‘Are the ex-wives contactable?’
‘Yes, one now lives in Marbella, in Spain, and the other runs a Staffordshire bull-terrier rescue centre in Stellenbosch, South Africa. I rang them both, saying I was trying to get in touch with Tony. The first one, Letitia, was so drunk she could hardly speak, even though it was only eleven o’clock in the morning. She said she hadn’t seen Kent in years, had no idea how to contact him, and if I saw him to tell him to go and – I quote – “fucking throttle himself”. Ring a bell, Lance?’
‘Loud and clear. Last time I saw my ex she said much the same thing.’
‘Lol. Anyway, the South Africa one, Kyla, was perfectly friendly but said that she was bound by law from discussing her ex-husband with anyone, which I took to mean that she’d signed a non-disclosure agreement as a condition of her divorce settlement. So not much help there. Anyway, back to Kent. He grew up in Lymington, Hampshire, and was educated at Eton College. As, it turns out, was Dennis Cradle.’
‘They weren’t there together, were they?’ Eve asks.
‘Yes, Kent was Cradle’s fag. Which means, apparently, that he was like his personal servant, and had to clean his shoes and make him tea and warm his toilet seat in the winter.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Totally.’
‘Bloody hell. I knew those places were weird, but . . .’ She blinks. ‘How did you find all this out?’
‘I asked Richard to run both names through the Security Services vetting records, and both were on file.’
‘Cradle, obviously. But why Kent?’
‘After Eton, Cradle goes to Oxford, takes the Civil Service exam, and is headhunted by MI5. Four years later Kent goes to Durham, and after graduating, tries to join Cradle at Thames House, but fails selection.’
‘Any idea why?’ Eve asks.
‘Put it like this: one of the assessors ended his evaluation with the words “Sly, manipulative, untrustworthy”.’
‘Sounds like the ideal candidate,’ says Lance.
‘The MI5 selection panel don’t think so. They bin him, and the following year he goes to Sandhurst, and is commissioned as a second lieutenant in the Royal Logistics Corps. Serves two tours of duty in Iraq, leaves the army in his late twenties, and from that point onwards things get hazy. I found only two very brief press references to his activities over the next decade. One describes him as a London-based venture capitalist, one as an international security consultant.’
‘Which can mean pretty much anything,’ Eve says.
‘Yeah, well. Turns out that Kent owns no residential or commercial property in London, and a search at Companies House reveals that he holds no directorships, executive or non-exec, of UK-registered companies. So given the Twelve connection, I start looking for Russian interests. I don’t speak Russian fluently, but a lot of the international registries are in English, including the database of the Federal State Service for Statistics. Anyway, I discover that Kent’s a partner in a private security company named Sverdlovsk-Futura Group or SFG, based in Moscow. He’s also a partner in an offshoot of the company, SF12, which is registered in the British Virgin Islands.’
‘And do we know what these companies do?’
‘Well, this is the point at which my lack of Russian becomes a problem. I’m learning the language via the MI6 online course, but I’m nowhere near fluent. So Richard puts me in touch with a Russian-speaking investigator from the City of London Economic Crime department, a guy called Sim Henderson. And what Sim tells me is that private security companies, known as Chastnye Voennie Companiy, or ChVKs, have become the go-to option for Russian military activities abroad. Official and deniable. Under the Russian constitution, any deployment of ChVK personnel must be approved by the upper house of parliament. But here’s where it gets interesting. If the company’s registered abroad, Russia and its parliament are not legally responsible.’
‘And you say that the offshoot company, whatever it’s called, is registered in the BVI?’ Eve says.
‘Exactly.’
‘So on the one hand you’ve got the official company, with a turnover of . . .’
‘A hundred and seventy million dollars, give or take. SFG handle everything from security for hospitals, airports and gas pipelines to military adviser contracts.’
‘All transparent and above board?’
‘Basically, yeah. I mean, this is Russia we’re talking about, so they’re almost certainly paying a hefty percentage to the Kremlin for the privilege of staying in business, but . . . yeah.’
‘And meanwhile the not-so-official, foreign-registered arm—’
‘SF12.’
‘SF12, yes, is going its own merry way, doing whatever . . .’
‘Exactly. Whatever weird dark-side shit it feels like.’
Max Linder has specified that, for the duration of his private gathering, the female catering staff of the Felsnadel should wear the uniform of the Bund Deutscher Mädel, the female equivalent of the Hitler Youth. Accordingly, Villanelle is wearing a blue skirt, a short-sleeved white blouse, and a black neckerchief secured by a leather woven knot. Her hair, still damp from her tepid shower, is in a short pigtail. She’s holding a circular tray of cocktails.
There are perhaps twenty guests in the dining hall, which is set with a single long table. Apart from those she arrived with, Villanelle recognises a number of prominent far-right figures from Scandinavia, Serbia, Slovenia and Russia. Most have entered into the spirit of the occasion. There are polished boots, cross-straps and daggers hanging from stable-belts. Magali Le Meur has a forage cap pinned to her blonde up-do, while Silas Orr-Hadow is sporting lederhosen and white knee socks.
‘So what have we here, fräulein?’
Her smile tightens. It’s Roger Baggot, in a loud tweed suit.
‘Cocktails, sir. This is a Zionist, this is a Snowflake, and this is an Angry Feminist.’
‘What’s in this one?’
‘Mostly Crème de Menthe and Fernet Branca.’
‘So why’s it called an Angry Feminist?’
‘Probably because it’s difficult to get it to go down, sir.’
He roars with laughter. ‘Well, you’re a sharp little piece of work, aren’t you? What’s your name?’
‘Violette, sir.’
‘I take it you’re not a feminist, Violette?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Glad to hear it. Now please point me to where I can get some decent beer. We’re in
