The Silent Oligarch: A Novel by Christopher Morgan Jones Page B
Authors: Christopher Morgan Jones
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with no bag to wheel around like a helpless dependent made him feel light and purposeful, somehow more agile. Today the coat was weighing him down.
No matter. He would go straight to the hotel. Unusually, he had only one meeting in Berlin, and that he had not yet arranged. Through some mild subterfuge he had learned from Gerstman’s secretary that he would be in Berlin until Friday, after which he would be traveling for several weeks. Today was Tuesday. He had spent some time trying to find or engineer an introduction to him through some shared acquaintance, but without success. So now he had arrived with no plan, his only thought being that to be in Berlin would make it more difficult for Gerstman to decline a meeting.
Webster didn’t know the city—he had been here only once before, and that for a meeting at the airport with a client from Ecuador—and now he wasn’t really taking it in. He was preoccupied by what he wanted from Gerstman. To see Malin’s weaknesses; to understand Lock; to verify Knight’s theory. Ideally, to find a lead that would support Tourna’s allegations of massive corruption. As the thought came to him he knew it was ridiculous to expect so much. Perhaps the true value of talking to Knight had been to show him this was hopeless. He chided himself for failing to recognize early enough the one objection to the case that really mattered: that it was impossible. It was laughable to think that he and Hammer and a ragbag of failed spies and conflicted journalists posed any threat to a man like Malin. They were an instrument of Tourna’s vanity, and vain enough themselves.
But he would still try. You never knew. If Gerstman was nursing a grudge that hadn’t yet played out, if he saw the opportunity to take revenge, well, you never knew. It happened. What one man knows can bring down an organization. Every so often.
It was noon as they approached the western center of the city. He decided to have a look at his target first and check in to the hotel later, so he asked the driver to take him to the western end of Kurfürstendamm where Gerstman had his offices, on a side street just around the corner from the theater. Webster paid his fare and sat on a bench opposite the nineteenth-century building. With luck Gerstman would go out for his lunch; Europeans, sensibly, usually did.
With an eye on the door he went through his messages. Tourna had called when he was on the plane. He was going to be in London in a fortnight’s time and wanted to discuss progress. If there wasn’t any movement by then, thought Webster, that might be the time to stop. The very thought made his spirits sink.
At a quarter past, people began leaving the building in ones and twos. Webster hoped that he would recognize Gerstman from his picture; he had no idea of his height or coloring. A little after half past, a tall, rather sleek man appeared, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie; this was Gerstman. Walking with him was someone shorter and broader whom Webster recognized as Gerstman’s partner, Prock. Webster followed them at a distance of perhaps twenty yards. The two men were walking briskly enough, and talked all the while. After five minutes they went into an Italian restaurant, not particularly smart, and there Webster left them, returning to his bench.
Exactly an hour later Gerstman and Prock returned. Webster waited five minutes and then called the main Finist office number. He spoke to the receptionist, then to Gerstman’s secretary; he explained that his name was Benedict Webster, that he was calling from a company called Ikertu Consulting, and that he would like to speak to Mr. Gerstman about a subject of shared interest. There, he thought, now we’re out in the open. She told him that she was very sorry but Mr. Gerstman was not available. Had he gone out? Yes he had. When would he return? She couldn’t say. Webster thanked her and hung up.
Finist’s number was Berlin 6974 5600. Webster
No matter. He would go straight to the hotel. Unusually, he had only one meeting in Berlin, and that he had not yet arranged. Through some mild subterfuge he had learned from Gerstman’s secretary that he would be in Berlin until Friday, after which he would be traveling for several weeks. Today was Tuesday. He had spent some time trying to find or engineer an introduction to him through some shared acquaintance, but without success. So now he had arrived with no plan, his only thought being that to be in Berlin would make it more difficult for Gerstman to decline a meeting.
Webster didn’t know the city—he had been here only once before, and that for a meeting at the airport with a client from Ecuador—and now he wasn’t really taking it in. He was preoccupied by what he wanted from Gerstman. To see Malin’s weaknesses; to understand Lock; to verify Knight’s theory. Ideally, to find a lead that would support Tourna’s allegations of massive corruption. As the thought came to him he knew it was ridiculous to expect so much. Perhaps the true value of talking to Knight had been to show him this was hopeless. He chided himself for failing to recognize early enough the one objection to the case that really mattered: that it was impossible. It was laughable to think that he and Hammer and a ragbag of failed spies and conflicted journalists posed any threat to a man like Malin. They were an instrument of Tourna’s vanity, and vain enough themselves.
But he would still try. You never knew. If Gerstman was nursing a grudge that hadn’t yet played out, if he saw the opportunity to take revenge, well, you never knew. It happened. What one man knows can bring down an organization. Every so often.
It was noon as they approached the western center of the city. He decided to have a look at his target first and check in to the hotel later, so he asked the driver to take him to the western end of Kurfürstendamm where Gerstman had his offices, on a side street just around the corner from the theater. Webster paid his fare and sat on a bench opposite the nineteenth-century building. With luck Gerstman would go out for his lunch; Europeans, sensibly, usually did.
With an eye on the door he went through his messages. Tourna had called when he was on the plane. He was going to be in London in a fortnight’s time and wanted to discuss progress. If there wasn’t any movement by then, thought Webster, that might be the time to stop. The very thought made his spirits sink.
At a quarter past, people began leaving the building in ones and twos. Webster hoped that he would recognize Gerstman from his picture; he had no idea of his height or coloring. A little after half past, a tall, rather sleek man appeared, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie; this was Gerstman. Walking with him was someone shorter and broader whom Webster recognized as Gerstman’s partner, Prock. Webster followed them at a distance of perhaps twenty yards. The two men were walking briskly enough, and talked all the while. After five minutes they went into an Italian restaurant, not particularly smart, and there Webster left them, returning to his bench.
Exactly an hour later Gerstman and Prock returned. Webster waited five minutes and then called the main Finist office number. He spoke to the receptionist, then to Gerstman’s secretary; he explained that his name was Benedict Webster, that he was calling from a company called Ikertu Consulting, and that he would like to speak to Mr. Gerstman about a subject of shared interest. There, he thought, now we’re out in the open. She told him that she was very sorry but Mr. Gerstman was not available. Had he gone out? Yes he had. When would he return? She couldn’t say. Webster thanked her and hung up.
Finist’s number was Berlin 6974 5600. Webster
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