A Divided Spy (Thomas Kell Spy Thriller, Book 3) Page 12

  Kell knew in his bones that the older man was Andrei Eremenko. He was about to say as much when the hunch was confirmed.

  ‘I’ve had Vauxhall call up images of TOLSTOY, sir. I’d say it’s a match. Looks like him.’

  It was the third time in his career that Kell had heard Surveillance refer to a Russian target as TOLSTOY. They needed to read some new books.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Was GAGARIN carrying anything?’

  Kell wanted to know if Minasian had an overnight bag, something large enough to contain a change of clothes.

  ‘Affirmative. Small backpack. VALENTINA just her usual handbag. Nothing on TOLSTOY.’

  Kell was stubbing out a cigarette. He had been smoking almost continuously for forty-eight hours.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Switch the cars and keep an eye on them when they come out.’

  Though Kell was relieved that Minasian was in London, he was also unsettled by the thought that the man whom he held responsible for Rachel’s murder was now just a few miles away in Westminster. His presence was tangible. Kell wanted to confront him, but felt trapped. It was like being a boxer who had trained for a fight in which he would never participate. How extraordinarily easy it would be to walk out of his flat and hail a cab, to drive to Upper Wimpole Street and challenge Minasian face to face. No tradecraft. No surveillance. No plots. Just a reckoning between men. And yet that option was denied to him by the demands of the operation. The political had superseded the personal. Kell and Amelia had set themselves on the path of an elaborate revenge which, if handled properly, would leave Minasian’s life and career in tatters. The gentle, blameless Svetlana would be married to a traitor of the Motherland and her father’s business career ruined by association. And for what? The prestige of running a Russian intelligence officer? To honour Rachel’s memory? Staring at the laptops and the phones, the notepads and the half-empty cups of coffee, at all the paraphernalia of scrutiny and surveillance, Kell wondered – not for the first time – if it was all going to be worth it.

  To distract himself, he typed ‘191 Upper Wimpole Street’ into Google, on the assumption that the family had been invited to a meeting or brunch at a private residence. What he saw cast him back into the twilight of his own marriage, to numberless visits of the same kind at Claire’s side, each of them more desperate than the last:

  The Wimpole Clinic offers an extensive range of fertility services. Our team of specialist consultants in the fields of fertility and gynaecology are expert in all aspects of assisted conception, endoscopic surgery and male fertility. We can provide comprehensive assistance to couples who are not able to conceive on their own.

  The coincidence was startling. It transpired that Minasian had been telling a version of the truth when he complained to Riedle that ‘Vera’ was suffering from a medical condition that left her ‘in great pain’. That pain was not physical; it was psychological. Claire had been devastated by her inability to have children, so much so that Kell attributed the deterioration of their marriage chiefly to the agony of her infertility. He had been resigned to living out the rest of his life without children, but Claire had sought solace in the arms of other men, wrongly believing that they might give her the child she had always craved. Minasian was now living through the same torment. Was it his own fault that Svetlana was unable to conceive? Had Riedle been correct in suggesting that the sexual relationship between them was non-existent? And why was Eremenko accompanying his daughter and son-in-law on such a private and potentially distressing visit? Daddy’s money was almost certainly paying for Svetlana’s treatment, but there was something humiliating – even emasculating – about his direct involvement.

  Kell picked up the phone. Amelia was at her desk. When he told her that Minasian and Svetlana were attending an appointment at the clinic, he heard the quiet, empty shock in her voice as memories of her own long battle with conception came flooding back.

  ‘Is that so?’ she said softly. ‘Poor girl.’

  There was a long pause, as much as five or six seconds, a period in which the decency inside Kell, his momentary sympathy for Minasian, completely evaporated. An idea of such wretched cynicism had taken hold of him that he was almost ashamed of himself for conceiving it. Yet he could not shake it off. To Kell’s astonishment, Amelia had arrived at the same conclusion. They were both thinking in exactly the same way. They had made the same ruthless calculation, but it was Amelia who was bold enough to articulate it.

