Cat O'Nine Tales And Other Stories Part 4

"Thank you, Mario," I said, and whispered, "by the way, the governor of North Sea Camp asked me to pa.s.s on his best wishes."

"Poor Michael," Mario sighed, "what a sad existence. Can you begin to imagine a lifetime spent eating toad-in-the-hole, followed by semolina pudding?" He smiled as he poured me a gla.s.s of wine.

"Still, maestro, you must have felt quite at home."

Don't Drink the water.

"If you want to murder someone," said Karl, "don't do it in England."

"Why not?" I asked innocently.

"The odds are against you getting away with it," my fellow inmate warned me, as we continued to walk round the exercise yard. "You've got a much better chance in Russia."

"I'll try to remember that," I a.s.sured him.

"Mind you," added Karl, "I knew a countryman of yours who did get away with murder, but at some cost."

It was a.s.sociation, that welcome 45-minute break when you're released from your cell. You can either spend your time on the ground floor, which is about the size of a basketball court, sitting around chatting, playing table tennis or watching television, or you can go out into the fresh air and stroll around the perimeter of the yardabout the size of a football pitch. Despite being surrounded by a twenty-foot-high concrete wall topped with razor wire, and with only the sky to look up at, this was, for me, the highlight of the day.

While I was incarcerated at Belmarsh, a category A high-security prison in southeast London, I was locked in my cell for twenty-three hours a day (think about it). You are let out only to go to the canteen to pick up your lunch (five minutes), which you then eat in your cell.

Five hours later you collect your supper (five more minutes), when they also hand you tomorrow's breakfast in a plastic bag so that they don't have to let you out again before lunch the following day. The only other blessed release is a.s.sociation, and even that can be canceled if the prison is short-staffed (which happens about twice a week).

I always used the 45-minute escape to power-walk, for two reasons: one, I needed the exercise because on the outside I attend a local gym five days a week, and, two, not many prisoners bothered to try and keep up with me. Karl was the exception.

Karl was a Russian by birth who hailed from that beautiful city of St. Petersburg. He was a contract killer who had just begun a 22-year sentence for disposing of a fellow countryman who was proving tiresome to one of the Mafia gangs back home. He cut his victims up into small pieces, and put what was left of them into an incinerator. Incidentally, his feeshould you want someone disposed ofwas five thousand pounds.

Karl was a bear of a man, six foot two and built like a weight-lifter. He was covered in tattoos and never stopped talking. On balance, I didn't consider it wise to interrupt his flow. Like so many prisoners, Karl didn't talk about his own crime, and the golden ruleshould you ever end up insideis never ask what a prisoner is in for, unless they raise the subject. However, Karl did tell me a tale about an Englishman he'd come across in St. Petersburg, which he claimed to have witnessed in the days when he'd been a driver for a government minister.

Although Karl and I were resident on different blocks, we met up regularly for a.s.sociation. But it still took several perambulations of the yard before I squeezed out of him the story of Richard Barnsley.

DON'T DRINK THE WATER. Richard Barnsley stared at the little plastic card that had been placed on the washbasin in his bathroom. Not the kind of warning you expect to find when you're staying in a five-star hotel, unless, of course, you're in St. Petersburg. By the side of the notice stood two bottles of Evian water.

When d.i.c.k strolled back into his s.p.a.cious bedroom, he found two more bottles had been placed on each side of the double bed, and another two on a table by the window. The management weren't taking any chances.

d.i.c.k had flown into St. Petersburg to close a deal with the Russians. His company had been selected to build a pipeline that would stretch from the Urals to the Red Sea, a project that several other, more established, companies had tendered for. d.i.c.ks firm had been awarded the contract, against considerable odds, but those odds had shortened once he guaranteed Anatol Chenkov, the Minister for Energy and close personal friend of the President, two million dollars a year for the rest of his lifethe only currencies the Russians trade in are dollars and deathespecially when the money is going to be deposited in a numbered account.

Before d.i.c.k had started up his own company, Barnsley Construction, he had learned his trade working in Nigeria for Bechtel, in Brazil for McAlpine and in Saudi Arabia for Hanover, so along the way he had picked up a trick or two about bribery. Most international companies treat the practice simply as another form of tax, and make the necessary provision for it whenever they present their tender. The secret is always to know how much to offer the minister, and how little to dispose of among his acolytes.

Anatol Chenkov, a Putin appointee, was a tough negotiator, but then under a former regime he had been a major in the KGB. However, when it came to setting up a bank account in Switzerland, the minister was clearly a novice. d.i.c.k took full advantage of this; after all, Chenkov had never traveled beyond the Russian border before he was appointed to the Politburo. d.i.c.k flew him to Geneva for the weekend, while he was on an official visit to London for trade talks. He opened a numbered account for him with Picket & Co, and deposited $100,000seed moneybut more than Chenkov had been paid in his lifetime.

