The Crash, page 34
I’m leaning on the bar, waiting for the barista, when my BlackBerry vibrates.
It’s Jess. I smile in anticipation.
Hi darling. Jackson is going to give me an interview, on both Athena and NewGate. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. So I’ll travel with him in Primakov’s helicopter down to Zurich, then take the train back up the mountain. Miss you. Love you. xxx
I read it twice. The second time in blind panic. This can’t be happening. Please God. This must not happen. I ring her, but I’m sent straight to voicemail: no signal, or the phone is switched off.
I send a text. Don’t get on the helicopter. I’ll explain when I see you. YOU MUST NOT LEAVE DAVOS.
Without stopping to get my coat, I run to her hotel. Maybe she hasn’t left yet. In my rush, I almost fall on the icy stairs up to the Steigenberger. When I get there I have to queue to go through the security scanners. It’s intolerable. I grind my teeth. Every second standing in line is agonising. I try to ring: again, and again, and again. Nothing. I am flapping and talking aloud attracting quizzical looks. I must calm down.
I’ll call Primakov. Tell him not to give Jess a ride. He’ll understand; he’ll stop it. But he’s not picking up. I text him.
When I finally get through the scanners to the hotel lobby, there’s no sign of Jess.
The heliport. I should have gone there straightaway.
I go back to the Promenade. Where on earth are the taxis?
‘Hey, Gil,’ says the woman waiting next to me at the cab rank. It’s Irena Levin, a Bloomberg journalist who used to work for me at the FC in the 1990s.
‘Hi.’
‘You OK? You look stressed.’
‘I—’
I’m interrupted by a dull thud, maybe from a mile or so away.
Irena cocks her head. ‘Is that an explosion?’
Every part of me turns to ice. I can’t move or think.
‘You OK, Gil?’ says Irena. ‘You’ve gone white as a sheet. Probably just avalanche control at the ski resort.’
‘Will you excuse me?’ I walk away. Where should I go, what should I do? My mind is having terrifying, uncontrollable thoughts. This is hell. What have I done?
My phone buzzes. I snatch it out of my pocket as if pulling it out of a fire. Please be Jess. Please be Jess. Please be Jess.
It’s Primakov. Come up the mountain and we’ll talk.
He’s rented the landmark chalet at the top of Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain, on the far side of the Schatzalp, the former tuberculosis sanatorium. I run along Obere Strasse to the funicular station, then endure an unbearable ten-minute wait for the Schatzalp-Bahn carriages to be cranked down the mountainside. A minor British royal engages me in conversation. Is this my first World Economic Forum? What do I think of it? She’s here to highlight the scandal of illiteracy among young girls in developing countries. She seems well-intentioned and nice. But I can’t concentrate. All my tics have been triggered. If anyone’s watching closely they’ll see a lunatic rocking and muttering spells to ward off demons.
We chug up the mountain in the cable car. Once at the top, I head up the path, through some kind of citadel, into the former sanatorium, which has been turned into a dowdy, vast hotel. I spring up the stairs, out the other side, over a moat, and then left down a path to a long two-storey house.
The door opens before I arrive. A blonde woman, in a figure-hugging jersey dress, says Mr Primakov is having drinks in the front room. Would I care to join him? I rush through.
Primakov is sitting on a vast brown leather sofa, in front of full-length windows that give spectacular views over the Alps. Next to him is Lydia, Elliott’s wife. A bottle of Krug is open on the glass table in front of them. They are celebrating. It’s unbearable.
‘I thought we had an understanding,’ I stutter. ‘I thought . . .’ I can’t bring myself to say Jess’s name.
Primakov gestures to a servant, who brings over a third champagne glass and fills it. ‘If we had an understanding, Mr Peck, you may rest assured I would honour it. Sit down and join us?’
Is he really so heartless, so ruthless? Does life not mean anything to him? The person I care about most in the whole world has just smashed into the mountain, and he is offering me champagne.
I feel dizzy and clasp the back of an armchair. I try to compose the question I have to ask, when someone circles their arms around my waist.