  ‘We can use this,’ she said. ‘You realize that, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ Kell replied.

  ‘Where is the best fertility treatment in the world?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Exactly. If Minasian wants to have children, he needs to be sure that we’ll let Svetlana into the country. Once she starts her treatment, she’ll be flying in every six weeks. Put a block on her passport and that’s not going to happen.’

  Kell was dismayed by Amelia’s logic, not least because her ultimate disregard for Svetlana matched his own. In Amelia’s position, he would have played exactly the same card. This was the business they were in. No compassion, no sympathy, no kindness. Honour among thieves, perhaps. Honour among spies, never. They were committed to taking Minasian as their prize and would stop at nothing to do so.

  26

  Shahid longed to act, to do what he had been sent to do.

  In Brighton he had come to see, with blessed clarity, what he had been taught about the West, first by Javed Rahman, the preacher in Leeds who had brought him to true Islam, and later by Jalal. They had taught him that liberty was a poison inside human beings. They had used a phrase Shahid had always remembered: ‘Freedom is made of thorns’. The openness of European society, the liberal values of America and the West, led directly to moral depravity. Therefore that society needed to be cleansed. Shahid understood this fully now. The cleansing could only take place if those who lived by such values were wiped away.

  So he waited, day and night, for the signal. Whenever he grew impatient and hungry to act, Shahid thought of the silent army of true Muslims in every community in Europe and around the world who believed in what he was going to do. Those people, the oppressed and the humble, gave him strength. Jalal had told him that the attack must come at the ‘most timely political moment’. Those who had established the Caliphate, who wanted it to expand and to grow in strength, predicted that Shahid’s martyrdom would fill the governments and the populations of the West with fear; his bravery would draw the United Kingdom and her allies into acts of retaliation and vengeance. The ultimate goal was war.

  Whenever he was not working or training in the gym, Shahid scoured the newspapers, listened to the radio and watched television. He read every story he could find about ISIS and the Middle East. He studied the political situation in America, in Russia, and closely followed events in the United Kingdom. He wanted to be able to anticipate when the order would come. If his brothers and sisters in the Caliphate suffered a reverse – if, say, a holy warrior was killed by a drone strike or a prisoner of the infidel released from captivity – would Shahid be signalled to act? Or would they prefer him to strike when ISIS had been victorious in battle, to indicate to the world – to believers and non-believers alike – that the Caliphate was indestructible and its dominance inevitable?

  Finally, on an evening late in June, as Shahid was returning home from work, he received the message from Kris. It was just as Jalal had said it would be: a simple text message, using pre-arranged language, indicating when the operation was to go ahead. Yet it dismayed Shahid to learn of the delay. He could not understand why they wanted him to wait.

  Time and venue agreed: 11/7, 6 p.m.

  27

  Bernhard Riedle woke in the dead of night, then again at dawn and, finally, at eight o’clock, thanks to an alarm call from the hotel. He knew that he had barely slept and yet he felt vital and well rested. The two days in London had allowed him to complete some essential paperwork but, more im
portantly, to settle much of his anxiety and heartbreak. He knew that Dmitri would not have arranged to meet him at the flat had he not been experiencing second thoughts about their separation. By agreeing to see him, he was effectively contradicting much of what he had said in Egypt, not least that he saw ‘no chance or possibility’ that they would ever be reunited, and that the relationship between them had ‘never worked’. Both of these statements Bernhard could now happily consign to the scrapheap. Dmitri had come to his senses.

  Nevertheless, Bernhard still felt a sense of injustice and anger. He knew that he must find the strength to confront Dmitri about his cruel behaviour, and to extract an apology for the way that he had conducted himself. This would be difficult. When they were together, Dmitri had an extraordinary effect on him; all Bernhard wanted was to hold him and to be close to him. He would find it very difficult to be strong and to maintain his dignity. Nevertheless, at the very least he required an acknowledgement of wrongdoing; without it, how could he trust Dmitri not to behave in a similar fashion again? Did he have the strength to ask for such a thing and to risk losing him for ever? Was personal pride more important than personal happiness? These were the questions that troubled Bernhard as he made his way to the lobby for breakfast.

