‘I can get you money,’ Finn says. ‘Just tell me what you need.’
‘Thank you, then,’ Frank answers. ‘I do need some.’
They arrange how much Frank needs and, in the course of this conversation, Finn uses the moment to ask Frank the question that is really on his mind.
‘If I give you what you need, will you stop investigating Khodorkovsky?’
I see by his tense stance and from his eyes piercing into Frank’s how urgent this is for Finn.
‘Why are you investigating him, Frank?’ Finn asks.
‘Khodorkovsky?’
‘Yes.’
Frank looks uncertain how to react.
‘I’m looking at his finances, that’s all. Accounts all across Europe. Gibraltar, Isle of Man, Guernsey, other places.’
‘Why are you doing that?’ Finn asks gently.
‘It’s what I do, you know that.’
‘It’s the Kremlin that wants to know about Khodorkovsky’s accounts, Frank.’ I can see Finn’s eyes gleaming from where I’m standing on the pavement. ‘So you’re doing the Kremlin’s work. Isn’t there a conflict of interest here?’
‘Oh, you know…’ Frank says.
‘No, Frank. I don’t know. How much do you need to stop this work?’
Frank looks across the street and is avoiding Finn’s eyes.
‘Finn,’ he says finally, ‘it’s what I do, investigate big capital, you know that. That’s the enemy. You won’t like it, but I’m doing the job for German Intelligence. For the BND.’
‘For the BND? And who asked them?’ Finn is amazed.
‘The German government,’ Frank says stolidly. ‘Who else could ask them?’
‘Why is the German government interested in Khodorkovsky, Frank? He has no interests in Germany.’
Frank is silent.
‘Khodorkovsky’s the only Russian who’s standing up to Putin,’ Finn says. ‘The only one who’s capable of it!’
‘It’s a money-laundering issue,’ is all Frank says.
‘And German Intelligence is helping the Russians. That’s right, isn’t it?’ Finn says, grabbing Frank’s arm a little abruptly. ‘The German Chancellor is helping the Kremlin. Is that it?’
‘I don’t know. That’s not my business. That’s politics.’
‘We both know, Frank. Putin’s asked Germany to help crush his personal enemy and the BND is doing Putin’s work for him. Christ, Frank! It’s against everything we’re trying to do. It’s for Putin to remove opposition to him in Russia, not for us in the West to do so.’
‘It’s an international crime issue,’ Frank says doggedly.
‘Putin’s the crime issue here,’ Finn practically shouts.
‘I must go,’ Frank says. ‘Please.’ He disengages his arm.
‘Frank…’ Finn says.
‘I’ll be late,’ Frank replies, turning away from Finn and coming over to me.
He takes my hand with an intensity that surprises me, and lays his other hand over mine.
‘We’ll meet for dinner, I hope,’ he says.
‘I’d love to, Frank.’
And then he walks away, shuffling in his grey overcoat on to a tram that will take him back across the border to attend the conference’s afternoon session.
I see Finn is furious and confused. For Finn, everyone must be against Putin. Putin is the enemy that justifies any action. Khodorkovsky is Putin’s enemy and, for Finn, Putin’s enemy is Finn’s friend, no matter what.
We walk a few steps along the pavement and Finn takes my arm. I feel the energy from his hand. He kisses me on the cheek and says that he will find me back at the hotel after dinner. He has something to pick up, he says. Then he leaves.
The Troll comes up to me, perhaps seeking sanctuary from his forthcoming partnership with Karin. He asks me if I play billiards and, though I tell him I don’t, he takes me to a billiard bar, a taxi ride away, and insists we play.
I am worrying about Finn as we order our drinks. The Troll is at home in the dark, subterranean, windowless place, but I feel as if I need some air and, after sipping the drink, I leave the Troll so he can join three others and make a foursome for a game.
I walk through Geneva’s grey streets, wet from a summer shower that passed unnoticed in the bar. It is the personal tone of Finn’s urgent conversation with Frank that plays over in my mind. I see danger and put it down to Finn’s uncharacteristic display of anger at a colleague. He is taking the job personally. And that is dangerous to all of us. Eventually, I let go of my anxiety and walk back to the hotel.
I take a bath and change and meet Frank at a small Italian restaurant on the north side of the lake where we have a convivial, relaxed supper and Frank treats me like a daughter. I almost forget the strangeness of Frank’s and Finn’s behaviour.
And when I return to the hotel, Finn’s afternoon’s work lies face up on the bed and all thoughts of Frank are obliterated at the sight of it.
26
THE PHOTOGRAPHS LIE SPREAD OUT on a burgundy-coloured coverlet that Finn has straightened for the purpose over the huge hotel bed. There are eight of them and Finn has neatly arranged them as if we were there to discuss the order of presentation. They are black-and-white pictures, taken from odd angles and with more than one camera, probably hidden in ceiling and wall fittings of the room where the pictures were made.
‘Apparently there’s also a videotape,’ Finn says tonelessly. ‘But we couldn’t get hold of that, thank God.’
The cold orange light of street lamps enters the fourth-floor hotel room like a guilty, unwelcome visitor. But outside the window, the starry sky of a Geneva June night seems to set the city on display like subtle stage lighting. Couples stroll arm in arm and a few lonely people walk the streets, head down, heading for the late bars. The scene outside the window seems slow, staccato, apparently fragmented and disjointed like an old silent movie.
I turn away from the window and sit down again on the bed. I feel sick and wish that Finn would take the photographs away.
But Finn gets up and switches on a lamp beside the bed, three twists of the switch for the fullest glare, to augment the ceiling light. The orange light outside, and the moon’s glow, are washed away with incandescent light.
‘They come from your side,’ Finn says, trying to be businesslike about the scenes on the bed in front of us. ‘They were taken in March 2001 at an SVR apartment in Moscow. Evidently around the time Clement Naider, the man in the pictures, was threatening to step out of line–and Moscow was looking for insurance against some loss of nerve on his part. He’s been chairman of the bank for over twenty years and my guess is he’d worked for the Forest for many years by the time these were taken. Perhaps he’d become afraid. Perhaps he was intending to go to the authorities, we don’t know.’
‘We?’ I say.
Finn hesitates.
I realise now, years later, that he, too, was so disturbed by the photographs that he had been on the point of telling me about Mikhail. But he checks himself from taking such a fateful step.
‘The knowledge is a burden,’ he says. ‘There are some things—’
‘Some things we don’t tell each other?’ I say with a feeling of resentment spilling into my voice.
‘It’s not a matter of us. It’s not about personal trust,’ he says. ‘This is separate from you and me, Anna. This is the job, not our life together. It’s a matter of security, your security. How you will bear the burden of knowledge.’
