‘What are you thinking?’ Mark asked.
‘Just that I hope you’re being careful. And that if you need any help I’ll do what I can.’
‘I appreciate it. Thank you.’
‘And you trust this guy Randall? You really think he knows what he’s doing?’
‘A hundred per cent.’
A cold wind cut across the garden and Mark stood up out of the wicker chair, rolling his neck like a doll. Ben experienced another stab of frustrated envy, a craving to be involved.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?’ he said.
Mark looked at him and stepped down on to the grass. He was touched by Ben’s concern and already feeling the relief of having confessed his secret to the one person he could trust. Perhaps Ben’s presence would take the sting out of the job; perhaps Ben could act as a buffer for all the stress and concern.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing you could really do, mate.’
‘It’s just that I get so fucking bored all day up there in the studio. Maybe if I could just do something, even if it was only for Dad…’
‘Well, look,’ Mark began, recognizing the sentiment, ‘why don’t you come and meet the Russians sometime, make it look like there’s nothing going on? I’m going to a place with Tom on Friday, supposed to befriend one of them and get him on my side.’
Ben leaped on this.
‘Christ, yeah,’ he said. He had not expected such a big role. ‘Sure I’d do that if you thought it would help.’
‘It’ll make good cover.’ Mark was discovering a certain logic to the idea. ‘They’d never suspect anything if the two of us were out together.’
But how would he square it with Randall and Quinn? Why, when he had been so at ease with the masquerade, had Mark suddenly called on Ben for support? He made light of his decision with a joke.
‘It’s actually a lap-dancing place in Finchley Road. You might enjoy yourself.’
‘Or find something out,’ Ben added quickly. ‘Maybe stumble on some useful information…’
‘Well, that’s right. The important thing is not to say anything to anyone, not to let on that you know. And don’t mention what we’ve talked about to Alice, and certainly not to Jock.’
‘Fuck Jock,’ Ben said, with authority.
‘Forget everything until we talk. I’ll give you the address of the place when I’ve got it. Until then keep your mouth shut. We’ll sort everything out tomorrow.’
38
It was a cold night and Ben walked at pace along Finchley Road, searching for the entrance to the club. He hoped to discover Macklin and Mark waiting for him in the foyer, or just pulling up in a cab, because what if somebody he knew — a friend, perhaps, maybe even a gallery owner — spotted him as he walked inside alone? How would that look? A married man of thirty-two using lap-dancers for kicks?
Moving north into residential Hampstead, he noticed red rope cutting off a section of pavement and a chunky, stubbled bouncer breathing clouds of air into thick leather gloves. A blue neon sign hung over the door and two skinny office boys wearing chinos and polo necks had just mustered the courage to go inside.
‘Evening, sir.’
The bouncer was built like a bag of cement. With a single, murderous flick of his eyes he analysed Ben’s shoes, trousers, jacket and tie, and then waved him past the rope. Ben moved towards a small booth inside the door and paid an entrance fee of fifteen pounds. The girl who took the money had a copy of OK magazine hidden beneath the counter.
‘Just head down the stairs, love,’ she said, music thumping from below. ‘Somebody’ll take care of you in the lounge.’
Ben was struck by how smart the club appeared; somehow he had been expecting condoms on the floor, lurid pink lights and posters of models wearing plastic swimwear. At the foot of the staircase he was greeted by a middle-aged waiter wearing black tie and ferocious aftershave. Beyond him, through double doors, he could see girls in next to nothing drifting past the glass.
‘Good evening, sir.’ The waiter had a southern European accent, possibly Greek. ‘I show you to a table?’
‘Actually I’m meeting some people,’ Ben told him.
‘My brother, Mark Keen. One of his colleagues, Thomas Macklin. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them. They’re with some Russians…’
‘Oh yes.’ The waiter seemed to know all about them. ‘The party from Libra,’ he said, leading Ben through the double doors. ‘They haven’t arrived yet. But I can show you to their table. Mr Macklin has made a reservation with us.’
It was like the Savoy all over again, deference and respect if you could pay for it. Two girls, both blonde and staggeringly tall, looked up and caught Ben’s eye as he walked the floor. He smiled back, aware of bikinis and high heels, of other women scoping him from near by. Maybe he should do this more often. The club was comparatively small, a low-ceilinged room no bigger than a decent-sized swimming pool, decked out with expensive mirrors and dimmed lights.
Ben had been expecting something on the scale of Libra, perhaps three or four floors with room to move, but this was an intimate space, with a seating area of just ten or fifteen tables and a tiny spotlit stage skewered by a chrome pole.
He passed the office boys — already sitting down and drinking beers — and was shown to a long table flush against the far wall. Ben sat at the top end, facing the stage, his back tucked into a corner.
The waiter asked if he wanted a drink.
‘That would be great.’ He was making himself feel more comfortable, shuffling into his seat. ‘I’ll have a vodka and tonic, please. Iceand lemon.’
There were five other men in the club. Aside from the office boys, two thick-set Arabs with heavy moustaches were being entertained by a gaggle of girls at a table near the stage. One of them had his right hand on the neck of a bottle of champagne and his left curled around the narrow waist of a woman whose face Ben could not see. Above them, a black girl was dancing in sinuous loops on the stage, one of twenty or thirty lap-dancers dotted throughout the bar. Ben felt exposed, as if he did not belong in such a place. Yet the atmosphere was enticing; it fed into his excitement about the Russians, the sense of being involved in something clandestine and underground. He began looking around for Mark, checking his watch theatrically, and lit a cigarette to give an impression of cool. Maybe they’ve stood me up, he thought, though it was still only ten past ten. Then a song he had hoped never to hear again- Michael Bolton singing ‘How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?’ — began playing on the sound system and a lap-dancer was walking towards him.
She was six foot and blonde, wearing a tight leather dress. Not Ben’s type: plastic and exercised. When she sat down she deliberately let her leg touch his.
‘Hi there, honey.’ An American accent, with breath that smelled of mints. ‘My name’s Raquel. Mind if I join you?’
Ben found himself nodding, but he was looking around the room. He didn’t want to appear rude, but needed to find a way of making the girl go away.
‘This your first time here, honey?’ she asked. Her skin looked tanned under the lights.
‘First time, yes.’
The legs of Ben’s chair caught on a piece of loose carpeting and he was forced to sit at an awkward angle.
‘You’re American,’ he stated obviously.
‘That’s right.’
Everything he could now invent to excuse himself from the conversation sounded like a lie. That he was waiting for friends. That he was happy just sitting alone. That he thought America was a terrific place and really misunderstood by most Europeans. It was like being drunk and trying to persuade someone you were sober. Finally Ben said, ‘I’m waiting for Macklin. For Thomas Macklin.’
And Raquel’s face lit up.
‘Oh, you’re waiting for Tom?’
At last.
‘You know him?’
‘Sure. Everyone knows Tom. Comes in here all the time.’