‘In this
map
will be recorded international routes of all black monies under control of the one they are calling
Dima
who is speaking to you.’
At Matlock’s bidding, Hector yet again pauses the tape.
‘What he’s talking about here isn’t a map, it’s a
link chart
,’ Matlock complains, in the tone of a man correcting Dima’s inadequate vocabulary. ‘And I’ll just say this regarding
link charts
, if you’ll bear with me. I’ve seen a few
link charts
in my time. They tend to resemble multicoloured rolls of barbed wire leading in no direction known to
man, in my experience.
Useless
, in other words, in my judgement,’ he adds with satisfaction. ‘I put them in much the same category as pronouncements regarding mythical criminal conferences on the Black Sea in the year 2000.’
You should see Yvonne’s link chart, it’s absolutely wild
, Luke wants to tell him in a fit of miserable hilarity.
Matlock on a winning streak does not lightly let go. He is shaking his head and smiling ruefully:
‘You know something, Hector? If I had a five-pound note for every piece of pedlar material from untried sources that our Service has fallen for over the years – not all in my time, I’m glad to say – I’d be a rich man. Link charts, Bilderberg plots, world conspiracies, and that old green shed in Siberia that’s full of rusty hydrogen bombs, they’re all one to me. Not rich by the standards of their ingenious fabricators, maybe, or your standards either. But for the likes of me, very comfortably off indeed, thank you.’
Why the hell doesn’t Hector cut Bully Boy down to size?
But Hector appears to have no stomach left for retaliation. Worse still, to Luke’s despair, he doesn’t bother to play the last section of Dima’s historic offer. He switches off the tape recorder, as if to say ‘tried that one, didn’t work’, and with a chagrined smile and a rueful ‘Well, maybe you’ll be better off with some pictures to look at, Billy’, takes up the remote control for the plasma screen and switches off the light.
*
In the gloom, an amateur video camera shakily roams the battlements of a medieval fort, then descends to the sea wall of an ancient harbour crowded with expensive sailing boats. It is dusk, the camera is of poor quality, unequal to the failing light. A ninety-foot luxury yacht in blue and gold lies at anchor outside the harbour walls. It is dressed overall with fairy lights, its portholes are lit. Distant dance music reaches us from across the water. Perhaps someone is celebrating a birthday or a wedding? From its stern hang the flags of Switzerland, Britain and Russia. At its masthead, a golden wolf bestrides a crimson field.
The camera closes on the bow. The ship’s name, inscribed in fancy Roman and Cyrillic gold lettering, is
Princess Tatiana
.
Hector is providing a flat, dispassionate commentary:
‘Property of a newly formed company called First Arena Credit Bank of Toronto, registered in Cyprus, owned by a foundation in Liechtenstein which is owned by a company registered in Cyprus,’ he announces drily. ‘So a circular ownership. Give it to a company, then get it back from the company. Until recently she was called the
Princess Anastasia
, which happens to be the name of the Prince’s previous squeeze. His new squeeze is called Tatiana, so we may draw our conclusions. The Prince being presently confined to Russia for his health, the SS
Princess Tatiana
is out on charter to an international consortium called, funnily enough, First Arena Credit International, a different entity entirely, registered, you’ll be surprised to hear, in Cyprus.’
‘What’s wrong with him then?’ Matlock asks aggressively.
‘Who?’
‘The Prince. I don’t think I’m being stupid, am I? Why’s he confined to Russia?’
‘He’s waiting for the Americans to drop some thoroughly unreasonable money-laundering charges they levelled against him a few years back. The good news is, he won’t have to wait long. Thanks to a spot of lobbying in Washington’s halls of greatness, it will shortly be agreed that he has no case to answer. Always helpful when you know where influential Americans keep their illegal offshore bank accounts.’
The camera leaps to the stern. Russian-style crew in striped shirts and matelot hats. A helicopter about to land. Camera returns aft, descends uncertainly to sea level as the picture darkens. A speed-launch pulls alongside, passengers aboard. Busy crew in attendance as passengers in their finery cautiously ascend ship’s ladder.
Go back to stern. The helicopter has landed but its blades still slowly rotate. Fine lady in billowing skirt descends red-carpeted steps, clutching hat. Followed by second fine lady, then a bevy of fine men in blazers and white ducks, six in all. Fuzzy exchange of hugs. Faint shrieks of greeting over dance music.
Cut back to second speed-launch pulling alongside, delivering pretty girls. Skin-tight jeans, fluttery skirts, many bare legs and shoulders as they ascend ladder. A brace of fuzzy trumpeters in Cossack uniform sound halloos of welcome as pretty girls come aboard.
Pan awkwardly on guests assembled on main deck. There are so far eighteen. Luke and Yvonne have counted them.
Film freezes and becomes a series of clumsily advancing close-ups, much enhanced by Ollie. Caption reads SMALL ADRIATIC PORT NEAR DUBROVNIK June 21 2008. It is the first of many captions and subtitles that Yvonne, Luke and Ollie in committee have superimposed as an accompaniment to Hector’s spoken commentary.
The silence in the basement is palpable. It’s as if everyone in the room including Hector has drawn in his breath at the same time. Perhaps they have. Even Matlock is leaning forward in his chair, staring fixedly at the plasma screen before him.
*
Two well-preserved, expensively tailored men of affairs are in conversation. Behind them, the bare neck and shoulders of a middle-aged woman with lacquered white bouffant. She has her back turned to us and wears a four-row diamond collar and matching pendant earrings, the cost anyone’s guess. At left of screen, an embroidered cuff and white-gloved hand of a Cossack waiter is offering a silver tray laden with glasses of champagne.
Close on the two men of affairs. One wears a white dinner jacket. He is black-haired, heavy-jawed and of Latin appearance. The other wears a very English double-breasted navy blue blazer with brass buttons or, as the British upper echelons prefer to have it – Luke should know, they’re where he comes from himself – a boating jacket. By comparison with his partner, this second man is young. He is also handsome in the way that young men of the eighteenth century were handsome in the portraits they donated to Luke’s old school when they left it: broad brow, receding hairline, the haughty sub-Byronic gaze of sensual entitlement, a pretty pout, and a posture that manages to look down on you however tall you are.
Hector has still not spoken. The committee’s decision was to let the subtitles say what anyone would know from half a glance: that the double-breasted boating jacket with brass buttons belongs to a leading member of Her Majesty’s Opposition, a Shadow Minister tipped for stratospheric office at the next election.
It is Hector, to Luke’s relief, who ends the awkward silence.
‘His remit, according to the Party handout, will be
to put British trade into point position in the international financial marketplace
, if anyone can tell me what that means,’ he remarks caustically, with a slight resurgence of his old energy. ‘Plus of course putting an end to banking excesses. But they’re all going to do that, aren’t they? One day.’
Matlock has found his tongue:
‘You can’t have
business
without making friendships, Hector,’ he protests. ‘That’s not how the world works, as you of all people should know, having dirtied your hands out there. You can’t
condemn
a man just for being on someone’s boat!’
But neither Hector’s tone nor Matlock’s implausible indignation can ease the tension. And it is no consolation at all that, according to Yvonne’s subtitle, the white dinner jacket belongs to a tainted French marquis and corporate raider with strong ties to Russia.
*
‘Anyway. Where did you get this lot from?’ Matlock suddenly demanded, after a spell of silent brooding.
‘What lot?’
‘The film. Amateur video. Whatever it is. Where d’you get it?’
‘Found it under a stone, Billy. Where else?’
‘Who did?’
‘A friend of mine. Or two.’