  He checked out of the hotel just before ten o’clock. It was a fiercely hot morning. Piccadilly was thick with tourists and he had to stand in the full glare of the sun for more than five minutes while waiting for a taxi. Bernhard instructed the driver to take him to the Westfield shopping centre in White City and asked for directions to Waitrose. He wanted to buy some basic provisions for the apartment and to stock up on some of Dmitri’s favourite things.

  More crowds, more heat, at Westfield. Bernhard found a shaded colonnade leading to the supermarket and gratefully hid from the sun. He wished that he could at least text Dmitri to find out at exactly what time he planned to arrive. His last email had said three o’clock, but on many occasions in the past he had been an hour early, or several hours late to their meetings. Bernhard hated sitting around and waiting. There was something humiliating about it. It seemed so ridiculous not at least to be able to contact Dmitri now that they were both in London. What was he so afraid of? Could he not escape Vera’s attention even for five minutes? Did she check his cellphone every time it rang?

  Waitrose was air-conditioned and blessedly free of crowds. Bernhard took a trolley and went directly to the alcohol section, picking up a bottle of chilled Laurent-Perrier champagne and one of Quincy, which was the closest wine on display to Sancerre, Dmitri’s favourite from the Loire. He suspected that they would remain in the flat that evening – London was too populous and full of Russians to risk being seen together in a restaurant – but knew that neither of them would feel like cooking. There were plenty of delivery companies in West London; they could choose whatever they felt like eating when the time was right. But Bernhard knew how much Dmitri enjoyed breakfast and was determined to spoil him. There were organic eggs on sale, as well as packets of jamon iberico, sourdough bread and orange juice. He also bought coffee and soy milk. With his trolley almost full, Bernhard walked to the checkout, paid for two long-life carrier bags, then made his way back along the colonnade to the taxi rank.

  28

  Kell read the surveillance report from Waitrose. Champagne, orange juice, eggs, condoms. Any fears he might have had that Riedle was planning to hurt or injure Minasian immediately subsided. He was obviously planning for a romantic evening and hoping that Minasian would stay overnight.

  Vauxhall Cross had ascertained that the one-bedroom property on Sterndale Road had indeed been rented out on Airbnb. Tech-Ops had entered the flat at two o’clock in the morning and rigged it for Riedle’s visit. Cameras and microphones had been placed in the living room, the bathroom, the bedroom and kitchen. At the same time, a member of the surveillance team had taken a room at the back of a hotel on Shepherd’s Bush Road with line of sight to the entrance, albeit one that was partially obscured by the branch of a tree. A team on the street had kept a lookout for Minasian while the flat was being prepared. He had never showed.

  Riedle had rented the top-floor apartment, one of three in the building. The ground-floor flat was occupied by an Australian single mother and her nine-year-old son, both of whom would be at home during Riedle’s visit. The first-floor property was empty. The owner of Riedle’s flat had told Airbnb that he would be home on 2 July by 6 p.m. For this reason, Riedle had been asked to vacate the premises by two o’clock.

  Minasian, Svetlana and Andrei Eremenko spent almost two hours at the fertility clinic. When they emerged into the fierce midday sunshine, Eremenko’s driver was waiting for them. They drove south to Piccadilly. As they were entering The Wolseley for a lunch reservation at 12.30, Kell received confirmation that Riedle had been housed to Sterndale Road. Simon, the surveillance officer in the hotel across the street, had watched Riedle entering the property and could see him changing the bed sheets in the bedroom on the south side of the building. Surveillance footage from the flat was now transmitted live to Kell’s laptops and he was able to watch Riedle unpacking groceries in the kitchen just a few moments later.

  Wary of spooking Minasian at the last minute, Kell called off the black cab that had tailed Eremenko’s limousine to The Wolseley.

  ‘Let them eat lunch in peace,’ he told Vauxhall Cross. ‘The mountain will come to Mohammed.’

