the plan, he told himself. Stick to the plan.
‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I was merely trying to conduct what I call a test.’
‘What you call a test,’ Mark echoed flatly.
‘It’s just that I would need you to be similarly circumspect with what I am about to tell you.’
Circumspect. It was a word Taploe had not thought of in years. Appropriate to the requirements of secrecy. Exactly right for the purposes of their conversation. He must remember to use it again.
‘The information I am about to share with you would have to remain confidential. In spite of the fact that it concerns your father, you would not even be able to discuss it with Ben.’
Mark appeared to hesitate, as if reluctant to be drawn in, then nodded, saying, ‘I understand.’ Taploe proceeded to assess the immediate vicinity. There were six other customers in the restaurant, none of them within earshot: two teenage girls ten feet away having a giggly lunch; a young Middle Eastern man by the far wall dropping globs of mince and lettuce from a crunchy taco whenever he brought it to his mouth; three American students at the door making enough noise for a table of eight. No listening threat, in other words, from neighbouring tables.
‘We’re looking into several possibilities,’ he said.
‘There may be a link between your father’s murder and a post-Soviet crime group operating within the United Kingdom. Now I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily, but it’s highly unlikely that your father was simply the victim of a random act of violence.
The nature of the killing, the timing, the location and so forth, all those factors point to another theory.’
Mark took a sip of his lager and nodded stiffly. He was already looking less composed. Taploe hoped the beer would be tasteless, dry and catching in his throat.
‘What about the Foreign Office?’ he asked. ‘Do they have any ideas?’
‘It’s not really for me to speculate,’ Taploe replied, his voice a reedy whisper. ‘Not my area of expertise.’
Mark began to hold his elbow in his right hand, rubbing it, staring blankly around the restaurant. Body language. Had he turned the corner? His food had arrived but he had pushed his plate immediately to one side.
‘We’re working on two suppositions,’ Taploe told him, creating a small cone of salt at the edge of his plate. Something about this pleased him, the exactitude of it. ‘In his capacity as an employee of Divisar Corporate Intelligence, your father was assisting two organizations at the time of his death. Libra, of course, and, latterly, a small private bank in Lausanne. Running checks on large-scale financial deposits originating in St Petersburg. Capital flight, for want of a better term. He may have mentioned it to you.’
Mark shook his head.
‘No, he didn’t mention it. Didn’t mention anything about it at all.’
‘But it’s possible that your father made contact with these groups on their behalf?’
‘It’s more than possible,’ Mark replied. ‘It’s a certainty. That’s what Dad was employed to do.’
‘And thus the question must be asked: Did he attempt to circumvent protocols imposed by an organized crime group either in Russia or here in London? Did he?’
For a moment Taploe thought that Mark was preparing to answer; he had intended the question to be rhetorical. Jumping in, he said, ‘Now I’m bound to say that I think this is highly unlikely. It would be unprofessional, naive, and extremely dangerous.’ He counted out the adjectives on his fingers — one, two, three — and made a point of looking stern. ‘Furthermore, we’ve found nothing in his records to backup that theory. So — ’ Mark was shaking his head ‘- if your father was doing his job — and we have no reason to believe that he was ever anything other than completely thorough in his affairs — he may have tried to encourage Libra or the Swiss to pull the plug on their operations because of an irregularity with the Russians. But, again, there’s no record of any such concerns in the files at Divisar.’
‘So why the linkwith organized crime?’ Mark asked. The table of Americans suddenly erupted in laughter and he looked across at them, eyeing with irritation a tanned, crew-cut jockwith a pair of Discman head-phones clamped around his neck. ‘What are you getting at?’ he said.
Now Taploe paused for effect, like a bad comic looking for laughs. He was buoyed by the ease of the pitch, by how quickly Mark had turned. The centre of their table was covered in small blue tiles and he tapped one of them in a clipped manner with the bitten nail of his index finger.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What do you actually know about Russian organized crime?’
‘Just what I pickup when I’m over in Moscow.’
‘Well, let me begin by pointing out that the term “Russian mafia” is something of a misnomer. More usually these groups originate from former Soviet republics such as Lithuania and Ukraine. Chechen gangs are particularly high profile in Russia, less so in the UK. But you may already be aware that the men your company have been dealing with in Moscow are of Russian origin. Libra has been negotiating with the Kukushkin syndicate. Am I right?’
‘I don’t have a clue,’ Mark said quietly. ‘I’m not given access to that kind of information.’
‘And who is? Mr Roth? Mr Macklin?’
If he was surprised that Taploe knew their names, Mark did not show it.
‘That would be right, yeah.’
‘Let me fill you in. In August, Thomas Macklin banked two separate cheques for around a hundred thousand US dollars in an offshore company that he had registered in Cyprus a year before. Those cheques were given to him by a known member of the Kukushkin crime syndicate and made out to Pentagon Investments. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Pentagon Investments? Never heard of it.’
‘The payment may have been for any number of things. Services rendered, goodwill money, a piece of London real estate, something relating to business conducted between the two parties in Moscow or London. We don’t yet know. What would seem most likely, based on our further investigations, is that Macklin and Roth have entered into a clandestine relationship with Viktor Kukushkin in connection with their burgeoning interests in the Russian capital. That is to say, a relationship over and above any protection money usually — ’
To Taploe’s delight, Mark swore under his breath — ‘ Christ! ’ — halting him in mid-sentence. He waited several seconds before continuing.
‘… that is to say, the characteristic relationship usually established between organized crime groups in the FSU and overseas companies attempting to do business there. In other words, Mr Keen, your boss is up to something.’
Taploe watched Mark’s face as it registered first astonishment and then a gradual, seeping disgust at what he was being told.
‘ Up to something? ’ he said finally. Taploe nodded and lowered his voice.
‘We’ve had both of them under twenty-four-hour surveillance for the best part of six months.’ He failed to mention that Mark himself had been subject to the same level of scrutiny, yet felt no shame at the omission. ‘As a result, we remain convinced that Libra is being used by the Russians as a cover operation for money laundering, drugs smuggling, racketeering and prostitution.’ These were as yet baseless accusations, a list compiled by Quinn simply to frighten Mark into co-operation. Nevertheless Taploe reeled them off with a straight face. ‘What we need is proof. Proof that Roth and Macklin have entered into a mutually beneficial relationship with the Russians which your father accidentally uncovered and for which he was killed.’
Mark appeared to be staring at the paint work of the restaurant, as if the sweeping waves of orange were making him feel nauseous and confused.
‘You really think that’s true?’ he said. ‘You really think that’s what happened?’
Taploe knew that he could play on his rage, on his adulation for Keen. He wanted Mark to feel disgust, then the tremor of excitement at his first glimpse into a clandestine world, the thrill of the son initiated into his father’s secret trade. Above all, Taploe had to lead him to a point where refusal would cease to be an option.
‘Mr Keen,’ he said and, for a moment, thought about reaching across and touching Mark’s shoulder, just for added effect. ‘I can understand that it must be very hard for you to hear these things about people you have worked alongside for so long, about people you undoubtedly trust. These men are friends of yours, after all. But the reality is that you are most probably working for a company which is laundering money for the Russian mafia.’
Mark again shookhis head. ‘How does that work?’ he said. ‘How does that work? I hardly know anything about the Kukushkins. What the fuck are they doing in London anyway?’
Taploe sniffed.
