Authors: Stella Rimington
40
U
nusually, Geoffrey Fane had offered to come across the river to call on her and now he was twenty minutes overdue. His imminent arrival was preventing Liz settling to anything and she was just about to ring his secretary at Vauxhall Cross to find out whether he was coming or not when he strolled into her room.
“I’m so sorry to be late,” he said, throwing his raincoat on to a spare chair against the wall. He sat down across from Liz and leisurely crossed an ankle over the other knee, casting his eye round her office as he did so. Liz found herself wishing she had done a little more to personalise the room. The only addition she had made to the bland government furnishings was a print of the Nadder Valley which she’d bought at an antiques shop near her mother’s house. “That’s very fine,” said Fane, getting up to admire it. “Do you know that area well?”
“It’s where I was brought up,” replied Liz, feeling unaccountably pleased at his approval.
“Wonderful part of the country. I fish there.” He paused reflectively, then said briskly, getting down to business, “I’ve heard back from Moscow Station about Morozov. They’ve sent us quite a detailed report. The most interesting thing in it from our point of view is that Morozov is ex-KGB, first chief directorate, postings in New York and East Germany, where he had a heart attack in 1989. He was posted back to Moscow and left the KGB in 1990. His two eldest children both live in the United States. He’s got a younger one here.”
“That’s remarkable,” said Liz. Then, pausing for a moment’s thought, she went on, “But it doesn’t seem to square at all with what Brunovsky told me about him.” And she related Brunovsky’s story of what lay behind Morozov’s enmity.
Fane listened intently, frowning from time to time. When she’d finished he said, “That doesn’t fit. What Moscow Station says is that after Yeltsin’s rise, Morozov made his move into the private sector. With a bunch of investors he managed to procure one of the concessions granted to private individuals under the sell-off of state assets. He and his co-investors paid a relatively small sum for a sector of industrial diamonds that was underexploited and that’s how he made his money. Not that much by oligarch standards perhaps”—and he looked whimsically at Liz—“but certainly by ours.
“Once he’d made a small fortune, Morozov wanted to make a bigger one by cornering part of the diamonds market. But cornering a market doesn’t come cheap. Morozov and his associates weren’t sufficiently well heeled to fund their caper on their own, so they brought in someone who was. To cut a long story short, as the price started to rise this new partner sold out, the price spiralled downwards, and suddenly all the diamonds they were holding were worth less than they’d paid for them. Morozov in particular got shafted, since he had the most money invested, probably half his fortune. Guess who the partner was.”
“Don’t tell me. Brunovsky.”
“That’s the rumour.”
“So Brunovsky’s story was a total fabrication.”
“It appears so. Though remember, this is the story from Morozov’s friends.”
“It rings true, though. And it could be the first indication we’ve had there genuinely is a plot against Brunovsky. If Morozov is ex-KGB, and is harbouring a serious grudge, he’d have the means to take a very nasty form of revenge.”
“Yes.” Fane reached for his coat. “Let me see about this Levintov fellow,” he said, standing up. “I have a feeling if he did die, it was from old age rather than a bullet, but you never know.”
“Right,” replied Liz. “And I’ll get Peggy to find out if the Americans or the Germans have anything to offer about Morozov’s time with them. Thanks for coming back to me so quickly about all this.”
“Not at all,” said Fane. “I regard this as a joint operation.” He paused, and his eyes looked searchingly at Liz. “Brian tells me that you want out. I can understand that. But I would be grateful if you would hang on in there for a little longer. We may just be getting somewhere.”
He stood there, holding his raincoat, making no move for the door. Suddenly he seemed hesitant, unassured. “By the way,” he said at last, “I gather that my son, Michael, has stepped out of line.”
God, thought Liz, trust Brian. I thought we’d agreed to take it no further. She shrugged. “No great harm done.”
Fane shook his head. “We must hope not.”
“We all make mistakes,” said Liz, latching on to the first platitude that entered her head. “At least Michael had the sense to own up to his.”
Fane nodded, but did not look reassured. “Brian tells me that you recommended that no action be taken. Thank you for that,” he said awkwardly. And as he left her office Liz wondered if Geoffrey Fane thought she had intervened for his sake, rather than Michael’s. What bothered her was that he might be right.
That was not the end of it. Leaving work, Liz retrieved her Audi, ageing but reliable, from the Thames House basement garage and pulled out on to the street at the back of the building. Ahead of her, she saw a tall figure on the corner of Marsham Street and realised it was Fane, looking for a taxi. With parliament in session, the chances of a cab this side of the House and at this time of the evening were slim. Liz hesitated, then slowed down and pulled over.
“Can I give you a lift, Geoffrey?” she called out through the side window.
“Gracious, it’s you again,” he said brightly. “That would be very kind. I don’t want to take you out of your way,” he said, but his hand was already on the passenger-door handle.
