Free Spy Trade by Matthew Dunn Page A

this morning. His mind raced as he anticipated seventeen possibilities of where Lanes’s information was headed.
    Lanes coughed, grabbed a nearby mug, and drank whatever was left inside it. “I spent two years investigating Gorsky after discovering that KapSet was sitting on circa $5 million but seemed not to be trading, aside from occasional payments being made from the balance sheet to companies or persons who for the most part were unnamed. The company’s account was always topped back up to 5 million by Moscow Vision, and before that, Trans Forex. I discovered that one of the persons receiving regular, but modest, sums of money was a Bahraini called Arzam Saud.”
    This was excellent. It was the first possibility Will had not only considered but hoped for. “If KapSet didn’t declare the names of the individuals and companies it was paying, how did you ascertain Saud was one of the cash recipients?”
    Lanes smiled. “I’m an investigative journalist. I have to be sneaky. Bit like you lot I guess. Saud and Gorsky were coinvestors in some European property deals. The deals were legit as far as I could tell.”
    “You investigated Saud?”
    The journalist nodded. “Young Bahraini man. Inherited money. Thinks a bit too highly of himself as far as I can tell.”
    “And it occurred to you to check Saud’s business records on the long shot that he just might have been one of the guys being paid by KapSet.”
    “It was a long shot. I had no suspicions. But I thought to myself, if KapSet ain’t telling anyone what it does, what if there are looser tongues among the end users. Saud wasn’t as savvy as KapSet. His company and private official returns named KapSet as a payor.”
    “And you will have asked yourself why Saud needed KapSet money when he was a coinvestor with Gorsky and independently wealthy?”
    “Of course. That nagged me. I did some further research. Transpires, the KapSet money were sweeteners to keep Saud in the property deals.”
    “Sweeteners?”
    “Bribes. But there’s nothing illegal in that. Leastways, not when you’re dealing with Russian and Arab laws that turn a blind eye when money’s to be made.”
    Will didn’t articulate what he was thinking. He asked, “How did you get access to KapSet’s company records?”
    Lanes stubbed out his cigarette, withdrew another, seemed to be contemplating the merits or otherwise of lighting it, said, “Fuck it,” to himself and struck a match. After inhaling on the tobacco, he said, “KapSet was registered in the Dubai International Financial Centre. Tax-free zone in the center of Dubai. Officially, DIFC is there to attract banks to set up in the Emirates. Dubai thinks it’s going to be the next City of London or Wall Street. It ain’t. It’s a tart and will drop its panties for anyone. So, it licenses construction companies, oil refineries, consultancies, pretty much anyone who’s prepared to pay up for sticking its dick in Dubai. It was easy to find out which DIFC employee was responsible for administering the DIFC legalities of the company’s establishment. She was a rather pretty Lebanese woman called Nadia. I made it my business to get to know her.”
    “Did your employer The Independent newspaper know your methods?”
    “Methods?”
    “You slept with Nadia to get information.”
    “I didn’t say I slept . . .”
    “I’m not here to judge, and nor will I breathe a word to the paper that you broke journalistic guidelines. All I’m interested in are facts.”
    Lanes looked coy. “I brushed myself up. Made myself look better than”—he slapped his chest—“this. Visited a men’s grooming salon; put on my best suit; wore a gold watch that was given to me by a politician who wanted to thank me for keeping photos I had of him out of the paper.” He patted his gut. “Couldn’t do anything about this, though. But that didn’t matter. If anything, it helped. In Dubai, if you’re fat, you’re rich. It’s an