A Colder War Read online

  “Let me ask around,” he replied. “To be perfectly honest with you, I have not yet even discussed the crash with my colleagues in Turkey.”

  “What about your engineers?”

  “What about them, please?”

  “Have you ascertained who was on duty the afternoon of the flight?”

  “Of course.” Makris had prepared for this, the most sensitive section of the interview, and dealt with it as Kell had expected he would. “Air traffic control is not accountable for maintenance and engineering. That is a separate department, a separate union. I assume that you will be holding other meetings with other employees in order to obtain a more full picture of the tragedy?”

  “I will.” Kell experienced another craving for a cigarette. “Do you happen to have the name of the engineer to hand?”

  Makris appeared to weigh up the good sense of denying the man from Scottish Widows this simple request. At some cost to his equilibrium—his neck did an agitated roll and there was another delicate cough of irritation—he wrote down the name on the back of the flight plan.

  “Iannis Christidis?” Kell studied Makris’s spidery handwriting. With this and the phone number he had more than enough leads to plot Wallinger’s movements in the days leading up to his death.

  “That is correct,” Makris replied. And to Kell’s surprise he immediately stood up and drained the last of his wine. “Now will there be anything else, Mr. Hardwick? My wife is expecting me for dinner.”

  * * *

  As soon as Makris had left the hotel, Kell went back to his room and dialed the number using the hotel landline. He was connected to a recorded answering service, but the message was in Greek. Heading back downstairs he dialed the number again, asked the receptionist to listen to the message and to give a rough translation of what was being said. To his frustration he was told that the voice was a default, computer-generated message with no person or corporation named. Kell, by now hungry and thinking about dinner, returned to his room to ring Adam.

  “The engineer who worked on Wallinger’s plane was called Iannis Christidis. Can you see if there’s anything recorded against?”

  “Sure.”

  It sounded as though Adam had woken up from a siesta. Kell heard the bump and scratch of a man looking around for a pen, the noise of a dog barking in the background.

  “With a name like Christidis you’ll probably get the Greek phone book, but see if he has a profile on the island.”

  “Will do.”

  “How are your reverse telephone directories for Chios?”

  “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  Kell read out the number from the flight plan, checked that Adam had taken it down correctly, then mentally switched off. Having watched the headlines on CNN, he went for a grilled sea bass and a Greek salad at a restaurant halfway along the beach. From his table on a moonlit terrace he could see the distant lights of the Turkish coast, blinking like a runway.

  At ten o’clock, smoking a cigarette at the edge of a high tide, he felt the pulse of a message coming through on his phone. Adam had sent a text.

  STILL WORKING ON IC. NUMBER IS FOR A LETTING AGENCY. VILLAS ANGELIS. 119 KATANIKA, ON THE PORT. PROPRIETOR LISTED AS NICOLAS DELFAS.

  8

  Alexander Minasian, the SVR rezident in Kiev, the Directorate C officer whose recruitment of KODAK would surely make him a legend in the halls of Yasenevo, was a ghost on visits to Turkey. Sometimes he would come by airplane. Sometimes he would cross by car or truck from Bulgaria. On one occasion, he had taken a train across the frontier at Edirne. Always under alias, always using a different passport. Three times on the KODAK operation, Minasian had taken a ship from Odessa—his favored method of reaching Turkey—later meeting the asset in a room at the Ciragan Kempinski Hotel. They had drunk chilled red Sancerre and talked of the political and moral benefits of KODAK’s work. Showing good instincts from the very beginning, the asset had always refused to meet undeclared SVR officers on Turkish soil, as well as cutouts and NOCs. KODAK would deal only with Minasian, whom he knew simply as “Carl.”

  Their arrangement was straightforward. Whenever there was product to be shared, KODAK would present himself at one of two cafés in Ankara or Istanbul and produce the agreed signal. This would be seen by a member of the embassy staff and a telegram would be immediately sent to Kiev. For reasons that Minasian had always accepted and understood, KODAK did not believe in handing over every piece of information or intelligence that crossed his desk. The product he chose to share was always “cherry-picked” (KODAK’s phrase, one that Minasian had been obliged to look up) and usually of the highest quality.

