41 St. Luke’s Mews
St. Luke’s Mews
and found Dmitri Savin sitting alone at a corner table in the Elephant Room. Dmitri had bought his way into London’s most
exclusive club—as had Knight, for that matter—and rarely missed an opportunity to show his face there. Knight, having spent
a thoroughly unpleasant day with his suddenly tightfisted bankers at HSBC, was in no mood for company and settled into a table
of his own with a very large glass of whisky and that week’s edition of The Spectator. He was lost in a lengthy article about a recent scandal involving MPs and their expenses when a shadow fell across his page.
Lifting his eyes, he saw a smooth Russian face leering down at him. Then a hand appeared, smallish, white as bone, and the
smooth Russian introduced himself.
“Asked if he could join me,” said Knight. “Sat down before I had a chance to answer.”
They exchanged the sort of small talk typical of the crowd at Annabel’s before embarking on a prolonged discussion of the current financial crisis.
Dmitri implied that, all things considered, the collapse of global markets had been good for his business.
Knight engaged in no such pretense. Everyone in London knew that developers and real estate investors were taking a drubbing.
They ordered another round of drinks, and the discussion turned more pointed. Dmitri said he had several billion sitting on
the sidelines and was eager to invest in real estate while prices were still at rock bottom. His personal portfolio included
several luxury homes, including his mansion in Prince of Wales Terrace, but he wanted to expand into commercial and residential
property.
“By investing in your company?” asked Gabriel.
Knight nodded. “Said he had a check for two hundred and fifty million in his pocket. Said the check had my name on it.”
“How did you respond?”
“I said I didn’t want his money. And what do you suppose Dmitri told me?”
“I imagine he told you that he knew you were on the verge of insolvency and were in desperate need of cash.”
“Words to that effect,” muttered Knight.
The two hundred and fifty million pounds, he continued, went some way to stabilizing the Knight Group, but as the financial
crisis turned into the Great Recession, the company’s finances grew steadily worse. Knight delivered this blunt assessment
to Dmitri Savin, once again over drinks at Annabel’s, and Savin responded by giving Knight a billion pounds. The money righted
the ship but left the tiller in the hand of a ruthless Russian oligarch closely associated with the country’s kleptocratic
ruler. Knight knew enough about Russian business tactics to realize that the relationship was unlikely to end well, that one
day his newfound partner would demand something in return. The debt came due in the autumn of 2015, when Dmitri Savin prevailed
upon Knight to invest in a real estate holding company called Landmark Ventures.
“And the terms of the deal?” asked Gabriel.
“Landmark required a steady stream of capital, ten or twenty million a month. In return the company was willing to put up
nothing in collateral. Nor did it provide any assurances that I would receive repayment or a share of future profits.”
“Sweet deal.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“And you, of course, turned Dmitri down flat.”
“That option wasn’t available to me.”
“Because by then you were little more than Dmitri’s pawn.”
Knight was silent.
“I don’t suppose you asked Dmitri what Landmark Ventures intended to do with the money?”
“Never.”
“Why not?”
“Because a part of me didn’t want to hear the answer.”
“Surely you must have suspected that you were being used to launder money for a Russian intelligence network.”
“I’m not an idiot, Allon.” Knight lowered his voice. “Not a complete idiot, at least.”
“In that case,” said Graham Seymour, “why didn’t you come to us?”
Knight seemed to find the suggestion laughable. “And how exactly does one come to the Secret Intelligence Service? Ring the
bell at that fortress of yours at Vauxhall Cross? Ask to speak to someone in the Russia department?”
“There are rather more subtle ways for men in your position to make contact with us.”
“And what would have happened if Dmitri found out that I was talking to you?” Knight answered his own question.
“I would have ended up like that poor chap Litvinenko. I calculated it was better for my health and peace of mind to simply pretend that I was making legitimate investments in a legitimate company.”
“Those investments,” said Gabriel, “increased substantially after the Russian invasion of Ukraine.”
“Fifty million a month.”
“At Dmitri’s request?”
“Who else?”