  Forty minutes later there was a ring at the front door. Kell had been expecting Harold Mowbray since one. He walked barefoot to the intercom and buzzed him inside.

  ‘Beers,’ he said, plonking a four-pack of Stella Artois on the kitchen counter. Mowbray’s short-sleeved shirt was soaked with sweat. ‘Fuck me it’s hot outside and fuck me this flat stinks of cigarettes.’

  ‘ATLANTIC is in the building.’

  Riedle had been given the codename by Kell, a nod to the well-known hotel in Hamburg.

  ‘I just walked two blocks from his front door on the way back from Tesco.’ Mowbray put two pepperoni pizzas in the freezer. ‘How long ’til lift-off?’

  Kell knew the time without needing to consult his watch. Every minute was ticking past in slow motion. It was twelve minutes past one.

  ‘Minasian said he’d be there by three. That could mean two, that could mean four, that could mean five, that could mean ten.’

  ‘Could mean he doesn’t show up at all.’

  Kell conceded the point with a nod and lit yet another cigarette. ‘It’s always like this,’ he said.

  Mowbray was leaving the kitchen. ‘Yeah. What’s that line you’re fond of quoting? “Spying is waiting.”’

  ‘Spying is waiting,’ Kell concurred.

  As he walked into the living room, briefly consulting the live feeds from Sterndale Road, Kell told Mowbray that Minasian, Svetlana and Eremenko were eating lunch at The Wolseley and that he had dropped all surveillance on GAGARIN.

  ‘Place on Green Park, right?’

  ‘That’s the one.’ Kell sat down, switched on the television and watched a rally at Wimbledon on mute. ‘We just have to wait,’ he said, knowing that he wouldn’t tell Mowbray about the fertility clinic, about the plan to squeeze Minasian on Svetlana’s passport. That was operational information, not idle chit-chat. He took a drag on the cigarette and wondered what the doctors had told her. ‘You want to work in shifts?’ he said. ‘You watch the laptops, I’ll watch the phones?’

  ‘Deal,’ Mowbray replied.

  Mowbray sat at the large table in the centre of the living room. Kell had put all his books and papers in piles in the corner of the room. He had cleared his desk of detritus and removed a photograph of Rachel from the wall. Mowbray swivelled the three laptops towards him, then stood up, crossed the room and opened the window. Birdsong and the chatter of children. All of London life going on around them. He had pressed the kettle in the kitchen. Kell could hear it crackle and hiss to the boil.

  ‘Looks like Bernie’s all settled in.’ Mowbray was bac
k in front of the screens.

  ‘He had a shower about twenty minutes ago,’ Kell replied.

  ‘Not surprised. Fucking hot out …’

  One of the mobiles rang. The link to Simon in the hotel. Kell answered it.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Vehicle outside. Could be an Uber.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Lexus. Guy just got out of the back.’

  Let it be him, thought Kell. Let it be Minasian.

  ‘What’s he wearing?’

  ‘Don’t know if he’s going to ninety-eight. He’s talking to the driver.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Tree in the way, guv. Those fucking leaves. Could be GAGARIN, could not be GAGARIN …’

  ‘What’s he wearing?’ Kell heard the attack in his own voice, the anxiety, and backed off. ‘What can you see?’

  ‘Black shoes. Black trousers.’

  It had been reported that Minasian was wearing black shoes and dark blue trousers. It could be a match.

  ‘Hair? Give me something else.’

  ‘Dark. Cut short. Balding at the back. Early thirties. Short, squat. Maybe Greek or Turkish? Mediterranean. I can’t see his face. Red shirt, black blazer.’

  Balding didn’t sound right. Minasian had a full head of hair. And the colouring and height were wrong. Furthermore, the Russian had been wearing a white shirt and grey sports jacket. It was possible that he had changed after leaving the Wolseley, but it was unlikely that he had yet finished lunch.

  ‘It’s not him,’ he said, looking across the room. Mowbray was staring at Kell. ‘It’s not GAGARIN.’

  There was a momentary silence. Kell put the phone on speaker and Simon’s voice filled the room.