‘What he’s talking about here isn’t a map, it’s a
Matlock on a winning streak does not lightly let go. He is shaking his head and smiling ruefully:
‘You know something, Hector? If I had a five-pound note for every piece of pedlar material from untried sources that our Service has fallen for over the years – not all in my time, I’m glad to say – I’d be a rich man. Link charts, Bilderberg plots, world conspiracies, and that old green shed in Siberia that’s full of rusty hydrogen bombs, they’re all one to me. Not rich by the standards of their ingenious fabricators, maybe, or your standards either. But for the likes of me, very comfortably off indeed, thank you.’
In the gloom, an amateur video camera shakily roams the battlements of a medieval fort, then descends to the sea wall of an ancient harbour crowded with expensive sailing boats. It is dusk, the camera is of poor quality, unequal to the failing light. A ninety-foot luxury yacht in blue and gold lies at anchor outside the harbour walls. It is dressed overall with fairy lights, its portholes are lit. Distant dance music reaches us from across the water. Perhaps someone is celebrating a birthday or a wedding? From its stern hang the flags of Switzerland, Britain and Russia. At its masthead, a golden wolf bestrides a crimson field.
The camera closes on the bow. The ship’s name, inscribed in fancy Roman and Cyrillic gold lettering, is
Hector is providing a flat, dispassionate commentary:
‘Property of a newly formed company called First Arena Credit Bank of Toronto, registered in Cyprus, owned by a foundation in Liechtenstein which is owned by a company registered in Cyprus,’ he announces drily. ‘So a circular ownership. Give it to a company, then get it back from the company. Until recently she was called the
‘What’s wrong with him then?’ Matlock asks aggressively.
‘Who?’
‘The Prince. I don’t think I’m being stupid, am I? Why’s he confined to Russia?’
‘He’s waiting for the Americans to drop some thoroughly unreasonable money-laundering charges they levelled against him a few years back. The good news is, he won’t have to wait long. Thanks to a spot of lobbying in Washington’s halls of greatness, it will shortly be agreed that he has no case to answer. Always helpful when you know where influential Americans keep their illegal offshore bank accounts.’
The camera leaps to the stern. Russian-style crew in striped shirts and matelot hats. A helicopter about to land. Camera returns aft, descends uncertainly to sea level as the picture darkens. A speed-launch pulls alongside, passengers aboard. Busy crew in attendance as passengers in their finery cautiously ascend ship’s ladder.
Go back to stern. The helicopter has landed but its blades still slowly rotate. Fine lady in billowing skirt descends red-carpeted steps, clutching hat. Followed by second fine lady, then a bevy of fine men in blazers and white ducks, six in all. Fuzzy exchange of hugs. Faint shrieks of greeting over dance music.
Cut back to second speed-launch pulling alongside, delivering pretty girls. Skin-tight jeans, fluttery skirts, many bare legs and shoulders as they ascend ladder. A brace of fuzzy trumpeters in Cossack uniform sound halloos of welcome as pretty girls come aboard.
Pan awkwardly on guests assembled on main deck. There are so far eighteen. Luke and Yvonne have counted them.
Film freezes and becomes a series of clumsily advancing close-ups, much enhanced by Ollie. Caption reads SMALL ADRIATIC PORT NEAR DUBROVNIK June 21 2008. It is the first of many captions and subtitles that Yvonne, Luke and Ollie in committee have superimposed as an accompaniment to Hector’s spoken commentary.
The silence in the basement is palpable. It’s as if everyone in the room including Hector has drawn in his breath at the same time. Perhaps they have. Even Matlock is leaning forward in his chair, staring fixedly at the plasma screen before him.
Two well-preserved, expensively tailored men of affairs are in conversation. Behind them, the bare neck and shoulders of a middle-aged woman with lacquered white bouffant. She has her back turned to us and wears a four- row diamond collar and matching pendant earrings, the cost anyone’s guess. At left of screen, an embroidered cuff and white-gloved hand of a Cossack waiter is offering a silver tray laden with glasses of champagne.
Close on the two men of affairs. One wears a white dinner jacket. He is black-haired, heavy-jawed and of Latin appearance. The other wears a very English double-breasted navy blue blazer with brass buttons or, as the British upper echelons prefer to have it – Luke should know, they’re where he comes from himself – a boating jacket. By comparison with his partner, this second man is young. He is also handsome in the way that young men of the eighteenth century were handsome in the portraits they donated to Luke’s old school when they left it: broad brow, receding hairline, the haughty sub-Byronic gaze of sensual entitlement, a pretty pout, and a posture that manages to look down on you however tall you are.
Hector has still not spoken. The committee’s decision was to let the subtitles say what anyone would know from half a glance: that the double-breasted boating jacket with brass buttons belongs to a leading member of Her Majesty’s Opposition, a Shadow Minister tipped for stratospheric office at the next election.
It is Hector, to Luke’s relief, who ends the awkward silence.
‘His remit, according to the Party handout, will be
Matlock has found his tongue:
‘You can’t have
But neither Hector’s tone nor Matlock’s implausible indignation can ease the tension. And it is no consolation at all that, according to Yvonne’s subtitle, the white dinner jacket belongs to a tainted French marquis and corporate raider with strong ties to Russia.
‘Anyway. Where did you get this lot from?’ Matlock suddenly demanded, after a spell of silent brooding.
‘What lot?’
‘The film. Amateur video. Whatever it is. Where d’you get it?’
‘Found it under a stone, Billy. Where else?’
‘Who did?’
‘A friend of mine. Or two.’
‘What stone?’
‘Scotland Yard.’
‘What are you talking about?
