The Spanish Game (14 page)

Mark appeared to be staring at the paintworkof the restaurant, as if the sweeping waves of orange were making him feel nauseous and confused.

‘You really think that’s true?’ he said. ‘You really think that’s what happened?’

Taploe knew that he could play on his rage, on his adulation for Keen. He wanted Mark to feel disgust, then the tremor of excitement at his first glimpse into a clandestine world, the thrill of the son initiated into his father’s secret trade. Above all, Taploe had to lead him to a point where refusal would cease to be an option.

‘Mr Keen,’ he said and, for a moment, thought about reaching across and touching Mark’s shoulder, just for added effect. ‘I can understand that it must be very hard for you to hear these things about people you have worked alongside for so long, about people you undoubtedly trust. These men are friends of yours, after all. But the reality is that you are most probably working for a company which is laundering money for the Russian mafia.’

Mark again shookhis head. ‘How does that work?’ he said. ‘How does that work? I hardly know anything about the Kukushkins. What the fuck are they doing in London anyway?’

Taploe sniffed.

‘Well, you see, that’s what I need your help in finding out.’

‘
My
help?’

‘Yes.’ Taploe looked over Mark’s shoulder as the two teenage girls stood up and walked out of the restaurant. One of them dropped a generous tip, a note, on to the table. ‘We need somebody on the inside, somebody close to Roth and Macklin who can find out what’s going on. You have access to confidential papers, to computer software, travel arrangements, tax returns, everything we require to build a watertight legal case. I need as much of that as I can get my hands on and I need it quickly. Now, can you help me?’

Taploe made it sound like a personal crusade. When he had pitched Mark’s father, the circumstances had been very different. The guilt, his loyalty to the old firm. But Mark would be lured by a sense of right and wrong. Taploe was convinced now that the target could not reasonably refuse.

‘I know it’s a lot to ask,’ he said, risking understatement, ‘but I’m sure you’re just as anxious as I am to bring these men to…’

Mark was holding up his hand.

‘No, it’s not that,’ he said.

‘What then? We can pay you, of course. If that’s a problem.’

This was a mistake. Mark looked disgusted.

‘
Pay
me?’ he said, and Taploe saw that he had moved too quickly. Panic engulfed him and he felt his thighs tighten under the table. ‘I don’t want your money. If I help you, I’ll do it because of my father. I don’t want to be paid for trying to find out who killed him.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Fine.’ He tried to smile. ‘But nevertheless the idea interests you…?’

Mark looked down at his food, now lukewarm and congealed. A hard seal of oil had formed on the mince, on the shreds of tired, moisture-seeping lettuce gradually collapsing into rice. It was a dreadful silence.

‘Yes, it interests me,’ Mark said finally, and Taploe felt a surge of relief. ‘But we’ll need to talkmore. To clear up how I go about it. I can’t just start snooping around the offices without knowing what I’m looking for, without knowing what to do.’

It was music to his ears. Mark was complying on instinct, allowing his anger to make a judgment for him, conscious only of his rage at Macklin and Roth, and ashamed at how easily they had duped him.

‘Who else knows about this?’ he asked.

‘Nobody,’ Taploe replied, hardly aware of the question. ‘You’re the only person, Mark, the only person. And it has to stay that way. You understand that you can talkto nobody about this? Not even to Ben?’

‘Yes,’ Mark replied impatiently. ‘Yes, I understand that.’

‘Then good. So perhaps before we go any further I can lay down some ground rules.’

26

One of the happier corollaries of a stubborn nature is that it makes tough decisions easier to stick to. Ben woke after his first decent night’s sleep in weeks and concluded that enough was enough. For too long he had been adrift in the consternation of grief: it was time to get his life back on track. He would call Mark, fix to meet him for a drink, apologize for what had been said at the flat in Paddington - and accept his offer of a share in Keen’s will. The money would do him good. Twenty grand to spend on organizing the exhibition, on taking Alice away on holiday, buying himself a new suit and maybe fixing up the car. What was the point in taking a stand against a dead man? Nobody respected him for it. Better to embrace the future, as Mark had suggested. Better to concentrate on his work, on his marriage, and to put the past behind him.

