The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [90]
‘Look,’ Mark said, trying to make him feel better. ‘Did this Bone guy leave an address?’
Ben’s reply was sarcastic.
‘No. This Bone guy did not leave an address. Just a PO Box number in New Hampshire.’
‘Exactly.’
Ben looked at him as if he had lost control of his senses.
‘Exactly?’
Mark stood up. He had weighed up the odds. So what if Ben found out about Kukushkin and Randall, about Tamarov and Tom? Where was the harm? An electric combination of vanity and common sense persuaded him to breakcover. He drained the coffee he had been drinking, half a cup in a single gulp and said, ‘Is that locked?’
Ben looked at the kitchen door leading out into the garden.
‘What, that? No. I go out there the whole time.’
‘Then let’s get some air. Let’s go outside for a chat.’
The garden was colder than it looked, furniture damp to the touch and a settling of dew on the grass. Mark peered over neighbouring fences - both sides to check if they could be overheard - then returned to the terrace where he sat in a narrow wicker chair buckled by English weather. Ben remained on his feet and said, with undisguised derision, ‘Well this makes a nice change.’
Mark was wondering where to begin. Somehow he had always known that he was going to tell Ben. It was just a question of the timing.
‘What are we doing out here, brother? It’s fucking freezing.’
Mark leaned forward in the chair, little creaks and snaps. Then he looked away from the house, towards the south end of the garden and said, ‘We’re out here because I know the real reason why Dad was killed.’
Ben took the news evenly, with no discernible movement beyond a slight creasing around the eyes.
‘Say that again?’
‘Sit down, Benjamin.’
Mark only called him ‘Benjamin’ when things were serious. He had called him ‘Benjamin’ when the cancer was quickening and their mother had six weeks to live. Ben buttoned up his coat, settled on the edge of the garden table, and waited.
‘I’m not supposed to tell you this.’ Mark looked very serious, all the playfulness and swagger gone from his face. He seemed burdened by some terrible responsibility, an expression that managed to irritate his brother still further. ‘For the last couple of months I’ve been working for a man called Bob Randall. He’s an officer with MI5.’
Ben found that he could not laugh.
‘MI5?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that explains a lot.’ The lightness of this reply belied Ben’s total surprise; he experienced a jealous kick of sudden and unexpected resentment.
‘Seb and Tom Macklin have been under surveillance for almost a year. Tom has been laundering money for a Moscow crime syndicate run by a man called Viktor Kukushkin. He’s tricked everybody, maybe even Seb; nobody knows to what extent the boss is involved. For months, Tom’s been buying up real estate, fixing invoices, moving money around the clubs, dealing with a character called Vladimir Tamarov who’s Kukushkin’s number one over here. They’re running hookers in from eastern Europe, pushing class As, the whole lot.’
Ben was shaking his head.
‘And Dad found out about this while he was working for Divisar?’
‘It looks that way.’ Mark glanced up at the house.
It was as if the entire edifice of Elgin Crescent might be eavesdropping on their conversation. ‘That’s why we have to talk out here. I don’t want to come over all Harry Palmer, but there’s a very small chance your place is wired.’
Now Ben laughed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, dismissing the notion because it gave him a moment of power. ‘What do I have to do with it? Nobody bugs the home of a painter.’
‘Fine,’ Mark replied, and was forced to concede that he had perhaps overreacted. ‘Still, it’s better not to talk about anything sensitive when you’re inside the house.’
‘OK, James,’ Ben whispered, mocking Mark’s tone. He pursed out his lips and looked camp. ‘Are you licensed to kill, brother? Have you got gadgets and herpes?’
Mark didn’t laugh.
‘Macklin has been redirecting some of the Kukushkin money into a secret offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands. Before Dad died he had several conversations