A Most Wanted Man by John le Carré Read Free Book Online Page A

fit?” she demanded, challenging him with her unforgiving stare.
    “Does what fit what?”
    “Is the number I have just given you a reference in use at Brue Frères Bank? Or is it not?” As if addressing a recalcitrant child.
    Brue considered her question—or more accurately, how to avoid it. “Well now, Frau Richter, you place heavy emphasis on client confidentiality as I do,” he began easily. “My bank doesn’t broadcast the identity of its customers, or the nature of their transactions. I’m sure you respect that. We disclose nothing we’re not obliged to disclose in law. If you say Mr. Lipizzaner to me, I hear you. If you quote a reference number to me, I consult our records.” He paused to allow some acknowledgment but her face was set in resolute opposition. “You yourself, I am sure, are as honest as the day,” he went on. “Of course you are. However, you’d be surprised how many tricksters there are in the world.” He signaled to the waiter.
    “He’s not a trickster, Mr. Brue.”
    “Of course not. He’s your client.”
    They were standing. Who had stood first, he didn’t know. Probably she had. He hadn’t expected their meeting to be so short and, despite the chaos raging in him, he found himself wishing it were longer. “I’ll call you when I’ve completed my researches. How’s that?”
    “When?”
    “It depends. If I draw a blank, then very little time at all.”
    “Tonight?”
    “Possibly.”
    “Are you going back to your bank now?”
    “Why not? If it’s a compassionate situation, as you seem to suggest, one does what one can. Obviously. We all do.”
    “He’s drowning. All you have to do is hold out your hand.”
    “Yes, well, I’m afraid that’s a cry I hear rather often in my profession.”
    His tone sparked her anger. “He trusts you,” she said.
    “How can he, if we’ve never met?”
    “All right, he doesn’t trust you. But his father did. And you’re all he’s got.”
    “Well, it’s very confusing. For both of us, I’m sure.”
    Shouldering her rucksack, she marched off down the lobby to the swing doors. On the other side of them, the top-hatted doorman was waiting with her bicycle. The rain was still pelting down. She extracted a shell hat from the wooden box strapped to the handlebars, set it on her head, buckled it, then pulled on a pair of waterproof trousers. Without a glance or wave, she was gone.
     
    The Frères strong room lay in a semi-basement at the back of the building. Twelve feet by eight were the dimensions, and there had been bad jokes with the architect about how many defaulting creditors it could contain, hence its house nickname of oubliette. With the advance of modern technology, other private banks might have dispensed altogether with archives and even strong rooms, but Frères carried its history on its back and here was what remained of it, shipped by secure lorry from Vienna and laid to rest in a white-painted brick mausoleum pulsing with dehumidifiers and guarded by consoles of lights and digits that required a code, a thumbprint and a couple of soothing words. The insurance company had urged iris recognition, but something in Brue had revolted.
    Once inside, he picked his way down an alley of musty safe boxes to a steel cabinet perched against the end wall. Entering a code, he opened it and worked through the hanging folders until, consulting the page torn from Annabel Richter’s notebook, he found the folder he was looking for. It was colored a faded orange and held together by clips of sprung metal. A panel on its spine gave the reference but no name. By the sallow glow of the ceiling lights he turned the pages at an even speed, not so much reading as scanning them. Again groping inside the cabinet, he emerged this time with a shoebox of dog-eared cards. He flicked through them and extracted the card that bore the same reference as the file.
    KARPOV, he read. Grigori Borisovich, Colonel Red Army. 1982. Founder Member.
    Your