He was beginning to worry that they were wasting their time. So far, the conversation showed signs of moving along a separate and slowly diverging path. If all they were going to get were her opinions on the melancholy soul-searching of her exiled countrymen, it wasn’t going to help them find out what they wanted to know.
‘This searching for approval,’ he said, to jolly things along. ‘Would it make them dangerous?’
‘All such men are dangerous,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Some worse than others. Those looking for something they have lost inside, for example. What you have to decide, Mr Palmer, is which one you are dealing with.’ She blinked and reached for another cigarette. ‘And that, I cannot tell you for sure. I hear rumours, but it is not fact. All I will say is, try taking away any of their toys and you will very quickly find out how dangerous they can be.’ She smiled, amused by the idea, and lit up in a cloud of smoke.
He decided to try another tack. ‘Have you ever heard of Richard Varley?’ He carefully avoided looking at Riley, but was aware of her turning to stare at him. He spelled out the name.
‘Varley? No.’ Natalya frowned at the tip of her cigarette. ‘I used to know a Varliya, once, but that was Anna — a girl at school. She was good at music, but died young. Her parents drank. Everybody drank. Who is he?’ More smoke billowed towards the window.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. It’s a name we came across.’
‘But is it a real one?’ the professor replied enigmatically and lifted her eyebrows. ‘Is he rich? What does he do?’
Palmer waited, sensing Riley wanted to answer.
‘He’s in publishing,’ she said finally. ‘Business magazines.’
‘Ah. Donald said something about that. If he is in magazines, he is not Russian.’
‘He sounds American.’
Natalya shrugged. ‘Then that is probably what he is. Russians who want to be rich prefer petroleum, metallurgy or real estate. Not publishing.’
‘I see.’
‘These men you speak of — these oligarchs — are ambitious. They wish to dominate… to own. They are what critics would call control freaks. They are also of the earth. The earth and what is in it gives them the control and the ownership they crave.’ Her hand sliced through the smoke like a cleaver. ‘You have men like this, too, of course. It’s not unusual. Just unusual for Russians… until recently, anyway.’
‘What about the magazine?’ said Riley. She produced the copy Richard Varley had given her and passed it across.
Natalya took it and thumbed through it, then turned back to the inside front cover and scoured the publisher’s details. She hummed a few times, then flicked through again before passing it back to Riley with a nod.
‘I have seen this before,’ she said. ‘Is a small publication, but good quality. For where this comes from — Sokhumi in Georgia — very good.’
‘But?’ There was a tone in Natalya’s voice which altered the atmosphere in the room.
‘But nothing. There have been many like this before. They come, they go. This one is around longer than most. But not very big circulation, I think.’
‘At a guess?’
Natalya shrugged. ‘Two hundred copies — maybe three. But not more. Is this the magazine your Richard Varley is running?’
‘Yes.’
Natalya pursed her lips, her mouth elongating like a duck’s bill. Her next words came as a surprise. ‘I do not think so,’ she said finally, the statement drawn out but assured, the tone dry.
‘Sorry?’ Riley leaned forward.
‘This publication,’ the professor said, stabbing a finger towards the magazine, ‘is good. It has a good reputation. But so does Caravan Magazine. You go in caravans?’ She looked between her two visitors, but they merely stared back. She shook her head. ‘Never mind. Is cheap way to take a holiday if you don’t mind rudeness of other drivers and thin walls. But this, this East European Trade, does not make money for Richard Varley. Or anyone else. Believe me.’ She patted her chest again. ‘I know about such things.’
‘Maybe he has other interests,’ Palmer suggested.
‘Almost certainly.’ Natalya agreed. ‘But you must realise these magazines, they are not for direct commercial gain. They are for propaganda.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Is not to make money.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘They are to tell others what you want them to know. No more, no less. The west has them, too. It is nothing new.’ She pursed her lips again and looked longingly at the cigarette packet.
‘But propaganda,’ said Riley, ‘is put out by state organisations… like your former employers.’
‘Of course.’ She nodded vigorously, unaffected by the mention of her previous life. ‘And my former employers, as you call them — the KGB — were very good at this kind of thing. In the sixties, they had a single directorate which was bigger in publishing than many western newspapers.’ She brushed flecks of ash from her knee. ‘But the KGB is no more, of course.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Palmer spoke mildly, the scepticism evident in his voice. ‘And Vladimir Putin’s a boy scout.’
Natalya chuckled appreciatively, a twinkle deep in her eyes. ‘You know the KGB, Mr Palmer?’
He gave her a smile in return. ‘I had to know a bit about them once, for a while. I wouldn’t be overwhelmed if you told me their successors — the FSB — was still doing this kind of work.’
‘Of course.’ She nodded in agreement, and with what might have been a touch of pride. ‘The FSB is responsible for internal security, but also propaganda. Misinformation. It is the way it has always been.’
‘They haven’t changed, then.’
Her next words brought a chill into the small, smoke-filled room. ‘Why should they? If something is not broken, why fix it?’
21
The afternoon was fading by the time Palmer turned south off the King’s Road into Beaufort Street. The choke of exhaust fumes had been washed away on a sharp breeze from the Thames, replaced by the tinny, sour tang of the river itself a couple of hundred yards away. Only a few pedestrians were about, leaving him a clear view of the street all the way down to Battersea Bridge.
There were no obvious signs of a police presence, no figures lurking in doorways, and he turned into the block where Helen Bellamy had lived with the easy manner of someone who belonged.
After leaving Natalya Fisher, he had told Riley he had things to do, and that he’d see her later. He knew she hadn’t believed he was going home to a lunchtime nap and a cup of Earl Grey, but she hadn’t pressed him for an explanation.
The front entrance was locked, as he’d expected. He pressed one of the buttons on the security keypad and waited.
‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice screeched out of the box, tinny and stressed.
‘Police. Sorry to bother you.’
‘God, haven’t you lot finished? Okay.’ The door buzzed and Palmer stepped inside, grateful for the influence of cop shows and easy assumptions wrongly made.
He walked up the stairs, waiting for a door to open, for a head to appear. But whoever had admitted him was clearly uninterested or too busy.
Helen’s flat was on the second floor. There was no tape across the door, no signs that the police might have been here other than the woman’s comment and Palmer’s knowledge of their methods. He waited for his breathing to settle and for the sounds of the building to become familiar and recognisable. If the police — or anyone — were keeping an eye on the place, they wouldn’t be far away and Palmer would know it.
He allowed a few seconds to tick by, then took out a ‘soft’ key and inserted it in the lock. He flexed it gently from side to side, feeling the resistance change as the tumblers moved under the pressure. There was a click and the door opened.
The familiar smell washed over him. Helen’s perfume, softly fragrant and warm, still hung in the air. He closed the door and stood still, absorbing the atmosphere.
He suddenly wished he were somewhere else, far from here. A car horn sounded in the street, jolting him. He had to move, to get on with this. The police might decide to come back. He stepped left into the sitting room, and stopped.