This was my mentor, almost my friend over the last five years. The man who had gone out on a limb for me, despite my lack of formal qualifications in Russian. He could do better than that.
I had to know. ‘You will be able to provide me with a reference, won’t you?’
A reference from Russell was crucial. He was well respected in the academic community in the UK. Worldwide, for that matter. Without a good one, I had no chance of getting a job.
The glasses came off again for another polish.
‘That might be difficult,’ said Russell. ‘I can provide you with something, of course. But it will be difficult for me to make it enthusiastic.’
‘Why? What’s wrong? What have they said to you?’
‘Mr Ross at Dekker Ward explained to me the circumstances under which you left their firm.’
‘Which Mr Ross?’
Russell hesitated. ‘I think he said it was Eduardo Ross. I’m not sure.’
‘Oh, yes. And what did he say?’
Russell shifted in his chair. ‘He told me that you had been caught bribing the authorities in Brazil over a transaction there, that this had become public knowledge, and that they’d had to let you go.’
‘That’s bullshit!’
‘I’ve seen the newspaper article, Nick.’ He pulled out a photocopy of the article from Bocci’s newspaper.
‘But Dekker Ward planted that. I can show you another article that says the opposite!’
‘Ross told me you had gone to the press behind their backs as well.’ Russell’s demeanour had changed. He was leaning forward, his jaw jutting out, ready for confrontation.
‘But don’t you want to hear my side of the story?’
‘OK. Fire away.’
So I tried to explain. It was difficult without going into too much detail, but I thought I did a pretty good job of it. But Russell wasn’t listening. He didn’t hear; he didn’t want to hear.
When I had finished, he tapped his pencil on his desk. ‘Basically, Nick, it’s your word against Dekker’s, and the Rio press.’ He tapped the Bocci article in front of him. ‘And at this moment Dekker Ward are crucial to this institution’s future. I can’t afford to doubt them.’
I’d had enough. ‘Russell! You’re being bought!’
‘That’s an absurd accusation!’
‘No, it’s not. If I had come to you from a faceless City institution and said I wanted to go back into academia you wouldn’t have asked any questions. It’s only because these people are promising to pay you money that you’re listening.’
‘I can’t give you a reference in good faith when I know you’ve been involved in bribing government officials.’
‘You know no such thing. All you have is Eduardo Ross’s word, that’s all. This sponsorship comes with strings, and the first string is to ditch me. Your first commercial sponsorship deal, and within a day you’re letting it compromise your independence!’
Russell held up his hands. ‘Now, calm down, Nick. Let’s talk about this Surrey post, shall we?’
‘Forget it!’ I said, and stormed out.
I pedalled back to Primrose Hill in record time, ignoring the pain in my aching back and leg. Russell’s reaction was all too predictable but nonetheless severely disappointing. Since he had become head of the department three years ago, he had made commercial sponsorship the central plank of his strategy for preserving the funding base of the department. Until now, he’d had little concrete success. His position internally within the School was not yet secure. And he was ambitious. So why give it all up for some promising Russian lecturer who still hadn’t got his Ph.D. under his belt?
Because that would have been the right thing to do. Because he was my friend and supporter. Because the School of Russian Studies wasn’t Dekker Ward.
Bastard!
So why had Dekker done it? Was I really that important to them that they wanted to shell out a million or two to keep me out of work? I supposed it was an intelligent move on some level. The School of Russian Studies did have good contacts and knowledge of Russia that Ricardo could tap. And, of course, all Russell had at the moment was promises. Dekker would have plenty of opportunity to back out before they actually put up hard cash.
I stopped at the pub just round the corner from my flat, and bought a pint and a ham sandwich. I thought practicalities. It would be very hard to get a job teaching Russian in a university now. And I probably couldn’t get another job in the City even if I wanted it. I still had six months or so to go on my Ph.D., not including the three or four months it would take just to get me back to where I’d left it. I should probably get my head down and finish that. I had three thousand pounds in my bank account, mostly the residue from the money Ricardo had lent me for clothes. I would try to live on that.
The mortgage payments on my flat were once again going to be impossible to meet. There was still no chance of selling it for more than the amount of the loan. I would have to let it and try to find somewhere cheap to live. Very cheap. Like a squat or something. I looked at the ham sandwich in front of me. I wouldn’t be able to eat out like this in future.
And what future? I looked towards it with an almost total lack of interest. If Isabel were around, or even if I knew she were alive, things would be different. But the uncertainty surrounding her disappearance weighed on me, dragging me down into a sort of pessimistic apathy. I was losing the ability to believe in her survival and, without that, the future looked unbearably grey.
I went back to the flat. It was almost tidy now. Workmen had put up a temporary door where the french windows had been. They would install something more permanent in the afternoon. Luckily the insurance covered that.
I paced through the four small rooms: kitchen, sitting room, bathroom and bedroom. It would be a shame to leave. When Joanna had first bought it, the flat had seemed extravagant, and then it had become a millstone. But there were all those bookshelves that I had spent hours, no, days putting up, shelves that ingeniously held two thousand books. There was the tiny garden: I knew every plant, every weed.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, a rush of anger swept through me. I was losing my flat because of Dekker. I had screwed up my career because of them. They had arranged to have me beaten up. Who the hell did these people think they were? Couldn’t I do something to stop them? Or at least something to hurt them? I wanted revenge, and I wanted it right then.
But what? Exposing Ricardo’s manipulation of Bocci had hurt them, but not enough. They would recover soon. I wanted to do something that would cause them permanent harm.
But what could I do? One unemployed investment banker with two months’ experience. I’d have loved to have been able to blow this money-laundering thing up in their faces. But it would require an extensive international investigation to uncover more, and it didn’t look like the DEA were about to start one, at least not into Dekker itself. I believed Dave when he talked about the indifference of the authorities.
I hated the feeling of powerlessness. There had to be something I could do.
My brooding was interrupted by the phone.
‘Nick? It’s Kate. I heard the terrible news. I was just phoning to see how you were.’
‘Which terrible news?’
I caught the hesitation on the other end of the phone. ‘Well, both things, I suppose. Isabel. And then you losing your job. It must be awful.’
‘It is. And I’ve been broken into and beaten up.’
‘Oh, God! When?’
‘The night before last.’
‘Were you badly hurt?’
‘I was knocked out. My head still hurts. And my back. And leg,’ I said, moving my stiff leg into a more comfortable position.