But its a start, right? she said. Its something to be getting on with.
Where did all this stuff come from? he asked.
The sheer volume of material in the basement suggested that Katya Levette had either been extremely well connected in the intelligence firmament or an inveterate hoarder of useless, second-hand information. Gaddis had Googled her, but most of the articles available under her name were either book reviews or hagiographic profiles of middle-ranking business figures in the UK and United States. At no point had she been a staff writer on any recognized publication.
But its a start, right? she said. Its something to be getting on with.
Where did all this stuff come from? he asked.
The sheer volume of material in the basement suggested that Katya Levette had either been extremely well connected in the intelligence firmament or an inveterate hoarder of useless, second-hand information. Gaddis had Googled her, but most of the articles available under her name were either book reviews or hagiographic profiles of middle-ranking business figures in the UK and United States. At no point had she been a staff writer on any recognized publication.
Mum was friendly with a lot of Russian ex-pats in London, Holly explained. Oligarchs, ex-KGB. You probably know most of them.
Not socially.
And she had a boyfriend once upon a time. Someone in MI6. I think a lot of the stuff may have come from him.
You mean he leaked it?
Holly nodded and looked away. She was concealing something, but Gaddis did not feel that he knew her well enough to push for more information. There had already been hints of a fraught relationship between mother and daughter; the truth would come out in good time.
He had driven home and put the boxes fifteen of them on the floor of Mins bedroom, making a silent promise to get to them within a few days. And he would have called Holly again almost immediately had it not been for the grim surprise of Mondays post.
There were two letters.
The first came in an ominous brown envelope marked HM
REVENUE & CUSTOMS / PRIVATE and was a demand for late payment of tax. A demand for?21,248, to be exact, which was about?21,248 more than Gaddis had in the bank. Failure to pay the sum in full by mid-October, the letter stated, would result in legal action. In the meantime, interest on the debt was accumulating at a rate of 6.5 per cent.
The second letter bore the unmistakable handwriting of his ex-wife, complete with a Spanish postmark and a stain in the left-hand corner which he put down to a wayward cup of cafe con leche.
The letter was typed. Dear Sam Im sorry to have to write like this, rather than phone, but Sergio and Nick have advised me that its best to do these things on a formal basis.
Sergio was the lawyer. Nick was the Barcelona-based boyfriend. Gaddis wasnt exactly enthusiastic about either of them. The situation is that N and I are desperately short of money because of the restaurant and I need more help with the school fees. I know youve already been more than generous, but I cant meet my half of the payments for this term or the next. Is there any possible way you could help? Min loves the school and is already incredibly good at Catalan and Spanish. The last thing either of us wants is to take her out and separate her from all the friends shes made. The other school is miles away and awful, for all sorts of reasons that are too depressing to go into. (Ive heard reports of bullying, of racism against an Indian child, even an accident in the playground that was covered up by staff.) You get the picture. Will you write and let me know what you think? Im sorry to have to ask you to help with this because we always agreed to go fifty/fifty. But I dont see that I have any choice. The figure were talking about is in the region of 5000. When the restaurant starts turning a profit, I promise to pay you back. I hope everything is OK in London/at UCL etc. Give my love to everybody Hasta luego Natasha x
Sam Gaddis wasnt the sort of man who panicked, but equally he wasnt the sort of man who had twenty-five thousand quid lying around for random tax bills and school fees. Hed already taken out two separate?20,000 loans to pay off debts accumulated by his divorce; the monthly interest repayments alone amounted to?800, on top of a?190,000 mortgage.
He took the tube to UCL and arranged to meet his literary agent for lunch. It was the only solution. He would have to work his way out of the crisis. He would have to write.
They met, two days later, at a small, exorbitantly expensive restaurant on High Street Kensington where the only other clientele were bored Holland Park housewives with lovers half their age and an elderly Greek businessman who took almost an hour to eat a single bowl of risotto.
Robert Paterson, UK director of Dippel, Gordon and Kahla, Literary Agents since 1968, had more important clients than Dr Samuel Gaddis soap stars, for example, who brought in 15 per cent commissions on six-figure autobiography deals but none with whom he would rather have spent three hours in an overpriced London restaurant.
You mentioned that you had money worries? he said as they ordered a second bottle of wine. Paterson was three years off retirement and the sole surviving member of the generation which still believed in the dignity of the three-Martini lunch. Tax?
How did you know?
