normal. Bullets and armour; missiles and radar; tax laws and tax evasion; life and death.’
‘That’s why I want your help.’
‘But will you hide things from me too? I know you and your profession.’
‘You’ll have everything I have.’
‘Then I’ll help you.’
He doesn’t question Finn’s word.
Jean-Claude rummages in his knapsack and takes out a videotape.
‘There,’ he says. ‘That’s my documentary which Swiss TV has refused to broadcast. Look at it soon. But you must go to Liechtenstein. Speak to Pablo in Vaduz. You know Pablo?’
‘I’ve met him with you.’
‘He has an interesting story about Hutzger.’
‘Is Pablo like us?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. I think he can’t help playing both sides. That’s his disease.’
‘Thank you, Jean-Claude.’
Once again the Troll looks at Finn in amazement. He has no concept of gratitude.
‘I need something very specific from you, Troll,’ Finn says. ‘There’s a set of companies. They’re called Exodi, and there’s one of them here in Geneva. I want to know whatever you can find for me about Exodi in Geneva.’
‘Exodi?’ the Troll murmurs. ‘No. I don’t know it. Call on me in a week and we’ll see where we are.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Finn says.
Finn sits on a stone bench by the neatly landscaped quay reserved for Lake Geneva’s pleasure boats. Here the lake narrows to the width of a bridge span and runs off through a lock and into the Rhone.
He watches the man in the light brown polo shirt and Burberry slacks who ushers two small children in front of him and on to the ferry. Sergei must have seen the strip of black tape on his car screen within an hour of Finn leaving it there.
The Russian has been waiting on the far side of the road from the quay, buying ice creams and balloons for the kids until the ferry is almost ready to depart. He joins the end of the now-depleted queue, so he will know there is nobody boarding behind him- or, if anybody does board, he will have a picture of a face clearly in his mind. And he will know to abort.
But nobody comes on behind him and the ferry churns the water with its bow propeller and, crablike, leaves the quay in a white wash, heading up the lake for several stops on the way to Vevey.
Finn notes the ferry’s destination again, folds the tourist map he’s needlessly carrying, stands up and tucks it into a back pocket. He walks across the intersection of three roads that filter towards the bridges that join Geneva’s two parts at the lake’s apex and picks up the one taxi that stands at the rank.
They wind out of Geneva to the east and pass through its satellite towns and villages that dot the lake. He pays off the taxi a few miles before his destination and takes a bus the rest of the way.
The restaurant stands on a sloping lawn that meets the lake in a grass beach. Nearby is a quay where the ferry stops on the way up the lake. There is a large worn-out play area administered by two young women, probably itinerant workers from Eastern Europe. There is plenty of brightly coloured plastic equipment to amuse the children while their parents eat or drink in a modest wooden building that opens only in the summer.
Sergei sits by the window, facing towards the road with the beautiful lake view behind him.
‘You were quick,’ Finn says, and sits down.
‘You were slow,’ Sergei says. ‘We don’t have a lot of time. Life here isn’t so safe for me any more. Not since Dobby’s been in power.’
Sergei uses the insulting KGB nickname for President Putin, a name taken from Harry Potter’s goblin.
Sergei had come up through the Forest’s training school at the same time as me. In 1992 he started a trading company in Moscow which imported sugar at first, then branched out into other foodstuffs. He became acquainted with the trading floors of Western Europe, made his millions and then moved to Geneva.
After Yeltsin had made Putin his prime minister and when the various KGB clans rivalled each other to put their man in position to win the elections, Sergei was working on behalf of one of Putin’s opponents, one of the KGB’s four or five chosen candidates to win the elections, before the list was finally whittled down to Putin. Sergei ended up funding a losing candidate.
A successful businessman, now worth several hundred million, Sergei continued his work as a KGB informer and reported directly to the KGB’s officer at the Russian delegation of the United Nations in Geneva. Sergei was riding high in Geneva for several years, making millions from KGB-backed trading contracts and his own private business. But his one mistake- a mistake that was to cost him and many others dear- was that he had backed the wrong horse. His candidate was now an ordinary MP in the Russian Duma and Putin was president.
‘Things will pass,’ Finn says. ‘Just ride it out, Sergei.’
‘I don’t know if I’m under surveillance but safe, or on the list and not safe,’ the Russian replies. ‘That’s how they like it best. Keeping everyone in fear.’
‘How bad is it?’ Finn says.
‘Terrible. The Petersburg clan are triumphant in their victory last year. Putin himself, Ivanov, Sechin–the lot of them. And now they’re ironing out their enemies-or anyone they feel like ironing out. Not just in Moscow either. They’re already turning to the outside world. Putin’s Petersburg clan-these damn Peterski-they’re even more ruthless than we thought.’
Sergei gulps from a plastic glass of transparent liquor.
‘They’re putting out contracts, for Christ’s sake,’ he continues. ‘It’s not enough that Putin’s won, now they want to erase anyone who’s got under their skin. I put nearly five million dollars on the losing ticket in the election campaign and now my whole fucking body’s above the parapet.’
Sergei drinks heavily again from the plastic tumbler and leans across the table to Finn.
‘I’m glad you’re here. You know, I may want to come over. Maybe it’s my only choice now.’ He sits back. ‘I hear you’ve left Moscow. You’ve got trouble too?’
Finn thinks about suggesting that Sergei go to the Americans as a safer haven, rather than the British. But he needs Sergei where he is for now, in the field, not in some CIA safe house in Connecticut on a two-year debriefing.
‘No, no trouble,’ Finn says. ‘Just a change of job.’
A waitress comes and takes Finn’s order for a glass of wine and another vodka for Sergei.
‘We can take you in, of course,’ Finn lies. ‘But now’s not a good time. Give it a few months when we can demonstrate more clearly what Putin’s doing. Then my people in London will really appreciate your value. But I need your help for that. Right now you’ll be coming up against my government’s love affair with Putin.’
‘I can’t last much longer like this,’ the Russian says plaintively, and Finn watches the alcoholic self-pity well up in his face. ‘They’re watching me, sticking pins in me, hounding me. An article appeared in
‘But, as you say, Sergei, they’re putting the frighteners on everyone, not just you. What they want you to do is run. That will prove your treachery. And then they catch you before you can get to safety.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I’ll help you when it’s time,’ Finn says, lying easily again. He has no power to help Sergei or anyone else.
‘Putin has spent a year gathering Russia’s money,’ Sergei continues. ‘It’s going to be a great harvest. He’s put all his own people into the state economy, the state oil companies, where they drain a fat percentage for themselves on the inside. And the oligarchs, our once-new independent businessmen, are now cap in hand. They’re all afraid, even the most powerful. Putin has told them they must share their wealth. Share it with the KGB, with the Forest, of course, but not with the country. Geneva, you wouldn’t believe it! It’s crawling with operatives. Back in Moscow they’re activating agents who’ve been asleep for years. There are sting operations against certain banks…’
‘Which banks?’
‘Which ones? There are half a dozen. All old KGB sympathisers who have long fallen into disuse. Asleep.’
Finn says nothing.