“But he was in Moscow by then, along with the rest of the pro-Kremlin oligarchs.”
“The relationship continued as though nothing had changed.”
“How did you communicate?”
“Encrypted text messages.”
“And if you missed a payment?”
“If I was so much as a day late,” replied Knight, “Dmitri would send a guided missile my way.”
“Shortly before midnight on the twelfth of February, he rang you at Wickham House.”
Knight nodded.
“What was the occasion?”
“I was nearly two weeks late with my monthly investment in Landmark Ventures.”
“And you told Dmitri the check was in the mail?”
“I told him I wanted out.”
“He reacted badly, I take it.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Which is why you agreed to keep the money flowing.”
“What would you have done in my position?”
Gabriel ignored the question. “And what if you were to have another go at Dmitri?” he asked.
“What sort of go?”
“Divorce proceedings.”
“On what grounds?”
“Irreconcilable differences, I imagine.”
“And the settlement?”
“Not another penny.”
“If I were to terminate the marriage,” said Knight, “I imagine Dmitri and his friends in the Kremlin would do their very best
to kill me.”
Gabriel smiled. “We can only hope.”
“What the hell are you playing at, Allon?”
Graham answered for him. “He’s not playing at anything, Edward. What he’s doing is offering you a chance at redemption. I
would advise you to take it.”
“All I want,” said Knight, slumping in his chair, “is my wife.”
“Sorry, Edward,” said Gabriel. “But I’m afraid Alice is gone for good.”
The room was less than half the size of her walk-in closet at Wickham House. There was space enough for a double bed and a
laminated chest of drawers—bright white, of course—but not much else. It was, she thought, a glimpse into the drastically
reduced circumstances of her future. Or perhaps not. Notting Hill cottages like this one were hideously expensive these days,
thanks in no small part to the greed of real estate investors like her husband.
The sound of his voice was seeping through the floorboards.
Poor Edward, it had not been a pleasant conversation.
A part of her pitied him; his soiled laundry was now hanging on the line for all to see.
She only hoped that he was wise enough to accept their offer.
Edward had a stubborn streak, especially when he felt cornered.
It was one of his least attractive qualities.
But then again she could think of not a single one she admired.
Not for the first time she wondered why she had married him.
Because he was rich, she told herself coldly.
She had to face the fact she was one of those girls.
The bed, while small, was moderately comfortable. She was seated on the left side, Edward’s side, with her back against the
headboard and her legs crossed at the ankle. Ingrid was next to her, identically posed. Edward’s phone, its distinctive ringtone
silenced, lay between them. At present it was pulsating with an incoming call. The screen read liam higgins.
“Edward’s personal assistant,” explained Alice.
“We’ve met,” replied Ingrid.
“Really? Where?”
“Your husband’s office in Berkeley Square. It was the evening you issued your ransom demand.”
Liam Higgins rang off without leaving a voicemail. Alice took a stab at unlocking the phone, then tossed it aside. “How did
you learn to pick pockets like that?”
“I watched a couple of videos. It’s really quite easy once you get the hang of it.”
“Perhaps you could give me a pointer or two. I’m going to need a source of income when this is over.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll take good care of you.”
“The Secret Intelligence Service? They’ll lock me away in that awful little cottage with Parish and Miss Coventry and throw
away the key. And for my penance I’ll spend the rest of my days wandering Dartmoor like Jane Eyre.”
Downstairs, the conversation had grown suddenly heated.
Edward was shouting at the top of his lungs, hurling insults, issuing threats, all in the manner of one clad in a cape and clutching a drawn sword.
Then things quieted down again, and a businesslike conversation ensued.
It sounded as though Graham Seymour was doing most of the talking.
“What’s happening now?” she asked Ingrid.
“Final terms, I imagine.”
“Edward is going to work for the Secret Intelligence Service?”
“Something like that.”
“Are they going to tell him that I’m alive?”
“At some point, perhaps. But not today.”
“I’d rather just . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Disappear?”
“Yes.”
Ingrid smiled sadly. “I know how you feel.”