Always is, this time of year. Paterson nodded knowingly as he rounded off a veal cutlet. Most of my clients have less idea how to manage their finances than Champion the Wonder Horse. I get three telephone calls a week from some of them. Wheres my foreign rights deal? Wheres the cash from the paperback? Im not a literary agent any more. Im a personal financial adviser.
Gaddis smiled a crooked smile. And what financial advice would you give me?
Depends how much you need.
Twenty-one grand for Her Majestys Inland Revenue, payable last Tuesday. Four grand for Mins school fees. Likely to rise to ten or twenty in the next couple of years unless Natashas boyfriend suddenly figures out that being the manager of a successful restaurant in Barcelona doesnt involve spending three days a week working on his offpiste skiing in the Pyrenees. Theyre chucking euros into the Mediterranean.
And UCL cant help?
Gaddis thanked the waiter, who had poured more wine into his glass. Im forty-three. My salary wont go much higher unless I get Chair. The mortgage alone is costing me a third of what I earn. Short of stealing first editions of Pride and Prejudice from the London Library, Im not looking at raising the money any time soon.
So you need a new deal? Paterson dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin.
I need a new deal, Bob.
What did I get you last time?
South of five grand.
Paterson looked mildly embarrassed to have brokered such a meagre contract. He was a huge man, requiring a two-foot gap between his chair and the table. He folded his arms so that they were resting on the summit of his voluminous belly. A Buddha tailored by Savile Row.
So were talking what? Thirty thousand pounds as a signature advance?
A small droplet of gravy had appeared at the edge of Patersons shirt. Gaddis nodded and his agent produced a stagey sigh.
Well, if you want that sort of money quickly, youll have to write a strictly commercial book, almost certainly within twelve months and probably under a pseudonym, so that you have the impact of a debut writer. Thats the only way I can get you a serious cheque in todays market. A historical comparison between Sergei Platov and Peter the Great, God bless you, isnt going to cut it. With the best will in the world, Sam, nobody really cares about journalists getting bumped off in Russia. Your average punter doesnt have a clue who Peter the Great is. Does he play for Liverpool? Was he knocked out in the final of Britains Got Talent? Do you see the problem?
Gaddis was nodding. He saw the problem. The trouble was, he had no aptitude for forging commercial bestsellers which he could write in twelve months. There were lectures he had given at UCL which had taken him more than a year to research and prepare. For an astonishing moment, during which Paterson was putting on a pair of half-moon spectacles and scanning the pudding menu, he reflected on the very real possibility that he would have to moonlight as a cab driver in order to raise the cash.
Gaddis was nodding. He saw the problem. The trouble was, he had no aptitude for forging commercial bestsellers which he could write in twelve months. There were lectures he had given at UCL which had taken him more than a year to research and prepare. For an astonishing moment, during which Paterson was putting on a pair of half-moon spectacles and scanning the pudding menu, he reflected on the very real possibility that he would have to moonlight as a cab driver in order to raise the cash.
Then he remembered Holly Levette.
What about the KGB?
What about it? Paterson looked up from the menu and did a comic double-take around the restaurant. Are they here?
Gaddis smiled at the joke. A small boy walked past the table and disappeared towards the downstairs bathroom. What about a history of Soviet and Russian intelligence? he said. Something with spies in it?
As a series of novels?
If you like.
Paterson peered over the spectacles, a father suddenly sceptical of a wayward son. I dont really see you as a novelist, Sam, he said. Fiction isnt your thing. It would take you far too long to complete a manuscript. You should be thinking along the lines of a non-fiction title which can spin off into a TV series, a documentary with you in front of the camera. If youre serious about making money, you need to start being serious about your image. No future in being a fusty old academic these days. Look at Schama. You have to multi-task. Ive always said youd be a natural for television.
Gaddis hid a thought behind his glass of wine. Maybe it was time. Min was in Barcelona. He was completely broke. What did he have to lose by getting his face on television?
Go on, then. Give me the inside take.
Paterson duly obliged. Well, when it comes to books about Russia, Chechnya is a no-no. Nobody gives a monkeys. He broke off to order just a smidgen of tiramisu, just a smidgen from the waiter. Ditto Yeltsin, ditto Gorbachev, ditto His Rampaging Egoness, the late lamented Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Done to death. Youve written about Platov, Chernobyl is old hat, so yes you might as well stick to spies. But wed need poisoned umbrellas, secret KGB plots to knock off Reagan or Thatcher, irrefutable evidence that Lee Harvey Oswald was the lovechild of Rudolf Nureyev and Svetlana Stalin. Im talking cover of the Daily Mail. Im talking scoop.