Finding a seat opposite a branch of Body Shop, he looked up and checked the flickering arrivals screen for perhaps the ninth or tenth time. The BA flight from Moscow was still delayed by an hour and a half no extension, thank Christ, but still another twenty-five minutes out of London. Fucking Moscow air traffic control. Every time they put him on Libra it was the same old story: ice on the runway at Sheremetjevo and the locals too pissed to fix it. He rang Graham outside in the car, told him the bad news, and settled back in his chair with a collapsing sigh. A family of Africans in some kind of traditional dress walked past him weeping, two of them pressing handkerchiefs to their eyes as they pushed trolleys piled six feet high with luggage and bags. Ian couldnt tell if they were happy or sad. He lit a cigarette and opened the Standard.
Finding a seat opposite a branch of Body Shop, he looked up and checked the flickering arrivals screen for perhaps the ninth or tenth time. The BA flight from Moscow was still delayed by an hour and a half no extension, thank Christ, but still another twenty-five minutes out of London. Fucking Moscow air traffic control. Every time they put him on Libra it was the same old story: ice on the runway at Sheremetjevo and the locals too pissed to fix it. He rang Graham outside in the car, told him the bad news, and settled back in his chair with a collapsing sigh. A family of Africans in some kind of traditional dress walked past him weeping, two of them pressing handkerchiefs to their eyes as they pushed trolleys piled six feet high with luggage and bags. Ian couldnt tell if they were happy or sad. He lit a cigarette and opened the Standard.
4
Christopher Keen had taken the call personally in his private office. It was a routine enquiry, of the sort he handled every day, from a businessman calling himself Bob Randall with a minor difficulty in the former Soviet Union.
Ive been informed, Randall explained, that Russia is your area of expertise.
Keen did not askwho had recommended him for the job. That was simply the way the business worked: by reputation, by word of mouth. Neither did he enquire about the nature of the problem. That was simply common sense when speaking on an open line. Instead, he said, Yes. I worked in the eastern bloc for many years.
Good. Randalls voice was nasal and bureau-cratically flat. He suggested a meeting in forty-eight hours at a location on the Shepherds Bush Road.
Its a Cafe Rouge, in the French-style. On the corner of Batoum Gardens. Randall spelt out Batoum very slowly, saying B for Bertie and A for Apple in a way that tested Keens patience. There are tables there which cant be seen from the street. Were not likely to be spotted. Would that be suitable for you, or do you have a specific procedure that you like to follow?
Keen made a note of the date in his desk diary and smiled: first-time buyers were often like this, jumpy and prone to melodrama, wanting codewords and gadgets and chalkmarks on walls.
There is no specific procedure, he said. I can find the cafe.
Good. But how will I recognize you?
As he asked the question Bob Randall was sitting in Thames House staring at a JPEG of Keen taken in western Afghanistan in 1983, but it was necessary cover.
Im tall, Keen said, switching the phone to his other ear. Ill be wearing a darkblue suit, most probably. My experience is that in circumstances such as these two people who have never met before very quickly come to recognize one another. Call it one of the riddles of the trade.
Of course, Randall replied. Of course. And when shall we say? Perhaps six oclock?
Fine, Keen said. He was already hanging up. Six oclock.
Two days later, the businessman calling himself Bob Randall arrived at the cafe on Shepherds Bush Road half an hour early and picked out a secluded table, his backfacing the busy street. At 17.55 he tooka call from Ian Boyle, informing him in a jumble of code and double-speakthat the BA flight from Moscow had eventually landed some ninety-five minutes late. The subject had used a public telephone box not a mobile after clearing passport control, and was now picking up his luggage in the hall. The call had been made to a west London number that was already being traced.
Understood, he told him. And was there any sign of Duchev?
Nothing.
Well keep on it, please. And brief Paul Quinn. Im going to be walking the dog for the next two hours. Contact me again at eight.
And at that moment he saw Christopher Keen coming into the cafe, indeed wearing a darkblue suit, a striking man possessed of a languid self-confidence. Demonstrably public school, he thought, and felt the old prejudice kick in like a habit. The photograph at Thames House had not done justice to Keens well-preserved good looks, nor to his travelled, evidently disdainful manner. The two men made eye contact and Randall gave a thin smile, his moustache lifting slightly to reveal stained yellow teeth.
Keen sensed immediately that there was something unconvincing about his prospective client. The suit was off the peg, and the shirt, bought as white but now greyed by repeated launderings, looked cheap and untailored. This was not a businessman with minor difficulties in the former Soviet Union, far less someone who could afford to employ the services of Divisar Corporate Intelligence.
