‘I wouldn’t say no contact.’ The waitress picked up two plates from the table, smiled at Mark and walked off. ‘They’re everywhere out there. Hotel foyers, restaurants, sitting in their shiny four-by-fours on Novy Arbat. You can hardly move without bumping into some wanker in a cheap leather jacket who thinks he’s Chechnya’s answer to Al Pacino. Mack’s all for it, of course, loves hanging out with them. Acts like he’s landed a walk-on part in The Sopranos. But they’re not for me. Far as I’m concerned, the mafia makes a living out of other people’s misery and that’s not a good reason to go drinking with them.’
Keen registered this last remark: at SIS he had been trained to be wary of the man who declares his innocence unprompted. It was usually the case that those who made a frequent expression of their moral outrage were most often the ones who turned out to be unscrupulous.
‘Surely Macklin’s just doing his job, just trying to get the best deal for Libra?’ he suggested. ‘I would have thought it was important to keep them onside.’
Mark smirked.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘He keeps them onside, all right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Whenever we’re in Moscow, Tom makes sure to get a hooker up to his suite. Her twin sister as well, if he’s feeling perky. He’d like to call that “keeping them onside”. That way he could run it through expenses.’
Keen frowned.
‘He’s got sucked into that, has he?’
‘Well, let’s face it, no one else is going to sleep with him.’
Keen duly grinned but the conversation appeared to have exhausted itself. As he had both hoped and expected, there had been nothing of any content to unsettle him, nothing he would feel obliged to reveal to Taploe. He felt an odd, protective urge to tell Mark that his flat was most probably wired, that the grass skirts had eyes and ears in the homes of every one of the senior employees at Libra. Yet he was bound by an older loyalty, barred even from advising caution. He placed his chopsticks to one side, put his napkin on the table, and was quiet.
‘You look worried about something.’
Mark had also finished eating.
‘I do?’
‘Yeah.’
Keen frowned and said, ‘No, I’m fine. Just digesting.’
‘Is it Ben?’
The question took him by surprise, if only because, for once in Mark’s company, Keen had not been thinking about Ben. It was a rare occasion on which the two failed to discuss the possibility of reconciliation. Their last two meetings, for example, had descended into an awkward row about Ben’s stubborn refusal to put the past behind him. Mark had been sympathetic to his father’s position, but his first loyalty was to his brother.
‘Have you thought any more about that?’ If this was an opportunity to reopen the subject, then Keen would grasp it.
‘Not much,’ Mark said.
‘I see.’
‘But you’re still eager to make amends, to tell him how sorry you are?’
‘Something like that.’ Keen wondered if Mark had a plan, but his manner seemed dismissive and offhand. ‘Have you seen him lately?’
‘Matter of fact, I have.’ Mark finished off the last of the wine. ‘Had dinner with him the night I got back. Brother cooked up a green curry and spent most of the evening arguing with Alice.’
‘That seems to happen a lot.’
‘All the time lately.’
‘Are they unhappy?’
Mark breathed in deeply and puffed out his cheeks.
‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Sometimes I wonder what he sees in her, beyond the looks, the lifestyle.’
‘Yes, you’ve said that before. But Alice was very helpful to Ben when your mother died, wasn’t she? Isn’t that the case?’
‘That was the case.’ Mark paused briefly. He was reluctant to betray Ben’s confidence, but the wine had got the better of him. ‘But there’s more to it than that,’ he said.
‘Expand.’
A waiter placed two steaming napkins on a plate in front of them. Mark turned his hands heavily through the cloth and then wiped his mouth.
‘It’s like this,’ he said. ‘They’ve been together a long time. Brother helped to get her career started and Alice supported him when he wanted to get into painting. Far as I can tell they have great sex, you know, so that helps when things turn nasty. And besides, a part of me reckons they love all the arguments, that they feed off the aggro and tension.’
Keen leaned back in his chair.
‘Interesting,’ he said, with apparent empathy. ‘So you don’t suppose he’s any closer to the idea of meeting up?’ He was aware that the question was cack-handed, yet determined to make an approach. ‘You don’t think he’d be amenable to, say, a drink or perhaps dinner?’
Mark laughed and stared at the ceiling.
‘Is that what this is about?’ he said. ‘You want to have this conversation every time we meet up?’
‘Until he’s prepared to forgive and forget, yes.’
Keen had not intended to sound angry, but his words had a remarkable effect. Mark, ever the conciliator, resolved to calm his father down.
‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘You just have to understand that Ben is stubborn, that he’s very set in his ways. For him to agree even to talk to you would mean a betrayal of Mum. That’s how he feels about things. We’ve spoken about this. In his mind, it’s either you or her.’
Keen managed to look appropriately dismayed, but he had been taken with a sharp, persuasive idea. Earlier in the day, he had collected a signet ring from a jeweller in Paddington who had reset the bloodstone. The box was in his briefcase. He could use this as a lever, something to play on Mark’s sense of decency.
‘I had your photograph framed,’ he said.
‘My photograph?’
‘Of Ben’s wedding. It’s hanging in the flat.’ Two weeks earlier, Mark had given him a photograph of Ben’s wedding day, taken moments after he had first emerged from the church with Alice at his side. Keen had had the picture enlarged and framed and it now hung in the sitting room of his London flat. ‘I thought that I might give you something in return.’
‘Oh yeah?’
Keen was quickly into the briefcase, leaning down beside his chair. The box was covered in a thin mock-velvet cover and he handed it to Mark.
‘Are we getting married?’
‘Just open it. Have a look.’
‘What is this?’
Keen was improvising.
‘Call it a present. Of a family nature. More accurately described as an heirloom.’
Inside, Mark found the gold-banded signet ring, set with an engraved bloodstone.
‘This is for me?’
‘I’ve wanted you to have it for some time. It was your grandfather’s.’
Mark was oblivious to any deception. Prising the ring from its box he began turning it in his fingers. A small smudge of grease formed on the gold and he wiped it away with his napkin.
‘This is really kind of you,’ he said, finding that he was actually blushing. ‘You sure