This sweetener was to ensure that the umbilical cord would last for the necessary nine months until the contract was signed; a contract that would allow d.i.c.k to retireon far more than two million a year.

d.i.c.k returned to the hotel that morning after his final meeting with the minister, having seen him every day for the past week, sometimes publicly, more often privately. It was no different when Chenkov visited London. Neither man trusted the other, but then d.i.c.k never felt at ease with anyone who was willing to take a bribe because there was always someone else happy to offer him another percentage point. However, d.i.c.k felt more confident this time, as both of them seemed to have signed up for the same retirement policy.

d.i.c.k also helped to cement the relations.h.i.+p with a few added extras that Chenkov quickly became accustomed to.

A Rolls-Royce would always pick him up at Heathrow and drive him to the Savoy Hotel. On arrival, he would be shown to his usual riverside suite, and women appeared every evening as regularly as the morning papers. He preferred two of both, one broadsheet, one tabloid.

When d.i.c.k checked out of the St. Petersburg hotel half an hour later, the minister's BMW was parked outside the front door waiting to take him to the airport. As he climbed into the back seat, he was surprised to find Chenkov waiting for him. They had parted after their morning meeting just an hour before.

"Is there a problem, Anatol?" he asked anxiously.

"On the contrary," said Chenkov. "I have just had a call from the Kremlin which I didn't feel we should discuss over the phone, or even in my office. The President will be visiting St. Petersburg on the sixteenth of May and has made it clear that he wishes to preside over the signing ceremony."

"But that gives us less than three weeks to complete the contract," said d.i.c.k.

"You a.s.sured me at our meeting this morning," Chenkov reminded him, "that there were only a few is to dot and ts to crossan expression I'd not come across beforebefore you'd be able to finalize the contract." The minister paused and lit his first cigar of the day before adding, "With that in mind, my dear friend, I look forward to seeing you back in St. Petersburg in three weeks' time." Chenkov's statement sounded casual, whereas, in truth, it had taken almost three years for the two men to reach this stage, and now it would only be another three weeks before the deal was finally sealed.

d.i.c.k didn't respond as he was already thinking about what needed to be done the moment his plane touched down at Heathrow.

"What's the first thing you'll do after the deal has been signed?" asked Chenkov, breaking into his thoughts.

"Put in a tender for the sanitation contract in this city, because whoever gets it would surely make an even larger fortune."

The minister looked round sharply.

"Never raise that subject in public," he said gravely. "It's a very sensitive issue."

d.i.c.k remained silent.

"And take my advice, don't drink the water. Last year we lost countless numbers of our citizens who contracted..." the minister hesitated, unwilling to add credence to a story that had been splashed across the front pages of every Western paper.

"How many is countless?" inquired d.i.c.k.

"None," replied the minister. "Or at least that's the official statistic released by the Ministry of Tourism," he added as the car came to a halt on a double red line outside the entrance of Pulkovo II airport. He leaned forward. "Karl, take Mr. Barnsley's bags to check-in, while I wait here."

d.i.c.k leaned across and shook hands with the minister for the second time that morning. "Thank you, Anatol, for everything," he said. "See you in three weeks' time."

"Long life and happiness, my friend," said Chenkov as d.i.c.k stepped out of the car.

d.i.c.k checked in at the departure desk an hour before boarding was scheduled for his flight to London.

"This is the last call for Flight 902 to London Heathrow," came crackling over the tannoy.

"Is there another flight going to London right now?" asked d.i.c.k.

"Yes," replied the man behind the check-in desk. "Flight 902 has been delayed, but they're just about to close the gate."

"Can you get me on it?" asked d.i.c.k, as he slid a thousand-rouble note across the counter.

d.i.c.k's plane touched down at Heathrow three and a half hours later. Once he'd retrieved his case from the carousel, he pushed his trolley through the Nothing to Declare channel and emerged into the arrivals hall.

Stan, his driver, was already waiting among a group of chauffeurs, most of whom were holding up name cards. As soon as Stan spotted his boss, he walked quickly across and relieved him of his suitcase and overnight bag.

"Home or the office?" Stan asked as they walked toward the short-stay carpark.

d.i.c.k checked his watch: just after four. "Home," he said. "I'll work in the back of the car."

Once d.i.c.k's Jaguar had emerged from the carpark to begin the journey to Virginia Water, d.i.c.k immediately called his office.

"Richard Barnsley's office," said a voice.

"Hi, Jill, it's me. I managed to catch an earlier flight, and I'm on my way home. Is there anything I should be worrying about?"

"No, everything's running smoothly this end," Jill replied. "We're all just waiting to find out how things went in St. Petersburg."

"Couldn't have gone better. The minister wants me back on May sixteenth to sign the contract."

"But that's less than three weeks away."

"Which means we'll all have to get a move on. So set up a board meeting for early next week, and then make an appointment for me to see Sam Cohen first thing tomorrow morning. I can't afford any slip-ups at this stage."

"Can I come to St. Petersburg with you?"