Mr Randall, he said, with a handshake that deliberately crushed his knuckles. Keen looked quickly at the ground and registered his shoes. Grey-possibly fake-patent leather, tasselled and scuffed. Further evidence. How can I help?
Im very pleased to meet you. Randall was trying to release his hand. Let me start by getting you a drink.
That would be very kind, thank you.
Did you find the cafe OK?
Easily.
Keen placed a black Psion Organiser and a mobile telephone on the table in front of him and sat down. Freeing the trapped vents of his suit jacket, he looked out of the window and tried to ascertain if he was being watched. It was an instinct, no more than that, but something was out of place. A crowd of office workers had gathered at a table on the other side of the window and an elderly man with a limp was walking into the cafe alone. The traffic heading north towards Shepherds Bush Green had been slowed by a van double-parked outside a mini-supermarket. Its rear doors were flung open and two young Asian men were unloading boxes from the back.
Its part of a chain, I believe, Randall said.
Whats that?
The cafe. Part of a chain..
I know.
A waitress came and tooktheir order for two beers. Keen wondered if he would have to stay long.
So, I very much appreciate your meeting me at such short notice. The businessman had a laboured, slightly self-satisfied way of strangling words, an accent located somewhere near Bracknell. Had you far to come?
Not at all. I had a meeting in Chelsea. Caught a fast black.
Randalls eyes dropped out of character, as if Keen had made a racist remark. Excuse me?
A fast black, he explained. A taxi.
Oh. In the uneasy silence that followed the waitress returned and poured lager into his glass.
So, how long have you worked in your particular field?
About seven or eight years.
And in Russia before that?
Among other places, yes. Keen thanked the waitress with a patrician smile and picked up his glass. I take it youve been there?
Not exactly, no.
And yet you told me on the telephone that you have a problem in the former Soviet Union. Tell me, Mr Randall, what is it that you think I can do for you?
Leaning back in his seat, Randall nodded and swallowed a mouthful of lager. He blinked repeatedly and a small amount of foam evaporated into his moustache. After a momentary pause he said, Forgive me. It was necessary to employ a little subterfuge to prevent your employers becoming suspicious. My name is not Bob Randall, as perhaps you may have guessed. It is Stephen Taploe. I workacross the river from your former Friends.
Keen folded his arms and muttered, You dont say, as Taploe pushed his tongue into the side of his cheek, his feet moving involuntarily under the table. And you thinkthat I can help you with something
Well, its a good deal more complicated than that, he said. To come straight to the point, Mr Keen, this has become something of a family matter.
5
Its possible, Jenny, that one day youll walkinto a public art gallery and lookat nothing at all. A total absence. Something with no texture, no shape, no solidity. No materials will have been used up in its construction, not even light or sound. Just a room full of nothing. That will be the exhibit, the gimmick, the thing youre encouraged to look at and talk about over cranberry juice at Soho House. Emptiness. Actually the opposite of art.
Jenny was glad that Ben wasnt talking about his father any more. She preferred it when his mood was less anxious and abrasive. It was another side to him, more relaxed and quick-witted; she wondered if it was even flirtatious. But Ben looked like the faithful type: he was only thirty-two, after all, and there were pictures of his wife all over the studio walls, nudes and portraits of a quality that had persuaded her to sit for him in the first place.
Have you lived here long? she asked, and began gathering up her clothes. Ben was cleaning his brushes at the sink, wrapping the bristles in a rubber band and covering any exposed paint with small wraps of cling film.
Since we got engaged, he said. About three years.
Its such a great house. Jennys stomach flattened out as she stretched into a thick woollen polo neck, her head disappearing in the struggle to find sleeves.
Alices father bought it cheap in the late seventies. Thought it would make a good investment.
The head popped out, like somebody breaking free of a straitjacket.
Well he thought right, she said, shaking out her hair. And its useful for you to be able to work from home.
It is, Ben said. It is. Its a great space. Im very lucky.
A lot of artists have to rent studios.
I know that.
She was oblivious to it, but talking about the house always made Ben feel edgy. Three storeys of prime Notting Hill real estate and not a brick of it his. When Carolyn, his mother, had died seven years before, she had left her two sons a few hundred pounds and a small flat in Clapham that they rented out to unreliable tenants. Alices father, by contrast, was wealthy: on top of her basic salary as a journalist she had access to a substantial trust, and the house was bought in her name.