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’t answer his question.
‘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 break cover. 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 with a banker out there called Timothy Lander.’
‘I’ve heard that name.’ Ben stood up and the backs of his legs felt damp beneath his clothes. ‘McCreery used it. Told me exactly the same thing.’
‘About Lander?’
‘About Lander.’
‘Well, there you go.’ Mark was glad that Ben at last looked appropriately respectful. ‘Five and Six are both trying to find the same guy. I reckon Lander queried what was going on, told Dad about it, and Macklin had him shot before he whiffed the gig to the Russians. Either that or he simply found out that Viktor and Tom were in bed together and threatened to go to the police.’
‘So the whole Kostov thing really is bullshit?’
‘Total bullshit. A red herring. Probably dreamed up by Kukushkin to throw us off the scent. That’s why 2I asked you where the letter came from. Kukushkin’s people in New York probably rented out the PO Box, got hold of Bone’s stationery, then faked the letter. That’s why there was no fixed address. The Russian mob’s full of former KGB and soldiers who did time in central Asia. They’d know all about what Western intelligence got up to out there during the Soviet invasion. It would have been easy to make something up, to take the names of dead men like Mischa and Kostov and re-invent their lives for a smokescreen. I bet Jockis running a trace on the PO Box right this minute, finding out who’s been renting it.’
‘So Jock knows about all this?’ Beneath his relaxed demeanour, Ben felt humbled by the realization that for weeks he had been a small, nearly irrelevant player in a drama of bewildering scale and complexity.
‘Not my end of it,’ Mark replied. ‘I have to keep that hush-hush. Far as I know, Five have just used the local cops in Moscow. The other day my controller said they were finally bringing in SIS to help trace Lander, but otherwise the Friends have been kept right out of it.’
‘Listen to you,’ Ben said. ‘Got all the lingo. The old man would be proud of you. Like looking in a mirror.’
Ben had meant this only lightly, but Mark’s face hummed with pride. He said, ‘Thankyou,’ and reached out to hold Ben’s wrist. His touch was very warm and certain. ‘I’m doing this for him, brother,’ he said. ‘And for us. Got to try and help. Got to dismantle the whole Kukushkin thing. Want to make sure nothing like this can ever happen to anybody else.’
‘Well, I think that’s great.’ And Ben felt that he was twelve or thirteen years old again, looking on his older brother with a rapt and fascinated attention. He possessed little of Mark’s instinctive decency, his natural sense of right and wrong. A part of him dismissed this element of his brother’s personality as wrong-headed and idealistic; yet there was something to be envied in Mark’s secret life, a sense that he was honouring their father’s memory.