Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (9 page)

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 rule–should you ever end up inside–is 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 Association.
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 Dick
strolled back into his spacious 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.

Dick 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.
Dicks 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 life–the only
currencies the Russians trade in are dollars and death–especially when the
money is going to be deposited in a numbered account.

Before Dick 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. Dick took full advantage of
this; after all,
Chenkov
had never traveled beyond
the Russian border before he was appointed to the Politburo. Dick 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 $100,000–seed money–but 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 Dick to retire–on
far more than two million a year.

Dick 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 Dick 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, Dick felt more
confident this time, as both of them seemed to have signed up for the same
retirement policy.

Dick also
helped to cement the relationship 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 Dick
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 Dick.

“You assured me
at our meeting this morning,”
Chenkov
reminded him,
“that there were only a few is to dot and
ts
to cross–an expression I’d not come across before–before 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.

Dick 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.”

Dick 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 Dick.

“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.”

Dick 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 Dick stepped
out of the car.

Dick 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 Dick.

“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 Dick, as he slid a thousand-
rouble
note
across the counter.

Dick’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
.

Dick checked
his watch: just after four. “Home,” he said. “I’ll work in the back of the
car.”

Once Dick’s
Jaguar had emerged from the
carpark
to begin the
journey to Virginia Water, Dick 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.”

Dick 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,
Dick 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. Dick 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.

Dick 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, Dick 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 belt–once 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.

Dick 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.” Dick 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.”
Dick 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.” Dick 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, Dick 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.