“Kensington?” she ventured.
“More Fulham, actually,” he said, getting in. “She may live in Paris now, but Adele’s still the owner of Phillimore Gardens,” he added, with a touch of resentment.
Liz turned down Horseferry Road towards the Embankment. At this time it would be the quickest route, and she always liked the view of Albert Bridge, lit up in its pink and white paint like a decorated cake.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, while Fane looked out his window towards the river. “Astonishing how much they’re building over there,” he said, pointing towards the south bank, where new blocks of flats loomed like Lego towers. “When I was a boy all of that was wasteland.”
“Did you grow up in London?”
“Sussex,” he said. “Though my grandmother had a house in Pelham Crescent. I hate to think what it’s worth today,” he said with a touch of acidity that sounded more to do with reduced circumstances than nostalgia for the house itself.
“Did you see her much?”
“I’d come up on school holidays and stay for a few days. She was a game old thing—took me all over the place. Pantos at Christmas, the Tate, concerts—the whole cultural
shebang
.” He seemed to delight in the sound of the word. “And you?”
“Once a year with my mother. We’d come up from Wiltshire for the sales after Christmas.”
“So we’re both from the country,” said Fane. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” she asked, a little sharply.
“Why we get on,” he said smoothly. But Liz felt sure that was not what he meant.
They passed Cheyne Walk, and Fane began to give instructions. She turned right and drove towards Fulham Road, before turning on to a quiet residential side street. A man stood patiently, holding the lead while his terrier sniffed at the base of a lamp post; a gate slammed shut further down the road; otherwise it was deserted. At Fane’s direction Liz slowed about halfway down the street, in front of a large stuccoed house that had been divided into flats.
“Would you like a drink?” Fane asked. He pointed at the kerb. “You could park here. This time of night you’re fine.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Perhaps another time.”
“Sure?” he asked sharply. He seemed surprised by her refusal.
“Early start,” she said, and he nodded reluctantly. Thanking her for the lift, he got out of the car.
As she drove off, she saw him in her rear-view mirror walk up his front steps. Was he cross she hadn’t come in? she wondered. Probably. He didn’t seem the type who was used to rejection. Was his offer of a drink innocent? Probably not.
Unlike many of her colleagues, Liz had never gone out with someone from work. She’d come close—at one time her friendship with her colleague and fellow agent runner Dave Armstrong might have blossomed into something more. And deep in her heart, though he was unavailable, there was always Charles. So it wasn’t due to principle so much as simple circumstance.
In his flat Geoffrey Fane poured himself a whisky and sat down to contemplate the evening ahead. It was a pity Liz wouldn’t come in, she was an attractive girl and an evening or even a few hours in her company would have been pleasant. Thinking about her, as he gazed into his glass, he had the vaguest feeling that he had seen her before, a long time ago. A memory came back to him. It was the year he had been in the Winchester XI—the Eton match. He had been sitting with his pads on, waiting to bat, when he had noticed a girl on a deckchair a few yards away—the daughter of an Eton master or somebody’s sister, he didn’t know. She was deeply attractive in a way he couldn’t define. He had wanted to catch her attention, but she was intently watching the cricket, and then a wicket fell. As he got up to go in, she had unexpectedly called “Good luck” and smiled at him—a wonderful smile. That day he had scored seventy, and as he came back to the pavilion, holding up his bat to the applause, he had looked for her. But she had gone, and though he had searched all around for her, he had never seen her again. Life was like that: dreams, vanished opportunities. And now—Liz couldn’t have been born the day he got seventy against Eton, but she was that same girl, or her double.
41
T
ell Jane,” said Brunovsky.
She looked up warily as he came into the sunlit dining room, with Marco Tutti by his side. The Italian was exuberantly dressed this afternoon, in a suit the colour of milk chocolate and a pink shirt. He hesitated, but Brunovsky poked him in the ribs. “Go on, tell her.” He sounded very excited.
“We believe we have located
Blue Mountain
,” Tutti said stiffly.
“Really?” Liz tried not to show her scepticism. “Where?”
“In Ireland. Where else?” said Brunovsky. He was just back from his weekly tennis match with another oligarch and was still wearing white shorts and a lime green Lacoste shirt. Liz noticed that his pale legs, matted with swirls of curly black hair, were heavily muscled—like those of a professional cyclist.
“Of course,” said Liz evenly.
Brunovsky looked at Tutti, and taking his cue the Italian started talking again. “An old lady called Cottingham is the owner. She lives about forty miles west of Cork.”
“Why is she coming forward now?”
“It seems the sale of
Blue Field
was in the local newspaper. There was a photograph of the painting which was almost identical to one Miss Cottingham has owned for years.”
