Our Kind of Traitor

he is thinking that this is his chance to do to the Prince what he dreamed of doing to the husband of Natasha’s mother – ‘with these, Professor!’ If that is so, then wiser and more tactical thoughts finally prevail.

Gradually, if a little late, his hands grudgingly rise for the embrace, which begins tentatively but then, by force of men’s desire or mutual detestation, becomes a lovers’ clinch.

Slow motion to the kiss: right cheek to left cheek, old vor to young vor. Misha’s protector kisses Misha’s murderer.

Slow motion to the second kiss, left cheek to right cheek.

And after each kiss, the little pause for mutual commiseration and reflection, and that choked word of sympathy between grieving mourners which, if spoken at all, is heard by none but themselves.

Slow motion to the mouth-to-mouth kiss.

* * *

Over the tape recorder that sits between Hector’s lifeless hands, Dima is explaining to the English apparatchiks why he is prepared to embrace the man whom, most in the world, he would prefer to strike dead:‘Sure we are sad, I tell to him! But as good vory we understand why was necessary to murder my Misha! “This Misha, he became too greedy, Prince!” we shall tell to him. “This Misha, he stole your goddam money, Prince! He was too ambitious, too critical!” We do not say, “Prince, you are not true vor, you are corrupt bitch.” We do not say, “Prince, you take orders from State!” We do not say, “Prince, you pay tribute money to State.” We do not say, “You make contract killings for State, you betray Russian heart to State.” No. We are humble. We regret. We accept. We are respectful. We say, “Prince, we love you. Dima accepts your wise decision to kill his blood disciple Misha.”’

Hector switches the player to pause and turns to Matlock.

‘He’s actually talking here about a process we’ve been observing for some time, Billy,’ he says, almost apologetically.

‘We?’

‘Kremlin-watchers, criminologists.’

‘And you.’

‘Yes. Our team. We too.’

‘And what is this process your team has been observing so closely, Hector?’

‘As the criminal Brotherhoods draw closer to each other for reasons of good business, so the Kremlin is drawing closer to the criminal Brotherhoods. The Kremlin threw the book at the oligarchs ten years ago: come back inside the tent, or we tax the shit out of you or chuck you into prison, or both.’

‘I do believe I read that for myself somewhere, Hector,’ says Matlock, who likes to deliver his shafts with a particularly friendly smile.

‘Well, now they’re saying the same to the Brotherhoods,’ Hector continues unruffled: ‘Organize yourselves, clean up your act, don’t kill unless we tell you to, and let’s all get rich together. And here’s your irrepressible friend again.’

The news footage restarts. Hector freezes frame, selects a corner and enlarges it. As Dima and the Prince embrace, the man who now calls himself Emilio dell Oro, clad in black ambassadorial overcoat with astrakhan collar, stands midway up the slope, gazing down in approval on the match – while over the tape recorder Dima reads in staccato Russian from Tamara’s script:‘The chief arranger for the Prince’s many secret payments is Emilio dell Oro, corrupt Swiss citizen of many former identities who by wickedness has obtained the Prince’s ear. Dell Oro is the Prince’s advisor in many delicate criminal matters for which the Prince being very stupid is not qualified. Dell Oro has many corrupt connections, also in Great Britain. When special payments must be arranged for these British connections, this is done on the recommendation of the viper dell Oro after personal approval by the Prince. After a recommendation is approved, it is the task of the one they call Dima to open Swiss bank accounts for these British persons. As soon as honourable British guarantees are in place, the one they call Dima will also provide names of corrupt British persons who are in high positions of State.’

Hector again switched off the recorder.

‘Doesn’t he go on then?’ Matlock complained sarcastically. ‘He’s a right tempter, I’ll say that for him! Nothing he won’t tell us, if we give him everything he wants and then some. Even if he has to make it up.’

But whether Matlock was convincing himself was another matter. Even if he was, Hector’s reply must have rung like a death sentence in his ears:

‘Then maybe he made this up too, Billy. One week ago today, the Cyprus headquarters of the Arena Multi Global Trading Conglomerate filed a formal application with the Financial Services Authority to establish a new trading bank in the City of London, to operate under the name of First Arena City Trading and to be known henceforth and for all time by the acronym FACT, hence the FACT Bank Limited, or PLC, or incorporated or what- the-fuck. The applicants claim to have the support of three major City banks and secured assets of five hundred million dollars and unsecured assets of billions. Lots of billions. They’re coy about just how many billions for fear of frightening the horses. The application is supported by a number of august financial institutions, domestic and foreign, and an impressive line-up of home-grown illustrious names. Your predecessor Aubrey Longrigg and our Minister-of-State-in-Waiting happen to be two illustrious names. They are joined in their representations by the usual contingent of bottom-feeders from the House of Lords. Among the several legal advisors retained by Arena to press its case with the Financial Services Authority is the distinguished Dr Bunny Popham of Mount Street, Mayfair. Captain de Salis, formerly of the Royal Navy, has generously offered himself as the spearhead of Arena’s public- relations offensive.’

* * *

Matlock’s big head has fallen forward. Finally he speaks, but still without raising his head:

‘It’s all right for you, isn’t it, Hector, sniping from the sidelines. And your friend Luke here. What about the Service’s standing where it counts? You’re not Service any more. You’re Hector. What about the outsourcing of our Intelligence requirements to friendly companies, banks by no means excluded? We’re not a crusade, Hector. We’re not hired to rock the boat. We’re here to help steer it. We’re a Service.’

Meeting little in the way of sympathy in Hector’s gaunt stare, Matlock selects a more personal note:

‘I’ve always been a status quo man myself, Hector, never been ashamed of it either. Be grateful if this great country of ours gets through another night without mishap, is me. That doesn’t do for you, does it? It’s like the old Soviet joke we used to tell each other back in the Cold War: there’ll be no war, but in the struggle for peace, not a stone will be left standing. An absolutist is what you are, Hector, I’ve decided. It’s that son of yours who gave you so much pain. He’s turned your head. Adrian.’

Luke held his breath. This was holy ground. Never once, in all the intimate hours he and Hector had passed together – over Ollie’s soups, and malts in the kitchen after hours, huddled together watching Yvonne’s stolen film footage or listening yet again to Dima’s diatribe – had Luke risked so much as a glancing reference to Hector’s errant son. Only by chance had he learned from Ollie that Hector was not to be troubled on a Wednesday or a Saturday afternoon, except in dire emergency, because those were his visiting times at Adrian’s open prison in East Anglia.

But Hector appeared not to have heard Matlock’s offending words or, if he had, not to heed them. And as to Matlock, he was so fired up with indignation that he was quite likely unaware that he had spoken them at all.

‘Plus another thing, Hector!’ he barks. ‘What’s wrong, when you come down to it, with turning black money to white, at the end of the day? All right, there’s an alternative economy out there. A very big one. We all know that. We’re not born yesterday. More black than white, some countries’ economies are, we know that too. Look at Turkey. Look at Colombia, Luke’s parish. All right, look at Russia too. So where would you rather see that money? Black and out there? Or white, and sitting in London in the hands of civilized men, available for legitimate purposes and the public good?’

‘Then maybe you should take up laundering yourself, Billy,’ says Hector quietly. ‘For the public good.’

Now it’s Matlock’s turn not to have heard. Abruptly he changes tack, a trick he has long perfected:

‘And who’s this Professor we’re hearing about anyway?’ he demands, talking straight into Hector’s face. ‘Or not hearing about? Is he your