Lost

better, redeemed. Joe has that effect on me. A poor man shouldn't borrow so much.

The phone call to Aleksei is diverted through several numbers before he answers. I can hear water in the background. The river.

“I want to talk. No lawyers or police or third parties.”

I can hear him thinking. “Where did you have in mind?”

“Neutral ground.”

“No. If you want a meeting you come to me. Chelsea Harbour. You'll find me.”

A black cab drops me at the entrance to the marina shortly before ten. I lift my watch and count the final minutes. It's no use being early for your own funeral.

Spotlights reflect from the whiteness of the motor yachts and cruisers, creating pools like spilled paint. By comparison, the interlocking docks are weathered and gray, with life buoys hanging from pylons anchored deep in the mud.

Aleksei's boat, draped in fairy lights, takes up two moorings and has three decks with sleek lines that angle like an arrowhead from bow to stern. The upper deck bristles with radio antennae and satellite tracking devices.

I spent five years mucking about on boats. I know they float and soak up money. People with a highly defined sense of balance are more likely to get seasick, they say. I can vouch for my equilibrium but an hour in rough weather on a cross-channel ferry can still feel like a year.

The gangway has a thick rubber mat and railings with bronze pillars. As I step on board the vessel shifts slightly. Through an open doorway I see a stateroom and a large mahogany dining table with seating for eight. To one side is a bar area and a modular lounge arranged in front of a flat-screen TV.

Descending the steps I duck my head, which isn't necessary. Aleksei Kuznet is sitting behind a desk, his head lowered, reading the screen of a laptop computer. He raises his hand, making me wait. It remains there, suspended. Slowly the hand turns and his fingers wave me forward.

When he raises his eyes he looks past me as though I might have forgotten something. The ransom. He wants his diamonds.

“Nice boat.”

“It's a motor yacht.”

“An expensive toy.”

“On the contrary—it is my office. I had her built to an American design at a boatyard on the Black Sea near Odessa. You see I take the best from different cultures—American design, German engineering, Italian craftsmen, Brazilian teak and Slav laborers. People often criticize Eastern European nations and say they don't do capitalism well. But the truth is that they operate the purest form of capitalism. If I had wanted to build this boat in Britain I would have had to pay award wages, workers compensation, national insurance, design fees and bribes to keep the unions happy. It's the same when you put up a building. At any stage someone can stop you. In Russia or Latvia or Georgia none of this matters if you have enough money. That's what I call pure capitalism.”

“Is that why you're selling up? Are you going home?”

He laughs mordantly. “Inspector, you mistake me for a patriot. I will employ Russians, I will fund their schools and hospitals and prop up their corrupt politicians but do not expect me to live with them.”

He has moved across to the bar. My eyes flick around the stateroom, almost waiting for the trap to snap shut.

“So why are you selling up?”

“Greener pastures. Fresh challenges. Maybe I'll buy a football club. That seems very popular nowadays. Or I could just go somewhere warm for the winter.”

“I have never understood what people see in hot climates.”

He glances into the darkness of the starboard window. “Each man makes his own paradise, DI, but it's hard to love London.”

He hands me a glass of Scotch and slides the ice bucket toward me.

“Are you a sailor?”

“Not really.”

“Shame. With me it's flying. You ever see that episode of The Twilight Zone where William Shatner looks out of the window of a plane at 20,000 feet and sees a gremlin tearing off pieces of the wing? They made it into a film, which was nowhere near as good. That's how I feel when I step on a plane. I'm the only person who knows it's going to crash.”

“So you never fly?”

He turns over both his palms, as if revealing the obvious. “I have a motor yacht.”

The Scotch burns pleasantly as I swallow but the aftertaste is not like it used to be. All that morphine has deadened my taste buds.

Aleksei is a businessman, accustomed to cutting deals. He knows how to read a balance sheet, to manage risk and maximize profit.

“I might have something to trade,” I announce.

He raises his hand again, this time pressing a finger to his lips. The Russian steps from the companionway looking as if he's been trapped in an ill-fitting suit.

“I'm sure you understand,” says Aleksei apologetically as the bodyguard sweeps a metal detector over me. Meanwhile, he issues instructions via a radio. The engines of the boat rumble and the ice shudders in my glass.

He motions me to follow him along the companionway to the galley where a narrow ladder descends to the lower deck. We reach a heavily insulated door that opens into the engine room. Noise fills my head.

The engine block is six feet high with valves, fuel cocks, radiator pipes, springs and polished steel. Two chairs have been arranged on the metal walkways that run down each side of the room. Aleksei takes a seat as if attending a recital and waits until I join him. Still nursing his drink, he looks at me with an aloof curiosity.

Shouting to be heard above the engines, I ask him how he found Gerry Brandt. He smiles. It is the same indolent foreknowing expression he gave me when I saw him outside Wormwood Scrubs. “I hope you're not accusing me of any wrongdoing, Inspector.”

“Then you know who I'm talking about?”

“No. Who is he?”

This is like a game to him—a trifling annoyance compared to other more important matters. I risk boring him unless I get to the point.

“Is Kirsten Fitzroy still alive?”

He doesn't answer.

“I'm not here to accuse you, Aleksei. I have a hypothetical deal to offer.”

“A hypothetical one?” Now he laughs out loud and I feel my resolve draining away.

“I will trade you the diamonds for Kirsten's life. Leave her alone and you get them back.”

Aleksei runs his finger through his hair, leaving a trail in the gel. “You have my diamonds?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Then hypothetically you are obliged to give them back to me. Why should I have to trade?”

“Because right now this is only hypothetical; I can make it real. I know you planted the diamonds in my house to frame me. Keebal was supposed to get a warrant but I found them first. You think I saw something that night. You think I can hurt you somehow. You have my word. Nobody else has to get hurt.”

“Really?” he asks sarcastically. “Do not attempt a career as a salesman.”

“It's a genuine offer.”

“A hypothetical one.” Aleksei looks at me, pursing his lips. “Let me get this straight. My daughter is kidnapped and you fail to find her. She is murdered and you do not recover her body. Then people try to extort two million pounds from me and you fail to catch them. Then you steal my diamonds and accuse me of planting them on you. And on top of it all, you want me to forgive and forget. You people are scum. You have preyed on my ex-wife's grief. You have taken advantage of my good nature and my desire to make things right. I didn't start this—”

“You have a chance to end it.”