‘Hello, my love.’
Jess. Jess!
Thank you God, thank you God, thank you God.
I turn and hug her harder than I’ve hugged anyone. ‘Darling! I thought you’d . . .’
I’m overwhelmed. I can barely talk. It’s the same rush of redemption as breaking the surface of Elliott’s lake. My life was over and now it’s begun again. I have to keep staring at her, holding her, making sure this is not a dream.
She gives me a bemused look. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I . . . just . . . didn’t expect to see you.’
‘Mr Primakov rang the heliport. The officials there gave me a message that you needed me urgently and I wasn’t to take the trip. So I told Jackson I’d contact him in London.’
‘Thank God,’ is all I can say.
Over her shoulder, I hear the buzz of Primakov’s phone, and then his clipped voice speaking to someone. ‘Yes . . . Yes . . . All of them? You are sure? That is terrible.’
He clears his throat to get our attention. ‘Shocking news. My helicopter crashed soon after take-off. Everyone on board is dead.’
Now it’s my turn to hold up Jess as she goes limp in my arms. ‘What?’
‘You are very lucky to be alive, Ms Neeskens.’
She pulls back from me, face taut with shock. But her logical brain is already making the connections that will be difficult for me.
‘Did you know?’
‘I heard the explosion from down the hill. I worried.’ I can see she is unconvinced. ‘You know me. I fear the worst, especially when it comes to those I love.’
She pulls back from me. And turns to Primakov. ‘Johnny Todd was on that flight. And Jackson, and Ravel.’
Primakov nods.
‘And Elliott,’ I add.
I’d forgotten that Lydia, Alex’s now-widow, is on the sofa with Primakov. I turn to her to apologise for my lack of tact, but she seems unconcerned. Perhaps in shock. She takes another sip of her champagne. Condensation frosts the icy glass.
Jess is shaking her head. ‘Elliott wasn’t on board.’
Lydia and I stare at her.
‘Lucky escape,’ says a voice behind me.
I turn. It’s Elliott. ‘Alex drove me back,’ says Jess. She explains that he’d decided to stay after receiving a distressed call from one of his clients, a Hollywood actor, who was snapped with a Russian escort at Elliott’s party – and whose wife took exception when she saw the photo in the New York Post.
‘Luck of the devil,’ says Alex. He crosses to his wife and wraps his hands around both her wrists. ‘I hope you weren’t worried about me.’
‘Of course not, darling,’ she says. ‘Nothing hurts you.’ Her face is dry, her makeup flawless. Not a speck of mascara dislodged.
‘I should get back to my chalet,’ Elliott says. ‘I need to organise how we contextualise this terrible tragedy for the media.’
He’ll be spinning for Johnny Todd. It’s all about curating the legacy.
I look at Primakov, who is busy refilling his champagne glass. He winks at me.
‘Such a tragedy,’ I say.
‘What tragedy?’ he replies. ‘The stupid greedy Jew has lost a helicopter. I can afford it.’
Chapter 30
D
EATH IS AN END. BUT not for those left behind. I thought the crash – the deaths of Todd, Jackson and Ravel – would be justice for Clare and for Marilyn. But the justice is shallow. It is too private. Todd should have been tried, condemned and executed in the court of public opinion.
Instead, he’s being lionised. The media coverage of the deaths goes on day after day. The prime minister puts out a statement about how Johnny Todd will be seen alongside Churchill and Thatcher as one of the great prime ministers of our age, and how the country is less for the deaths of him, Ravel and Jackson. The press lauds Jackson and Ravel as business geniuses, the cream of a younger generation of British entrepreneurs. As he said he would, Elliott is managing their respective images. Even in death, they’re still winning.
For the first time, there’s a shadow over my relationship with Jess. She doesn’t say anything, but she’s too smart to believe they died by pure chance. She’s waiting for me to tell her how I knew to keep her off the helicopter – and she wonders why the only corpse not to be discovered was that of the pilot, the sole individual employed by Primakov. She doesn’t believe in luck, intuition or foresight. There’s never been a big secret separating us before, and I know I’ll have to find a way to dispel it. Or our love will wither and die in this dark shadow.
