The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [89]
Ben hesitated. To refuse would seem odd. He made a mental note of Kostov’s aliases for the benefit of Alice’s contact in Customs and Excise and said, ‘Of course. Be my guest.’
McCreery looked pleased. He pocketed the letter, saying, ‘Your other one’s bound to turn up.’
‘Sure it is.’
‘And look, I don’t need to tell you again that the fewer people that know about this, the better.’
‘I understand that.’
Ben was also on his feet, watching McCreery pull a windcheater over his head. He had the sudden but irrefutable feeling that he was being palmed off. The mood of their conversation had changed markedly.
‘Have you spoken to Bone since you received it?’ McCreery asked.
‘No,’ Ben said, falling in behind him as they walked to the door. ‘He didn’t leave a number. Just a PO Box address in New Hampshire.’
‘I see.’
It was as if McCreery was more than just late for a train. He seemed hurried, his job done. Out on the street they turned to one another.
‘Well it was super to see you, it really was.’ The charm in his eyes, all the warmth and friendliness engendered in the course of the afternoon, had evaporated. Now McCreery looked distant and removed.
‘Yeah, it was good to see you too, Jock.’
‘And good luck with your art,’ he said, employing a term that Ben detested. ‘Don’t worry, old boy, don’t worry,’ he called out, hobbling around the corner. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this thing, you’ll see. It’s all just a question of time.’
37
‘Something’s not right, brother. Something is not right.’
Ben was pacing in the kitchen at Elgin Crescent, sections of Wednesday’s Guardian scattered across the floor.
‘The letter goes missing from my studio, your version never even shows up. Jock says it’s crap from start to finish, then insists I keep the contents to myself. Somebody, somewhere, knows something that we don’t. Somebody, somewhere is covering something up.’
Seated calmly at the kitchen table, Mark smiled to himself and invited Ben to sit down.
‘I’d prefer standing,’ he said.
‘Fine. Then why don’t you begin at the beginning? Why don’t you just tell me what this Yank actually said.’
It took Ben fifteen minutes to describe the contents of Bone’s letter in microscopic detail. He was flustered but remained concise. He told Mark about Mischa, he told him about Kostov. His brother listened carefully, but in the manner of a card player who knows he holds the ace.
When he had finished, Ben said, ‘You don’t look like this is making any impact on you at all.’
‘I don’t?’
‘No. You don’t.’
‘Well, where did the letter come from?’ Mark asked. Ben looked at him.
‘That’s all you have to ask? That’s the one thing you want to know? Where it came from?’
‘Well it’s a start.’ Mark was aware that he sounded smug, that he was playing the old hand and professional spook, but it was fun watching Ben flounder around in a misconception.
‘You’re not interested in Sudoplatov?’ his brother asked. ‘You don’t want to know about Kalugin?’
Mark tilted back in his chair. He put his hands behind his head and grinned again.
‘What the fuck is so funny?’
Not for the first time, Mark weighed up the possibility of telling Ben about Blindside. Just to see the look on his face; just to put him in the picture.
‘Nothing’s funny,’ he said. ‘I promise you, nothing’s funny at all.’
‘Then why are you looking at me like I’m a fucking idiot?’
‘Because if Jock says the letter’s a crock of shit written by a drunk who got thrown out of the CIA then I’m inclined to believe him. If Mischa was an American failure, if Kostov actually died in 1997, then what the fuckare you getting so upset about?’
‘I’m not upset,’ Ben said.
‘Yes you are.’
‘I’m just annoyed.’
‘About what?’
Mark wondered if some of the tension between them had been precipitated by the will. Ben had asked for his share of the money, but had done it grudgingly, as if the request put him in Mark’s debt. He noticed that he didn