To that end, Ben left the house at eight thirty and drove through rush-hour traffic to CorkStreet, where there were three or four galleries that had expressed an interest in showing his paintings. He was not used to making such an early start. While his friends would wake up at six or seven and make their way on slow, packed trains to offices spread out across London, the rhythm of Ben’s mornings was quite different. He would set the alarm for eight - later, if he had been out the night before - and then snooze until nine or sometimes ten. Alice would be long gone by then, to the gym and on to the
Standard
or a meeting in town. He would make coffee, run a bath, amble out to buy a paper or croissant, and only think about going up to his studio as the morning was drawing to a close. That still left time, after all, to put in a seven- or eight-hour day, and anyway, he felt at his most creative in the afternoons and early evenings. This was the routine that best suited his temperament and it had served him well for years.

Today, however, was different. Today felt like a new dawn. It was as if a bubble had burst inside his life, the liberation he had spoken of to Mark. Heading east, Ben stared at the drivers of other cars as if for the first time: cabbies pontificating into their rear-view mirrors; electricians in rusty vans with tabloids furled on the dashboard; salesmen pale as clouds turning tuning dials on radios. Ben had the odd sensation that he was seeing the world with fresh eyes, and weighing up his place in it. The feeling of being completely alone, orphaned in a literal sense, was at once very acute and yet not in itself alarming.

Making a left turn into Mayfair, he spotted Roth. Ben’s eyes just settled on him, coming to a halt at the lights. He was eating breakfast in the window of a branch of Starbucks, a cup of coffee in his hand. Even at a distance of fifty feet, success emanated from him like a suntan. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and eating what looked like a pain au chocolat. A silk tie was slung up over his shoulder, doubtless to protect it from stains, and he was not alone. At the stool beside him sat a woman whom Ben thought he recognized. A slim, late-thirties blonde, not quite attractive, yet professional and striking. Where had he seen her before? The lights were changing and he thought about pulling the car to the side of the road to get a better look, but a bus was tight on his tail and Ben was forced away in the traffic. It was starting to annoy him. They had not looked like lovers: on reputation she was too old for Roth, who preferred younger women, models and dancers from the clubs. She had a briefcase at her feet and appeared to be writing things down. Where had he met her? Where had he seen her before?

He was already on Cork Street by the time he remembered. McCreery’s house. The wake. Coming inside from the rain, and a woman passing them in the hall.

‘Well, that was nice,’ Alice had said. ‘What a fucking cow.’

‘Keep your voice down.’

‘I don’t believe it. I just met that woman five minutes ago and she blanks me, the death stare from hell.’

‘Who, the blonde?’

‘The blonde. Some cow from the Ministry of Defence. Dulong, I think her name was, Elizabeth or Lisa. Friend of Roth’s.’

Alice had been quite upset about it, needled and annoyed. On the way home she had mentioned Dulong two or three times, calling her a bitch and making jokes about her clothes. Only then, by comparison, did it occur to Ben how little Alice had talked about her conversation with Roth. He would ask her about it when she returned home.

27

Act as though nothing has changed. Do your job as if it were just another ordinary day. Make telephone calls to DJs, suppliers, bar staff, journalists, whomever you would normally talk to just to keep Libra up and running. Long-standing appointments? Keep them. A lunch with Macklin or Roth? Do not back out of it. You need to pick their brains and still make out that you’re their best friend in the world. Don’t overplay anything, Mark. Try to remain relaxed at all times. If you start to act suspiciously they will soon become suspicious of you. You have to make sure that when they go home at night the last thing they’re worrying about is Mark’s loyalty to the firm. If you need to contact me, use the informant codeword ‘Blindside’. Do not send emails from the office or make calls from your desk. Go to a public telephone or internet cafe and I can be with you in twenty minutes. My experience tells me that you will get opportunities when their backs are turned. Act on what we’ve taught you in the last two weeks and it will all be wrapped up in no time.