  “I’m not interested in giving you streams of reporting about investment goals, energy budgets, crystal ball stuff. That’s what’s going to get me caught. What I choose to give you, when I choose to give you it, will be hard, actionable intelligence, usually with very high clearance.”

  There were two dead letter boxes in Istanbul. One in the men’s bathroom of a tourist restaurant in Sultanahmet owned by a former KGB officer, long since retired and now married to a Turkish woman who had borne him two sons. A dry cistern in the second of two recently modernized cubicles, detached from all plumbing, was ideal for the purposes of leaving memory sticks, hard drives, and documents—whatever KODAK wished to pass on.

  The second site was located among the ruins of an old house—said once to have belonged to Leon Trotsky—on the northern shore of Buyukada, an island in the Sea of Marmara. This was KODAK’s preferred location, because the asset was friendly with a journalist on Buyukada who lived adjacent to the site, so that any journeys made to the island could pass as social visits. KODAK had recently expressed his distaste for the cistern—though of course it had been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected during the bathroom renovations—complaining to Minasian that he felt “like Michael Corleone going to shoot somebody” whenever he lifted the lid to make a drop. Minasian had promised to find a third site, although KODAK seemed increasingly fond of the box on Buyukada, concealed as it was among the ruins and protected from rains and vermin.

  It was toward this box that Minasian was headed, though his journey, as always, was to be a six-hour masterpiece of countersurveillance, involving two changes of clothing, five different taxis, two ferries (one north to Istinye, the other south to Bostanci), as well as three miles on foot in Besiktas and Beyoglu. Only when Minasian was certain that he had picked up no surveillance did he board the private vessel at Marinturk Marina and make the short crossing to Buyukada.

  While on the island he still exercised caution. It was possible that MIT or the Americans could have advanced surveillance on Buyukada and pick Minasian up on foot (no vehicles were allowed on the island, only bicycles and horse-drawn carts). For this reason he effected his second change of appearance in a restaurant near the ferry terminal, leaving by a rear exit. Having completed a circuit of the island by cart, Minasian instructed the driver to take him within three hundred meters of the Trotsky house, completing the last section of his journey on foot.

  He was carrying a leather shoulder bag, in which he had placed his changes of clothing, as well as a pair of swimming trunks and a towel. During the warmer months, Minasian would often take a swim before collecting the product. Anything to add to a sense of blameless leisure. Today, however, he was keen to return to Kadikoy on the ferry so that he could dine with a male friend in Bebek. For this reason, he went directly to the location, discerned that he was alone, and removed the contents left for him the previous day.

  The paper was folded and protected from the elements by a transparent plastic folder that had been bound with a rubber band. This was usual. Minasian opened it and immediately photographed the contents. To his surprise, he saw that there was only one piece of information.

  LVa/UKSIS Tehran (nuclear) Massoud Moghaddam.

  Cryptonym: EINSTEIN

  9

  The offices of Villas Angelis were located above a small, family-run re
staurant on the harbor in Chios Town. Kell reached the first floor by an external staircase at the side of the building, knocking on a part-frosted glass door through which he could see a small, strip-lit office occupied by a woman in her late thirties. The woman looked up, turned an inquisitive squint into a welcoming smile, then crossed the room and invited Kell to enter with a flourish of bosom and bonhomie.

  “Hello sir, hello, hello,” she said, on the correct assumption that Kell was a visitor to the island and spoke no Greek. She was wearing a floral print summer dress and blue espadrilles that were squashed by her swollen feet. “Come and sit down. How can we help you?”

  Kell shook the woman’s hand and settled into a small wooden chair facing her desk. Her name was Marianna and she was no taller than the water cooler beside which she was standing. The screensaver on her computer showed a photograph of an elderly Greek couple, whom Kell took to be her parents. There were no photographs on the desk of a husband or boyfriend, only a framed formal portrait of a small child in shorts—her nephew?—flanked on either side by his parents. Marianna was not wearing a wedding ring.

