The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [121]
‘I have to say first and foremost that I don’t admire what has happened here today.’ This seemed encouragingly unequivocal. ‘To negotiate with criminals, to strike deals with members of a recognized organized crime syndicate makes me feel very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable indeed.’ Quinn inched forward. Perhaps it was going to be OK; perhaps there were standards after all. ‘Nevertheless, I can understand why such a decision has been taken and, although I do not condone it, I recognize that, at the very least, the Kukushkin organization cannot now, at least in the medium to long term, flourish on the UK mainland…’
For a large man Quinn stood with surprising speed, his hands raised up as if to blockout Taploe’s charade. Twisting to gather his notes, he folded them under one arm and moved towards the door.
‘Paul? Where are you going?’ Taploe said.
‘Into the private sector.’
‘What?’
There were shadows of black sweat under his arms.
‘You really think Kukushkin is just going to hand Kostov over, friend or no friend? You really think he’ll keep his side of the bargain, let him get to court?’
The tone of the question was at once mocking and profoundly serious.
‘That’s the quid pro quo,’ Dulong answered uncertainly.
‘You don’t believe us?’ McCreery said. ‘You still remain sceptical?’
Quinn shook his head.
‘Oh, it’s not that I don’t believe you, Jock. It’s not that I don’t believe you.’
‘What, then?’
He was stepping through the door.
‘It’s the thing I knew would happen.’ He was muttering the words, almost to himself. ‘The thing I feared. The compromise.’
‘Paul?’ Taploe said again.
Quinn looked up. His face might have been that of a man who has been informed of a tragedy: washed out, shocked, yet oddly indignant.
‘Yeah? What is it Stephen? What is it you’re going to say?’ He was in the corridor now, eyes accusing them, looking back as if on a lost innocence. ‘You think I got into this business to listen to what you just said?’
‘You have to understand that…’
But Quinn had walked away. Dulong, McCreery and Taploe were left staring out into an empty corridor. After a time, McCreery said, ‘Temper, temper,’ and Dulong had the nerve to smile. Taploe, however, felt a greater sense of shame than he had ever experienced at any point in his career.
‘So it’s settled, then?’ McCreery said.
‘It’s settled,’ Taploe replied, after a long delay. His voice was very low.
‘And you, Elizabeth?’
‘Settled,’ said Dulong.
‘Good. Then we move on. I’m not sure I want to spend another moment of my life worrying about Dimitri bloody Kostov.’
49
The Russian is sitting alone on the back seat of a brand-new Audi A4. Smooth, cushioned upholstery, a smell of leather and artificial pine. It is dusk in the suburbs of Moscow, banks of low white clouds bringing late spring snow to the capital. Through the back window of the vehicle, nineteen storeys up, he can make out the balcony of the flat where he has lived for the past eleven days, his latest refuge in a long line of hotel rooms and apartments. The flat, belonging to an associate of Viktor Kukushkin, has a single window looking out on to five grey, deserted breeze-block towers, each of them defaced with structure cracks and graffiti. Kostov is not going to miss that view. He is looking forward to the house in the country.
Three hundred metres from the car, across a flat expanse of buckled concrete randomly interrupted by weeds, two young boys are playing football against a white brick hut. It is below freezing and the light is failing all the time, but their eyes must have adjusted to the pre-dark gloom because the yellow ball cracks regularly against the wall. If he strains for it, Kostov can hear the rubber contact of their shoes against the asphalt, voices echoing amongst the buildings, the sudden gasps and shouts.
He adjusts his position in the back seat and leans