said.
‘He’s not returning my calls. I already tried three times.’
‘Then leave him another message. The sooner he finds out about this, the better.’
45
But Mark was already on his way to the St Martin’s Lane Hotel and steadfast in his refusal to speakto Ben. It had been a mistake to involve him in his work for MI5. Drawn at last into something more complicated than the application of paint to a canvas, little brother had waded way out of his depth.
Mark’s attitude seemed justified when he listened to the tone of Ben’s first telephone message just after six o’clock. He was walking in the door from Libra and ignored the call when he noticed its origin as Elgin Crescent. The subsequent message, played aloud into the sitting room, was a rushed and word-swallowing garble about ‘fucking Jock’ and ‘Sudoplatov’ and it angered Mark that Ben had carelessly mentioned their names on a land line. Two hours later, after sending no fewer than three text messages urging Mark to ‘CALL ME’, Ben telephoned again, but Mark was shaving in the bathroom with the radio on and the news of Bone’s death passed him by.
He regretted his confession in the garden; everything had been simpler before Ben’s inexpert participation. Prior to Wednesday, Mark had thought of his work for Randall as a private, dignified tribute to his father’s memory, and he was annoyed with himself for having lacked the courage to continue that task in secret. At least tonight he had the opportunity to meet Tamarov alone and to develop their relationship free of Ben’s interference.
Taploe had made his final contact at seven thirty to ensure that Mark was set. As had been the case on Sunday, he again avoided mentioning that Ian would be tailing Mark’s car to the meeting, and had said nothing about the Watchers who would be positioned across from Tamarov’s table in the St Martin’s Lane Hotel. This was standard operational procedure: he didn’t want Mark second-guessing the position of MI5 staff while the meeting was in progress.
‘Rest assured we’ll be keeping a close eye on you all the way in,’ he said. ‘Just go where Tamarov takes you, don’t try to rush anything along. It’s important that you appear amenable without seeming eager or greedy. Remember, he sees you as essential to Kukushkin’s long-term success. Accept his offer of a job, but askthe right questions about control and hierarchy. Tell him you need a break after what has happened to your father and that Roth will understand your situation.’
At ten past eight, Mark picked out his favourite Hayward suit and then, as a conscious expression of his duty to Keen, a pale blue Brooks Brothers shirt which had belonged to his father. It fitted perfectly, tailored as if for the same two bodies. In a further moment of conscious sentiment, Mark then selected a pair of silver cufflinks that his mother had given him as a twenty-first birthday present. He had fifty minutes to reach the hotel for the nine o’clock appointment, and time for a beer in the sitting room before walking to the car. There was no sense in being rushed.
He was turning on the television when Tamarov contacted his mobile. Glancing at the display, Mark felt a thud of worry that he was calling to cancel the dinner. Muting the TV, he put his drink on the floor and said, ‘Vladimir?’
‘Yes, Mark, hello.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘A change of plan, my friend. A change of plan.’ His voice was jovial and easygoing; it was hard to picture the expression on his face. ‘I meant to call before but I have been very busy with work. I am sorry.’ It sounded as though the Russian was calling from a deserted building; there was an echo of open space. ‘Perhaps we can meet for dinner an hour later. I have altered our reservation. This is appropriate?’
Mark smiled at the mistaken idiom and said, ‘Yeah, no problem.’
‘But I am thinking I should introduce you to Christina at the restaurant before we meet for dinner. I am standing with her now.’
‘Christina?’
‘She would be your assistant in Hackney. It’s not possible for her to come to the West End because she is working here. Do you remember where to come?’
‘Sure.’ It did not cross Mark’s mind that he should tell Randall about the change in circumstance. Just go where Tamarov takes you. Don’t try to rush anything along. Besides, Christina might be pretty.
‘You will come by cab?’ Tamarov asked. It didn’t sound as though he cared about the answer. ‘By car?’
‘Car, probably,’ Mark replied, and used the excuse that Randall had given him. ‘Stops me drinking too much.’
Tamarov laughed enormously.
‘Then this is easy for you. The traffic is not so bad. Avoid King’s Cross with the roadworks and breakdowns. I came through Highbury Islington and got here in ten minutes. Just avoid the one-way system near the restaurant.’
‘You were speeding, Vladimir?’ Mark joked, trying to match his breezy mood.
‘Not me,’ Tamarov replied. ‘Juris. The Latvian, he drives like a maniac.’
46
Torriano Avenue curves steeply uphill, left to right, but Ian Boyle had a good view of the street from his position in the Southern Electric van. He saw Mark emerge from the house at 20.25 wearing a black coat and carrying a mobile phone. It was like catching sight of an old friend in the distance: the easy, sloping walk, the way Mark’s head bobbed from side to side as if swayed by thought or music. On a typical London evening in late winter, indistinct of colour and temperature, locals drifted into the corner shop at the foot of the hill and emerged with flimsy green plastic bags filled with cans and milk and videos. A very faint mist was visible in the glow of the streetlights as Ian dialled Taploe’s number.
‘Yes?’
‘Boss. He’s leaving now. Getting into the car.’
‘Good. Contact me again if anything changes. I’m just sitting here waiting at my desk.’
Ian started the engine as Mark started his. Sounds inaudible to one another, just two vehicles leaving the street. He let Mark reach the top of the avenue before pulling out and followed the black Saab as it slipped into a stream of cars heading south along Brecknock Road.
Ian had been listening to Jazz FM while he waited and he turned up the volume on a Billie Holiday cover of ‘Summertime’, humming the tune in the shunting traffic. The job was so routine he drove almost on autopilot, keeping the van a hundred metres back from the target, separated by three, sometimes four other cars. He knew Mark to be a decent driver, quick and liable to switch lanes smoothly in the quest for space. One time, ages ago now, back when Taploe had his suspicions, he had been tailing Mark from Heathrow and lost him at the Hogarth roundabout, just disappeared into the Chiswick streets never to be seen again. Ian thought the same thing was about to happen when he saw the Saab make an unexpected turn off York Way, the two-lane north-south artery feeding traffic into King’s Cross. He was sitting high up in the van and had a decent view of Mark’s car as it steered left towards Islington.
‘Where you going, mate?’ he muttered to himself, and had to accelerate through a changing amber to stay on Mark’s tail.
They were on Market Road now, not the route Ian would have taken to the West End but maybe Blindside knew a short-cut, a trick. After all, there were roadworks in King’s Cross until April 2047, so maybe he was doing them both a favour. Still they kept heading east, crossing Caledonian Road, then directly into the heart of Islington.
‘What’s he up to?’ Ian said again, shutting off the radio to concentrate. That was when Taploe put the call through to his mobile.
‘Boss?’
