a professional, but likely the questions would have come like a machine-gun firing at him and he might have run. You didn’t threaten him and you started him down the hill. Now he’s in free-fall and the proper people can leech on to him. He won’t be allowed off the slide. You did well.’
It was said gruffly, and she blushed, then scooped up the four typed sheets and gave them to him. He had the disk in his hand that held the photo images of the boy in the lobby. The Bear went out. She could see, from her desk, the corner round which Natan had walked. He had seemed so vulnerable. She had wormed into his confidence, and doubted she’d ever hear of him again. She sat for a long time, very still, and wished she smoked. It was like it had never happened. She wondered how many others it would touch, when her signal hit VX, the eyesore by the Thames.
Late morning, and the sun shone on the gardens of the Villa del Aguila. He wandered slowly, contemplatively, across his lawns and avoided the area where the water spray played. Pavel Ivanov now lived far from his ethnic roots, and his new life left him with few regrets. A half-dozen passports carried his photograph – Russian, Bulgarian, Israeli, Australian, Paraguayan and Czech. They were stored in the cellar safe, along with title deeds, more than a million euros, three automatic pistols and two machine-guns, with the documents that made legal the presence in Spain of the forty-four-year-old who had once called St Petersburg home. It was where his wife and son were. They were permitted, twice each year, to join him for a holiday on the Costa.
He thought his garden looked well. Pavel Ivanov was a multi-millionaire but not yet a euro billionaire. Huge success and vast wealth left one constraint, not negotiable, on his behaviour. He should not humiliate his wife. He should not behave in any way that would cause her to be sniggered at. Their marriage, nineteen years before, had brought together a wing of the Tambov gang with a limb of the Malyshev group at a time of internecine feuds and killings over the valuable gasoline and heating-oil contracts that dominated their lives. They were more important than drugs, weapons and the protection industry, which provided businessmen with roofs. She came from a prominent limb; his wing had less influence. The match, though, had opened doors, provided big opportunities. He had been ruthless, had gained authority, had earned the name ‘the Tractor’. Had Pavel Ivanov belittled his wife, Anna, by flaunting a mistress he would have invited assassination. He did not flaunt the woman who analysed investment opportunities in his lawyer’s office, or his affluence.
It was five years, shy of three or four weeks, since Pavel Ivanov had first arrived in Marbella and been shown the villa. He had walked in the garden, sat on the patio and seen the view, the privacy the location guaranteed. He had been told its name, had had it translated – the Villa of the Eagle – and had not queried the asking price. The owners accepted five million euros and the deal had depended on the paperwork going through in a working week. In the holiday complexes to which the tourists came, it would have required three months to get more than a sniff of the keys. He was at the main patio now, built around the pool, and there were kids’ water toys. He had known of the big villa close to his at the time of purchase, that the owner was a banker of old wealth and modern discretion, resident most of the year in Madrid.
He had heard the throb of a veteran engine through the line of pines and high shrubs that marked the eastern boundary of the property. Alex had been with him – Marko had stayed to protect the open doors on to the patio – and they had gone off the lawn, through the bushes and trees to the concrete wall that had tumbler wires and coiled razor wire. Pavel Ivanov had climbed on to Alex’s shoulders to peer over the top – like the Berlin wall,
It was said gruffly, and she blushed, then scooped up the four typed sheets and gave them to him. He had the disk in his hand that held the photo images of the boy in the lobby. The Bear went out. She could see, from her desk, the corner round which Natan had walked. He had seemed so vulnerable. She had wormed into his confidence, and doubted she’d ever hear of him again. She sat for a long time, very still, and wished she smoked. It was like it had never happened. She wondered how many others it would touch, when her signal hit VX, the eyesore by the Thames.
Late morning, and the sun shone on the gardens of the Villa del Aguila. He wandered slowly, contemplatively, across his lawns and avoided the area where the water spray played. Pavel Ivanov now lived far from his ethnic roots, and his new life left him with few regrets. A half-dozen passports carried his photograph – Russian, Bulgarian, Israeli, Australian, Paraguayan and Czech. They were stored in the cellar safe, along with title deeds, more than a million euros, three automatic pistols and two machine-guns, with the documents that made legal the presence in Spain of the forty-four-year-old who had once called St Petersburg home. It was where his wife and son were. They were permitted, twice each year, to join him for a holiday on the Costa.
He thought his garden looked well. Pavel Ivanov was a multi-millionaire but not yet a euro billionaire. Huge success and vast wealth left one constraint, not negotiable, on his behaviour. He should not humiliate his wife. He should not behave in any way that would cause her to be sniggered at. Their marriage, nineteen years before, had brought together a wing of the Tambov gang with a limb of the Malyshev group at a time of internecine feuds and killings over the valuable gasoline and heating-oil contracts that dominated their lives. They were more important than drugs, weapons and the protection industry, which provided businessmen with roofs. She came from a prominent limb; his wing had less influence. The match, though, had opened doors, provided big opportunities. He had been ruthless, had gained authority, had earned the name ‘the Tractor’. Had Pavel Ivanov belittled his wife, Anna, by flaunting a mistress he would have invited assassination. He did not flaunt the woman who analysed investment opportunities in his lawyer’s office, or his affluence.
It was five years, shy of three or four weeks, since Pavel Ivanov had first arrived in Marbella and been shown the villa. He had walked in the garden, sat on the patio and seen the view, the privacy the location guaranteed. He had been told its name, had had it translated – the Villa of the Eagle – and had not queried the asking price. The owners accepted five million euros and the deal had depended on the paperwork going through in a working week. In the holiday complexes to which the tourists came, it would have required three months to get more than a sniff of the keys. He was at the main patio now, built around the pool, and there were kids’ water toys. He had known of the big villa close to his at the time of purchase, that the owner was a banker of old wealth and modern discretion, resident most of the year in Madrid.
He had heard the throb of a veteran engine through the line of pines and high shrubs that marked the eastern boundary of the property. Alex had been with him – Marko had stayed to protect the open doors on to the patio – and they had gone off the lawn, through the bushes and trees to the concrete wall that had tumbler wires and coiled razor wire. Pavel Ivanov had climbed on to Alex’s shoulders to peer over the top – like the Berlin wall,
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