*
It’s a week after Davos, and I am in the prime minister’s office on a white sofa. There’s a pot of tea and a jug of coffee between us, plain digestives on a plate.
‘I ask for chocolate. Every day,’ Tudor complains. ‘You’d think the prime minister could have any biscuit he wanted, but chocolate is not on the approved list. Nothing I can do about it.’
‘There are worse privations. Are we here to talk about biscuits?’
He shakes his head. He’s aged in the last week. When I saw him on TV delivering the eulogy at Johnny Todd’s funeral, I was struck by how grey and washed-out he was. Despite all the rivalry between the two men, they were partners through almost twenty years of brutal politics. Without Johnny, he’s smaller.
‘PTBG,’ he says.
‘What about it?’
‘The Saudis have pulled out.’
I don’t hide my surprise. ‘I didn’t know they could.’
‘Only heads of agreement were signed. No money was handed over. Apparently the death of Ravel counts as force majeure. He was supposed to run the thing for them.’
‘Are you giving me this as a story?’ It would make the NewGate scoop look like small potatoes.
‘I’m asking you what to do. As I am sure you know, though we’ve tried to keep it quiet, the bank is bust without the Saudi capital.’
‘Yes. I was aware.’ I pretend to think for a moment, though he’s surely worked out the answer already. ‘Seems to me it’s all pretty straightforward. You have to buy the bank. You have to take it into public ownership.’
‘It’s huge, though. Balance sheet pretty much the same size as the national debt. Quite a liability. A whole different ball game to NewGate – which, by the way, is ours again, now that Jackson’s popped his clogs.’
I top up my black coffee, giving a wide berth to the digestives. ‘Yes, there’s a potential cost. But there’s also an opportunity. The City, the banks, they were out of control. You can be the new sheriff in town. You can clean them up. And, by the way, this banking debacle is not a uniquely British phenomenon. Banks are going to tumble like Skittles all over the world. You can be a pioneer, set an example, show the world how to protect citizens’ hard-won savings and ensure credit continues to be extended to the businesses that provide jobs.’
‘Maybe.’ He glances at the wall, where a framed photograph of Todd has been hastily hung, edged in black. ‘What do you think Johnny would do?’
I put down my coffee cup, careful not to spill any. ‘Fuck Johnny. He’s dead.’
*
From Downing Street, I go to Television Centre. I write the predictable blog about the looming government rescue of PTBG, and do the first of what will be twenty-odd live broadcasts on the biggest nationalisation in British history: from the PM programme with Eddie Mair, to the 18.00 Radio Four news half hour and the Six O’Clock News on television, to endless two-ways on the News Channel, and on and on and on. Against my better judgement, I finish with Newsnight. Way too late: I’ll be exhausted tomorrow.
Somewhere in between being mic-ed up, made-up, telling the presenters about core capital and credit derivatives, I find a few precious seconds of time to think. And as I bicycle back to Queen’s Park, I’ve made my decision.
When I arrive, I head for the kitchen. Jess is sitting at the table, answering emails. No need for a preamble.
‘We have to talk about what happened in Davos.’ I search her face for encouragement, terrified of what I’m about to say next. If I get this wrong, I’ll lose everything.
She closes the laptop. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘I knew Primakov was going to assassinate them. In fact, I organised it.’
She nods. ‘How?’
I sit down and play her the recording that I made on my Olympus, Jackson’s antisemitic rant when he thought the microphones were off after our interview. He’s not going to miss a billion or so. He stole it all in the first place. Just another greedy Russian Jew. He can afford it. If he doesn’t want to help us, who gives a fuck? We can manage perfectly well without him.
‘Primakov didn’t care about the money. I don’t think he even minded that I put out stories that damaged his interests. But he wouldn’t be played for a fool. Not by Jackson and Todd. Not by anyone.’
‘You gave him the recording?’
‘After I was mutilated by Elliott, I had a lot of time to think. I couldn’t let them get away with what they did. They’d only do it again. The world is better off without them. As Dad used to say, “Don’t get mad, get even.”’