“And no one else had ever noticed the likeness? Or was the picture in the attic?” asked Liz, a trace sardonically, wondering why on earth Brunovsky couldn’t see through this nonsense.
Marco shrugged. “Perhaps it was. But also, she is a—what is the word for someone who sees no one?”
“Recluse,” said Brunovsky, whose English vocabulary never failed to impress Liz. She tried not to groan—Tutti’s story was dismayingly predictable.
“Thank you,” said Marco. “Miss Cottingham got in touch with a nephew in Dublin and asked him to try and find a buyer.”
“And he approached you?” asked Liz.
“Actually, he spoke to Northam’s and they rang Harry.”
Brunovsky interjected. “Harry was the front man for the auction. Tamara did the phone bidding. I didn’t want it traced back to me.” He was tossing a glass paperweight back and forth between his hands, clearly impatient with these details. “None of this is so important, Jane,” he said sharply, though he smiled to take the sting out of his words. “Do you not see?
Blue Mountain
has been found and I want it!”
“Has anyone seen it yet?”
“No,” said Brunovsky, “but we know what it looks like. I have photographs in my study. Come.”
The three of them went down the hall towards the back of the house. In the oligarch’s office a smart leather file case lay on the partner’s desk, on top of a mound of newspaper cuttings and handwritten notes. Brunovsky picked it up and handed it to Liz, motioning her to the two-seater sofa. He stood facing her, his back to the desk, while Marco settled in the chair underneath the large portrait of the Cossack. Glancing up at the painting, Liz noted the horseman’s bellicose eyes.
Opening the folder, Liz saw several 10x8 colour stills, taken fronton but from various distances—the closest near enough to show the artist’s signature in a lower corner of the canvas. The painting was barely distinguishable from
Blue Field
. The same blue-black waves filled the canvas, the same thick texture to the paint. The only difference Liz could make out was an absence of the yellow slash she had taken for a tree, and a sense in this second painting of a looming, vertiginous height—presumably the “mountain” of the picture’s title. Otherwise the pictures were uncannily alike. Or cannily, thought Liz, who was now convinced this was a scam.
“What’s this?” she asked suddenly, pointing to a rust-coloured streak that ran across the upper right corner of the painting in the photo.
“Ah,” said Marco, lightly touching his goatee with a finger. “That we believe to be water damage.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Liz. “The burst pipe.”
“Exactly,” said Brunovsky, clapping his hands as if to praise Liz’s astuteness.
“But how did the picture get lost for so long?”
Brunovsky looked at Tutti, who started fiddling with his watch strap. “That remains a great mystery,” Tutti said. “No details have been forthcoming. But Miss Cottingham will explain everything when we meet her.”
“Meet her?”
“Yes, if we can come to terms,” said Tutti.
Tutti looked enigmatic now, but Brunovsky said impatiently, “I have no secrets from Jane, Marco. Not about my collection anyway,” he added with a sly grin.
“The picture will be rather expensive, I suppose,” said Liz dryly.
“More than
Blue Field
,” said Brunovsky, as if he liked the idea. “Twenty million pounds will be enough, so Marco says.” A bagatelle, his attitude suggested, but then for Brunovsky it was.
“Marco says they want some money before they’ll meet us,” Brunovsky went on. “I believe the expression is earnest money.”
“What are they asking for?” enquired Liz sceptically.
“One million pounds,” Marco said, and shrugged to show it was out of his control. Liz noticed that this time when he stroked his goatee his hand was shaking. “If the sale falls through they will retain £100,000 for their trouble.”
Brunovsky clucked a caustic tongue. “Tell them that
half
a million is sufficient earnest money. To be returned in full if the sale falls through.”
Marco Tutti clasped his hands together, pursing his lips in a show of prim obedience. “Of course, if you say so. But I do not think Miss Cottingham will be flexible. She seems confident someone else will be happy to pay for the right of first refusal, if we don’t.”
Brunovsky stared at him. “Someone else?” he said. “Who do you mean? I thought she had come to us first. There’s someone else, is there?” He looked at Marco wide-eyed. “You don’t mean to tell me…Is it who I think it is?” He smacked a hand against his forehead and turned to Liz in almost comic consternation. “
Morozov!
” he hissed.
There was a silence. Brunovsky turned back to Tutti. “Forget what I just said. I’ll pay a million.”
For once Marco didn’t overplay his hand. “Do not concern yourself,” he said submissively. “I will tell the nephew that we accept their terms.”
Liz stared in amazement. She could not but admire Tutti’s tactical acumen. So this was the way oligarchs did business? A million for just an option to buy? With a sizeable non-returnable chunk. Suppose there was no painting, or just a fake? Surely Brunovsky must see how crazy this was? But maybe he was crazy—about Pashko at least, or perhaps about Morozov. She told herself she couldn’t hope to understand the rivalry between these two men.