Free Spy Trade by Matthew Dunn

smelled of stale oil, and its sink was overflowing with dirty dishes; and the living room was ramshackle, crammed with mismatched furniture, stinking of tobacco, with books, magazines, more newspapers, and a desk that contained a computer, brimming ashtrays, laptop, iPad, three cell phones, and a tangled mess of cables. White-ceramic bowls were scattered in various parts of the room, catching droplets of rainwater that were falling from leaks in the ceiling.
    Will sat in a chair. “Mr. Lanes—are you well?”
    Eddie Lanes removed his sodden jacket, tossed it onto a couch, rubbed his wet hands over his belly, and lit a cigarette. “Are you breaking the ice or hinting I should see a doctor?”
    “Breaking the ice.”
    The journalist asked, “You want a coffee? Maybe something stronger?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “You mind if I fix myself . . . ?”
    “Mr. Lanes—this won’t take long.”
    Lanes grabbed his desk chair, swiveled it around, and sat in it. His weight caused the hydraulic seat-height adjuster to sink. “Fucking thing,” he muttered as he half stood, adjusted it to the correct height, and sat back down. “What do you want?”
    “Information about a man called Viktor Gorsky.”
    Lanes’s eyes narrowed, his hostility replaced by an expression of uncertainty. “Gorsky?”
    “The billionaire you were investigating. Why were you investigating him?”
    Lanes sucked hard on his cigarette, causing it to burn down to its stub. “Just because you’re Thames House doesn’t mean I have to talk to you.”
    “Actually, it does.”
    “You got proof of who you say you are?”
    Will smiled. “Regrettably, if you ring Thames House and ask it to verify the identity of one of its employees, it won’t comply.” He pointed toward the smeared window, outside of which was the police car. “But by all means telephone that young man’s chief constable or the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. They know I’m here, and they’ve given me their blessing to speak to you and obtain your cooperation.”
    Lanes lit another cigarette. “I’ve not broken any laws.”
    “To my knowledge, you haven’t. And if you had, I wouldn’t care. All that matters to me is that police resources are allocated to you to ensure you’re kept safe. I know they’re not here twenty-four/seven, but it still takes an hour out of their time to drive over here and check you’re okay. They could be doing other work. In return for your protection, I would expect you to be cooperative with us.”
    Lanes tapped his cigarette over the ashtray by his side. “If I tell you what I know, you’ll protect my name? That’ll be the end of it?”
    “I can assure you of the former but not the latter.”
    “Not the latter?” Lanes frowned.
    “Much depends on your level of cooperation.”
    The journalist placed his hand on top of his computer. “I used to have it all stored in here. But when I got the jitters, I deleted all the files and wiped the hard drive. Everything I know is stored in my head.”
    Will was silent.
    Lanes scratched his stubbly chin, averted Will’s gaze for a moment, nodded, and returned his attention to the fake MI5 official. “It started with a bank called Trans Forex.”
    “I’ve never heard of it.”
    “Few have. It was Russian. Very low-profile. Couple of years ago, it went into liquidation. I had a hunch there might be a story in there so started doing some probing. The liquidation records had to be made public, so my starting point was easy. Turns out Trans Forex was bankrolling an offshore company called KapSet and turns out that company is owned by Gorsky. Also turns out Gorsky was a director and shareholder in Trans Forex and is now a director in a very newly established bank called Moscow Vision. Guess what. Moscow Vision is now bankrolling KapSet.”
    Even though they were several feet apart, Will could smell whiskey on Lanes’s breath. He wondered if the smell had come from drinking the night before or