  “My name is Chris Hardwick,” Kell said, handing over his card. “I’m an insurance investigator with Scottish Widows.”

  Marianna’s English was good, but not good enough to untangle what Mr. Hardwick had told her. She asked Kell to repeat what he had said, while studying the card closely for further clues.

  “I’m investigating the death of a British diplomat. Paul Wallinger. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Marianna looked very much as though she wanted the name to mean something to her. Her eyes softened, so that she was looking at Kell with something like yearning, and her head tilted to one side in an effort to accommodate the question. In the end, however, she was obliged to admit defeat, responding in an apologetic tone that suggested frustration with her own ignorance.

  “No, I’m sorry that it does not. Who was this man? I am sorry that I cannot help you.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Kell replied, smiling as warmly as he could. To the left, a poster of the Acropolis was peeling off the wall. Beside it, three digital clocks in pale gray cases displayed the time in Athens, Paris, and New York. Kell heard the sound of footsteps on the external staircase and turned to see a man of similar age and build to Andonis Makris pushing through the door of the office. He had thick eyebrows and a heavy black mustache, with two different shades of dye battling for prominence in his hair. Seeing Kell in the chair, the man grumbled something in Greek and moved toward the farthest window in the room, throwing open a set of shutters so that the office was suddenly flooded with morning sunlight and the noise of gunning mopeds. It was clear to Kell that the man was Marianna’s boss and that his words had been some sort of reprimand to her for a sin as yet undetected.

  “Nico, this is Mr. Hardwick.” Marianna offered Kell a conciliatory smile, which he interpreted as an apology in advance for her boss’s erratic temperament. She then began tapping something into her computer as Nicolas Delfas crossed the room and invited Kell to move to a seat beside his own desk. The body language was page-one machismo: I’m in charge now. Men should deal with men.

  “You’re looking to rent a place?” he asked, offering up a dry, bulky handshake.

  “No. I’m actually an insurance investigator.” Delfas had braced his arms across his desk and was busily searching for something among a pile of papers. “I was just asking your colleague if your office had had any dealings with a British diplomat named Paul Wallinger?”

  The word “diplomat” was barely out of Kell’s mouth before Delfas looked up and began shaking his head.

  “Who?”

  “Wallinger. Paul Wallinger.”

  “No. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t know him. I did not know him.”

  Delfas met Kell’s eye, but his gaze quickly slid back to the desk.

  “You don’t want to talk about him or you don’t know who he was?”

  The Greek began moving objects on the top of a battered black filing cabinet, an exertion that caused him to breathe more heavily and to shake his head in frustration. After a few moments he looked at Kell again, as though surprised to see that he was still in the office.

  “Sorry?” he said.

  “I was asking if you had met Mr. Wallinger.”

  Delfas pursed his lips, the bristles of his thick mustache momentarily obscuring the base of his nose.

  “I have told you, I do not know about this man. I don’t have any questions to answer. What else can I help you with?”

  “Wallinger’s flight plan listed your office as a contact number on Chios. I wondered if he had rented a property from Villas Angelis?”

  Kell glanced at Marianna. She was still absorbed in her computer, though it was clear that she was listening to every word of the conversation: her ears and cheeks had flushed to scarlet and she looked tense and stiff. Delfas barked something at her, then uttered a word—“gamoto”—which Kell assumed to be a close Greek cousin of “fuck.”

  “Look, Mr., uh…”

  “Hardwick.”

  “Yes. I do not know what it is you are talking about. We are very busy here. I cannot help you with your enquiries.”

  “You didn’t hear about the accident?” Kell was amused by the idea that Delfas and Marianna were “busy.” The office had all the bustle and energy of a deserted waiting room in a branch-line railway station. “He took off from Chios Airport last week,” he said. “His Cessna crashed in western Turkey.”

  At last Marianna turned her head and looked at the two men. It was obvious that she had remembered Wallinger’s name, or was at least familiar with the circumstances of the accident. Delfas, seeming to sense this, stood up and tried to usher Kell toward the door.