"Not this time, Jill, but once the contract has been signed block out ten days in the diary. Then I'll take you somewhere a little warmer than St. Petersburg."

d.i.c.k sat silently in the back of the car, going over everything that needed to be covered before he returned to St. Petersburg. By the time Stan drove through the wrought-iron gates and came to a halt outside the neo-Georgian mansion, d.i.c.k knew what had to be done. He jumped out of the car and ran into the house. He left Stan to unload the bags, and his housekeeper to unpack them. d.i.c.k was surprised not to find his wife standing on the top step, waiting to greet him, but then he remembered that he'd caught an earlier flight, and Maureen wouldn't be expecting him back for at least another couple of hours.

d.i.c.k ran upstairs to his bedroom, and quickly stripped off his clothes, dropping them in a pile on the floor. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, allowing the warm jets of water to slowly remove the grime of St. Petersburg and Aeroflot.

After he'd put on some casual clothes, d.i.c.k checked his appearance in the mirror. At fifty-three, his hair was turning prematurely gray, and although he tried to hold his stomach in, he knew he ought to lose a few pounds, just a couple of notches on his beltonce the deal was signed and he had a little more time, he promised himself.

He left the bedroom and went down to the kitchen. He asked the cook to prepare him a salad, and then strolled into the drawing room, picked up The Times, and glanced at the headlines. A new leader of the Tory Party, a new leader of the Liberal Democrats, and now Gordon Brown had been elected leader of the Labor Party. None of the major political parties would be fighting the next election under the same leader.

d.i.c.k looked up when the phone began to ring. He walked across to his wife's writing desk and picked up the receiver, to hear Jill's voice on the other end of the line.

"The board meeting is fixed for next Thursday at ten o'clock, and I've also arranged for you to see Sam Cohen in his office at eight tomorrow morning." d.i.c.k removed a pen from an inside pocket of his blazer. "I've emailed every member of the board to warn them that it's a priority," she added.

"What time did you say my meeting was with Sam?"

"Eight o'clock at his office. He has to be in court by ten for another client."

"Fine." d.i.c.k opened his wife's drawer and grabbed the first piece of paper available. He wrote down, Sam, office, 8, Thur board mtg, 10. "Well done, Jill," he added. "Better book me back into the Grand Palace Hotel, and email the minister to warn him what time I'll be arriving."

"I already have," Jill replied, "and I've also booked you on a flight to St. Petersburg on the Sunday afternoon."

"Well done. See you around ten tomorrow." d.i.c.k put the phone down, and strolled through to his study, with a large smile on his face. Everything was going to plan.

When he reached his desk, d.i.c.k transferred the details of his appointments to his diary. He was just about to drop the piece of paper into a wastepaper basket when he decided just to check and see if it contained anything important. He unfolded a letter, which he began to read.

His smile turned to a frown, long before he'd reached the final paragraph. He started to read the letter, marked private and personal, a second time.

Dear Mrs. Barnsley, This is to confirm your appointment at our office on Friday, 30 April, when we will continue our discussions on the matter you raised with me last Tuesday. Remembering the full implications of your decision, I have asked my senior partner to join us on this occasion.

We both look forward to seeing you on the 30th.

Yours sincerely,

d.i.c.k immediately picked up the phone on his desk, and dialed Sam Cohen's number, hoping he hadn't already left for the day. When Sam pick up his private line, all d.i.c.k said was, "Have you come across a lawyer called Andrew Symonds?"

"Only by reputation," said Sam, "but then I don't specialize in divorce."

"Divorce?" said d.i.c.k, as he heard a car coming up the gravel driveway. He glanced out of the window to see a Volkswagen swing round the circle and come to a halt outside the front door. d.i.c.k watched as his wife climbed out of her car. "I'll see you at eight tomorrow, Sam, and the Russian contract won't be the only thing on the agenda."

d.i.c.k's driver dropped him outside Sam Cohen's office in Lincoln's Inn Field a few minutes before eight the following morning. The senior partner rose to greet his client as he entered the room. He gestured to a comfortable chair on the other side of the desk.

d.i.c.k had opened his briefcase even before he'd sat down. He took out the letter and pa.s.sed it across to Sam. The lawyer read it slowly, before placing it on the desk in front of him.

"I've thought about the problem overnight," said Sam, "and I've also had a word with Anna Rentoul, our divorce partner. She's confirmed that Symonds only handles matrimonial disputes, and with that in mind, I'm sorry to say that I'll have to ask you some fairly personal questions."

d.i.c.k nodded without comment.

"Have you ever discussed divorce with Maureen?"

"No," said d.i.c.k firmly. "We've had rows from time to time, but then what couples who've been together for over twenty years haven't?"

"No more than that?"

"She once threatened to leave me, but I thought that was all in the past."

d.i.c.k paused. "I'm only surprised that she hasn't raised the subject with me, before consulting a lawyer."

"That's all too common," said Sam.

"Over half the husbands who are served with a divorce pet.i.tion claim they never saw it coming."

"I certainly fall into that category," admitted d.i.c.k. "So what do I do next?"

"Not a lot you can do before she serves the writ, and I can't see that there's anything to be gained by raising the subject yourself. After all, nothing may come of it. However, that doesn't mean we shouldn't prepare ourselves.

Now, what grounds could she have for divorce?"

"None that I can think of."