Lost

“An expensive toy.”

“On the contrary—it is my office. I had her built to an American design at a boatyard on the Black Sea near Odessa. You see I take the best from different cultures—American design, German engineering, Italian craftsmen, Brazilian teak and Slav laborers. People often criticize Eastern European nations and say they don't do capitalism well. But the truth is that they operate the purest form of capitalism. If I had wanted to build this boat in Britain I would have had to pay award wages, workers compensation, national insurance, design fees and bribes to keep the unions happy. It's the same when you put up a building. At any stage someone can stop you. In Russia or Latvia or Georgia none of this matters if you have enough money. That's what I call pure capitalism.”

“Is that why you're selling up? Are you going home?”

He laughs mordantly. “Inspector, you mistake me for a patriot. I will employ Russians, I will fund their schools and hospitals and prop up their corrupt politicians but do not expect me to live with them.”

He has moved across to the bar. My eyes flick around the stateroom, almost waiting for the trap to snap shut.

“So why are you selling up?”

“Greener pastures. Fresh challenges. Maybe I'll buy a football club. That seems very popular nowadays. Or I could just go somewhere warm for the winter.”

“I have never understood what people see in hot climates.”

He glances into the darkness of the starboard window. “Each man makes his own paradise, DI, but it's hard to love London.”

He hands me a glass of Scotch and slides the ice bucket toward me.

“Are you a sailor?”

“Not really.”

“Shame. With me it's flying. You ever see that episode of The Twilight Zone where William Shatner looks out of the window of a plane at 20,000 feet and sees a gremlin tearing off pieces of the wing? They made it into a film, which was nowhere near as good. That's how I feel when I step on a plane. I'm the only person who knows it's going to crash.”

“So you never fly?”

He turns over both his palms, as if revealing the obvious. “I have a motor yacht.”

The Scotch burns pleasantly as I swallow but the aftertaste is not like it used to be. All that morphine has deadened my taste buds.

Aleksei is a businessman, accustomed to cutting deals. He knows how to read a balance sheet, to manage risk and maximize profit.

“I might have something to trade,” I announce.

He raises his hand again, this time pressing a finger to his lips. The Russian steps from the companionway looking as if he's been trapped in an ill-fitting suit.

“I'm sure you understand,” says Aleksei apologetically as the bodyguard sweeps a metal detector over me. Meanwhile, he issues instructions via a radio. The engines of the boat rumble and the ice shudders in my glass.

He motions me to follow him along the companionway to the galley where a narrow ladder descends to the lower deck. We reach a heavily insulated door that opens into the engine room. Noise fills my head.

The engine block is six feet high with valves, fuel cocks, radiator pipes, springs and polished steel. Two chairs have been arranged on the metal walkways that run down each side of the room. Aleksei takes a seat as if attending a recital and waits until I join him. Still nursing his drink, he looks at me with an aloof curiosity.

Shouting to be heard above the engines, I ask him how he found Gerry Brandt. He smiles. It is the same indolent foreknowing expression he gave me when I saw him outside Wormwood Scrubs. “I hope you're not accusing me of any wrongdoing, Inspector.”

“Then you know who I'm talking about?”

“No. Who is he?”

This is like a game to him—a trifling annoyance compared to other more important matters. I risk boring him unless I get to the point.

“Is Kirsten Fitzroy still alive?”

He doesn't answer.

“I'm not here to accuse you, Aleksei. I have a hypothetical deal to offer.”

“A hypothetical one?” Now he laughs out loud and I feel my resolve draining away.

“I will trade you the diamonds for Kirsten's life. Leave her alone and you get them back.”

Aleksei runs his finger through his hair, leaving a trail in the gel. “You have my diamonds?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Then hypothetically you are obliged to give them back to me. Why should I have to trade?”

“Because right now this is only hypothetical; I can make it real. I know you planted the diamonds in my house to frame me. Keebal was supposed to get a warrant but I found them first. You think I saw something that night. You think I can hurt you somehow. You have my word. Nobody else has to get hurt.”

“Really?” he asks sarcastically. “Do not attempt a career as a salesman.”

“It's a genuine offer.”