  “I do not know about this,” he said, adding what sounded like a further brusque denial in his native tongue. Pulling at the door, he held it open with his eyes fixed on the ground. Kell had no choice but to stand and leave. Long exposure to liars—good and bad—had taught him not to strike in the first instance. If the perpetrator was being willfully stubborn and obstructive it was better to let them stew.

  “Fine,” he said, “fine,” and turned to Marianna, nodding a warm farewell. As he left, Kell quickly scanned the room for evidence of CCTV and burglar alarms, making a rapid assessment of the locks on the door. Given that Delfas was plainly hiding something, it might be necessary to arrange a break-in and to take a closer look at the company’s computer system. Kell informed him that Edinburgh would be in “written contact regarding Mr. Wallinger’s relationship with Villas Angelis” and said that he was grateful for the opportunity to have spoken to him. Delfas muttered: “Yes, thank you” in English, then slammed the door behind him.

  The office opening hours and telephone number were engraved in a sheet of hard white plastic at the base of the external stairs. Kell was studying the notice and thinking about arranging for a Tech-Ops team to fly out to Chios when a far simpler idea occurred to him. The muscle memory of a cynical old spook. He knew exactly what he had to do. There was no need to organize a break-in. There was Marianna.

  10

  “Recruiting an agent is an act of seduction,” an instructor at Fort Monckton had told a class of eager SIS pups in the autumn of 1994. “The trick with agents of the opposite gender is to seduce them without, well, seducing them.”

  Kell remembered the ripple of knowing laughter that had followed that remark, a room full of high-functioning trainee spooks all wondering what would happen if they one day found themselves in a situation where they were sexually attracted to an agent. It happened, of course. To gain the trust of a stranger, to convince a person to believe in you, to compel them to act, sometimes against their own better instincts—was that not the first step to the bedroom? Good agents were often bright, ambitious, emotionally needy: to run them required a mixture of flattery, kindness, and empathy. It was the spy’s job to listen, to be in control, to remain strong, o
ften in the face of impossibly difficult circumstances. The men employed by SIS were often physically attractive, the women also. Several times in his career, Kell had been in situations where, had he wanted to, it would have been easy to take a female agent to bed. They came to rely on you, to trust and admire their handler completely. Right or wrong, the mystique of spying was an aphrodisiac. For much the same reason, the atmosphere within the four walls of Thames House and Vauxhall Cross had often been likened to a bordello, particularly where younger employees were concerned. Secrecy bred intimacy. Officers could only discuss their work with other officers. Often they would do so at night, over a drink or two in the MI5 bar, or a local pub in Vauxhall. Inevitably, one thing led to another, both at home and abroad. It was the way of the business. It was also one of the reasons the divorce rate in SIS was as high as in Beverly Hills.

  The trick with agents of the opposite gender is to seduce them without, well, seducing them. Kell sat on the harbor wall at quarter to three, the instructor’s words running through his mind as he kept an eye on the first-floor windows of Villas Angelis. At exactly one minute past three, Marianna and Delfas emerged to begin their hour-long lunch break. Delfas went into the restaurant downstairs, to be greeted by several nodding patrons who were seated at tables beneath a burgundy awning. Marianna began to walk south along the harbor road. Kell followed her at a discreet distance and watched as she went into a restaurant adjacent to the ferry terminal. From his position on the street he had clear sight of her table. There was a second door at the side of the restaurant through which he could enter without being seen. He would sit down, order some food, then contrive a reason to walk past.

  He took five hundred euros out of an ATM, entered the restaurant, nodded at a waitress, and sat down. Within a minute, Kell had a menu open in front of him; within two, he had ordered sausages, fried potatoes, and salad, as well as a half-liter bottle of sparkling water. Marianna was on the opposite side of the room, beyond the bar, one of perhaps fifteen or twenty other customers spread out around the restaurant. Kell could not see her table, but had glimpsed the top of her head when he walked in.