• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1159 0

SIS had been alerted immediately and the linkto Keen’s death established. Teams - perhaps from Special Branch - were then dispatched to obtain the original version of the letter from Elgin Crescent and the second copy posted to Mark’s flat in Torriano Avenue. That was why Mark had never received the letter; that was why the original had gone missing from the shoebox in the studio. SIS had then instructed McCreery to convince Ben that Bone’s theory about Kostov was a deception spun by the Americans. The meeting at the British Museum had been engineered: McCreery had waited until Ben was alone and then coolly plied him with Guinness and lies. SIS were covering up, trying to disguise the fact that a renegade KGB officer was killing its former associates and employees. McCreery had known all along who was responsible for his friend’s murder, yet he had concealed the truth to protect the public reputation of British Intelligence.

What Ben could not work out, however, was any link between Kostov and Kukushkin. Nor was it clear what Bone had done to trigger such an act of vengeance. Ben assumed that the CIA had also been involved in Mischa’s recruitment, but it was a question to which he felt he would never know the answer. It was possible that Bone’s death was simply a coincidence, a random act of American violence visited upon the wrong man. Not for the first time Ben felt weighed down by ignorance, embarrassed both by his slender grasp of the facts and by the ease with which McCreery had duped him.

Towards nine o’clock, out of simple expedience, he decided to tell Alice about his brother’s workfor MI5. At first her reaction to the news was measured and sanguine. Sitting by an open window in the kitchen, a draught of winter air goosepimpling her skin, Alice listened very quietly as Ben documented the extent of Macklin’s involvement with Russian organized crime and seemed pleased that Roth would almost certainly suffer as a consequence of it.

‘He knows nothing about this,’ she said, with a conviction that annoyed Ben. ‘When he finds out, he’s going to go crazy.’

Ben asked her how she could be so sure, and she barely skipped a beat.

‘Just from talking to him. I get the impression Macklin pretty much runs Libra nowadays. Seb’s too busy with other projects.’

‘What kind of other projects?’

‘Well, the restaurant I was writing about, for a start.’

‘But Macklin’s involved in that too.’

‘Only in a legal capacity. Tom’s just a partner.’

They sat in the kitchen over a supper of takeaway pizza and flat bottled Coke. Ben enjoyed the process of knitting things together, of finding their structure and shape. At one point he put his elbows on the table and seemed to draw an idea out of the air.

‘You should write about this,’ he said, ‘about all the shit that Libra are up to. You should write about Kostov, about the whole fucking thing. That’s what they fear. That’s what SIS will stop at nothing to prevent. It might really help your career.’

Alice only shrugged in response and moved uncomfortably in her chair, as if something were digging into her back.

‘Something just occurred to me,’ she said. ‘SIS can’t know anything about this. They can’t know about Kukushkin’s involvement with Libra. And Randall probably has no idea that Kostov is going around killing MI6 agents.’

‘Explain.’

Alice started kneading the flesh in the palm of her hand, as if it would somehow help her to think.

‘It’s simple. If McCreery knew what Macklin was up to, if he was aware that Kukushkin was laundering money through Libra, he could have blamed your father’s murder on the Russian mafia. That’s the obvious line MI6 would have taken.’

‘But what about Bone’s letter?’

‘That’s just what I’m saying. When you were talking to McCreery in the pub, why didn’t he tell you about Macklin’s links to the mob? That would have been the perfect response to the Kostov story. It would have taken you right off the scent. But instead he blames a diving instructor in the Cayman Islands and some random private bank in Lausanne.’

Ben was nodding, searching for a flaw in the