Randall’s advice rang in Mark’s ears, and yet he took to the task with an ease that could only have been bequeathed by his father. A genetic facility for the double life; an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances concealing his true purpose from the world.

A week after the first meeting in Queensway, Mark had set to work. His first destination was the club’s main site in Kennington, where Roth kept unlocked offices containing papers, financial records and computer data that MI5 had never seen.

It was mid-morning, the time of day Mark most enjoyed visiting the club, when he could be alone in the vast, cavernous rooms with only a few cleaners for company. The floors were still sticky with drink and sweat from the weekend and Mark’s shoes squelched as he made his way across the lower level to a private staircase at the western end of the building. Through a security door, then up to level two, past the main bar and into a suite of dingy offices that reeked of stale air and sweat. He looked into all three rooms to check that he was alone, then fired up the closed-circuit televisions at the end of the corridor to warn him of any approaching employees. Having made photocopies of up to fifty documents in Roth’s filing cabinet, Mark turned his attention to his desk. The central drawer was locked, but he knew that he kept a key in a CD case behind the door. Sure enough, there it was, and he began searching through the debris of flyers, demo tapes and foreign currencies littering the interior. The contents were like historical artefacts, decade-old junk and trash from Libra’s earliest days. This was pure nostalgia, a glimpse into their vanished past, a time before the suit and tie and the Ibiza spin-off, when all that mattered was
Time Out’s
good opinion and three hundred punters on the door.

Then, right at the back, beneath a rave flyer from 1992, Mark found two floppy disks. They were unmarked and covered in fluff and dust, but he copied them on to his laptop with the certain conviction that he had uncovered something valuable. Weren’t disks, after all, the holy grails of espionage? Then, having replaced the key behind the door, he left the office. The entire visit had lasted just over two hours. He had moved through the building as if it were just another ordinary day, his role changed without visible effect from servant to spy.

Two days later, with Macklin in the Czech Republic and Roth skiing in Courcheval, Mark worked late at Soho headquarters and spent five hours going through the contents of their offices. He had doubts about this which he had kept to himself: namely, that any incriminating evidence would almost certainly have been secured in the basement safe, access to which was restricted solely to Macklin and Roth. Nevertheless, he followed the procedure mapped out by Randall. Again, filing cabinets and deskdrawers, and a thorough search of both rooms for compartments or concealed spaces.

Look behind pictures
, Randall had told him,
below carpets and underneath chairs. There may be documents hidden there, sequences of numbers or letters which we can make sense of in the context of other intelligence. Search for evidence of private financial accounts, correspondence from unusual sources, particularly the Cayman Islands, Jersey and Isle of Man, Turks and Caicos and other offshore territories. Make copies of bank statements, insurance records, anything and everything not immediately recognizable as Libra’s characteristic business. It’s possible Kukushkin are using Libra as a front for buying assets vital in regard to the facilitation of money laundering. Check Macklin’s records in particular. In the first instance, the legal end of transactions of this kind would almost certainly originate with him.

Finally, at 1 a.m., Mark switched on the computers in both offices and trawled them for information. It quickly became apparent that this was a hopeless task, too vast for one man alone at night with no idea of what he was looking for. Thousands of emails and documents relating to every aspect of Libra’s business: it would take a team of a dozen experts hundreds of hours to analyse them. Instead, acting on a separate request from Randall, Mark made hard copies of Roth’s and Macklin’s appointments diaries and placed them in a sports hold all now three-quarters full with documents.

It was almost 2.30 by the time he left the building, punching in a four-digit code to activate the security alarm. Shouldering the hold all he walked north and flagged down a taxi in Soho Square. Giving the address of his flat in Kentish Town, Mark zipped open the bag and glanced through Roth’s appointments: dinner with EMI in ten days’ time; two meetings scheduled for the end of the week with American representatives of a major Los Angeles record label; a haircut the day before that. Nothing unusual, in other words. Nothing encoded or obscure. Just another fortnight in the life of Sebastian Roth.

But then he saw it, two days back, an appointment that had been scheduled just hours before Roth was due to leave for the Alps. In his neat, looping script was written:
Lunch 1 p.m. - Alice K
.