I tell her about a long conversation I had with Primakov when I was convalescing in her bed, and the phone call I made outside the Alte Post restaurant, after I found out precisely when Todd would be leaving.
I’m under no illusions about Primakov. He may well be responsible for Robin Muller’s murder. I haven’t asked him. Maybe I should care.
‘Have I done the wrong thing?’
‘Yes.’ Jess scratches at a knot in the wood of the kitchen table, refusing to meet my eye. I feel myself shrivelling into my chair. I’ve lost her. I go over and over in my mind what a fool I’ve been, that my life is over, that I should never have been so stupid and reckless.
But when she looks up, her eyes are bright and her face is calm. ‘Sooner or later, doing what we do, we’d have come up against Todd and his people again. And if we had gone against their interests in any way, they would have had no compunction in killing you, killing me, killing Amy.’
I look deep into the darkness of her pupils. They tell me it’s going to be OK.
‘It’s just a bit of a disappointment that Elliott dodged it.’
The air I didn’t know I was holding in pours out. I slump forward, reach forward across the table and take her hands.
‘I should have told you. But I didn’t want to implicate you.’
‘I had a right to know,’ she says. ‘Next time you’re thinking of doing something quite so – well – radical, would you mind discussing it with me first? If we’re a team, I get a vote.’
‘You do. I am an idiot. I wasn’t myself.’
That gets a laugh. ‘You were completely yourself. You’re a lone wolf. But now you have to learn to hunt in a pack.’
‘Of two?’
‘It’s a start.’
I take a bottle of wine from the rack and start to wind in the corkscrew. ‘I still don’t feel that justice has been done.’
‘Agreed. Todd is a martyr, Jackson’s a saint, Ravel’s a genius and Elliott is still alive.’
The cork comes out with a pop. ‘I have a plan.’
‘You normally do.’
*
Three days later, we’re walking along the Embankment with Kim Jansen. I’m mildly surprised she agreed to see us so readily: it could be residual guilt, but more likely it’s the legitimate fear of what we have on her. It’s a grey, dark day in early February, when the wind coming off the Thames is damp and feels colder than the Swiss Alps.
‘I’ve been reflecting on the well-known fact that the dead can’t sue,’ I say.
Kim darts a glance at me. ‘They can’t be charged with a crime, either, if that’s what you want.’
‘Not in a court of law. But there are other forums where people are judged.’
She stops and turns towards me.
‘Jess and I are going to publish and broadcast everything we know, about the deaths of Clare and Marilyn, about Chris Ravel’s illegal arms sales to terrorists, about how he sabotaged NewGate’s servers, about Jackson’s blackmailing of Marilyn. About how a recent prime minister was up to his neck in all of it.’
‘You can print that?’
‘As I said, the dead can’t sue. And we have detailed notes, we have copies we made of some of the diaries, we have photographic evidence.’
Kim digs her hands in her pockets and starts walking again. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Maybe you can understand how I felt when they took my daughter. As a mother I can never forget, or forgive.’
‘I told you, I was not involved—’
Jess cuts her off. ‘We know you collaborated with Elliott and Ravel in trying to intimidate us. I can only guess why you did. Maybe Elliott has compromising pictures of you too, from your Malmsey days, pictures that would destroy your chances of becoming the first female commissioner of the Met, if they were ever printed in the Globe.’
Kim continues to walk. Bolt upright, staring forward, almost as though she daren’t acknowledge our presence.
I pick up the thread. ‘I don’t know if you intended us harm. You certainly did us harm. We can, however, forget it happened, in return for something.’
‘What do you want?’ Kim sighs.
‘This is our offer,’ says Jess. ‘You give us back Marilyn’s diaries. All of them. They are more properly Gil’s than yours, in any case. The BBC and FC will shortly publish our joint investigation into the deaths of Clare and Marilyn, and the rottenness at the heart of PTBG, MHH and Lulworth. You will respond in a press release, that we will pre-agree, promising a formal Met investigation.’
