A Divided Spy (Thomas Kell Spy Thriller, Book 3) Page 7

  Rachel flooded Kell’s memory, her poise and her laughter, the way in which she had so quickly intuited so much about him. He felt the loss of her as a pain every bit as searing as that which he had faked only ten minutes earlier, clutching his stomach for Riedle’s benefit.

  ‘To care for somebody and to be cared for,’ Kell continued, now thinking of Claire and of everything that had gone missing between them. ‘To be excited about seeing them, hearing what they have to say, talking to them. Isn’t that what it’s all about? You obviously had that with Dmitri, when things were good between you. A person can be fifty-nine or nineteen and experience those things. There’s no shame in mourning them when they have been taken away from you.’

  ‘Then I thank you for your understanding,’ Riedle sighed with a gesture of collapsing gratitude, and finally stood up to go to the bathroom.

  As he inched along the walkway, Kell looked across to the opposite balcony, where the maître d’ was only now informing Suda’s companion that her date had left for the evening via the back door. She took the news with laudable restraint, checking her face in a compact mirror before standing up, adjusting her hair and walking downstairs. As she tottered to the ground floor on four-inch heels, she took a smartphone from her purse and checked the screen for messages. At the same moment, Kell felt his own phone pulse in his trouser pocket.

  It was a text from Suda.

  I will tell Stephanie that it was a Polish police matter, not anything to do with my wife.

  Tell her what you like, Kell muttered as a second text came in.

  I will take her to Hotel Metropole. I apologize, Tom. My plane leaves for Warsaw at 8 tomorrow. In the morning.

  Kell deleted the messages without replying and watched Stephanie collect her coat at the entrance. She must have felt his gaze because she looked up and stared at Kell, an almost imperceptible tremor of longing in her eyes. A beautiful young woman aware of her power over men, and testing it all the time. Kell thought of her in Rafal’s arms in a bed at the Hotel Metropole. Then he thought of Rachel and Claire, of Riedle and Minasian, of the whole sorry dance of sex and yearning, of love and betrayal.

  There was one more glass of wine left in the bottle of Chianti. He finished it.

  14

  The two men walked home together, Riedle bidding farewell to Kell in the lobby of the apartment building where, just two days earlier, they had met for the first time. Kell rode the lift to the fourth floor, already taking the pen from his jacket pocket with which he would write down detailed notes about the dinner. It was an old habit from Office days. Get home, write up the telegram, no matter how late at night, then send it to London.

  Kell entered the apartment. He was hanging up his jacket when he heard a cough from the living room. Walking inside, he saw Mowbray sitting on the sofa, a glass of single malt in front of him and a grin on his face like Arsenal had won the European Cup in extra time.

  ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself, Harold.’

  ‘Am I, guv? Well, that makes sense.’ He leaned further back on the sofa. ‘How was your dinner? Bernie try and hold your hand?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Seriously, you wanna be careful, boss. Bloke like that, lonely and unhappy. Nice, good-looking British diplomat comes along, listens to his sad stories, protects him from antisocial elements on the mean streets of Brussels. He might be falling in love with you.’

  Kell was pouring a whisky of his own and felt a sting at the edge of his vanity. He didn’t normally mind Mowbray’s joshing, but liked to maintain a level of hierarchical respect in his dealings with colleagues.

  ‘So why are you looking so smug?’ he asked, sitting in an armchair at right angles to the sofa. Kell kicked off his shoes, trusting his memory sufficiently to be able to write the report in an hour’s time.

  ‘Did Bernie say anything about how he used to contact lover boy?’

  Kell shook his head. ‘We haven’t got that far yet. First night I met him he mentioned something about a friend “always losing his phones and changing numbers”. I assumed that was Minasian, that he had four or five different mobiles he used for contacting Riedle. Why do you ask?’

  Kell took a sip of his whisky, sensing that Mowbray had made a breakthrough. The communications link between Riedle and Minasian was the holy grail of the operation. Find that and they could start to track the Russian, to lure him across the Channel to London.

  ‘I think I’ve cracked it,’ he said.

  Kell moved forward. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You know I put key-log software in his laptop? Every password entered, every sentence typed.’

  ‘Sure.’

  There was a laptop on the table in front of them. Mowbray opened it up. ‘So it turns out they kept it simple. Least as far as email is concerned. I’ve been able to hack into his account. They encrypted their messages.’

  It was the smart play, the easiest and most secure way for Minasian to communicate with Riedle without raising his suspicions or drawing the attention of the SVR.

  ‘PGP?’ Kell asked, an acronym for a popular piece of encryption software that he understood in only simple terms.

  ‘Very good!’ Mowbray replied, amazed that Kell – who was famously antediluvian when it came to technology – was even aware that PGP existed. ‘So Elsa got hold of the private key which Bernie stored on his laptop and Bob became my uncle. After that it’s just like reading a normal email correspondence.’

  Mowbray swivelled the laptop towards Kell and said: ‘Take a look.’ There were three emails sitting in the account: two from Riedle, one from Minasian. Kell assumed that the others had been deleted or filed elsewhere. As Mowbray stood up and went outside on to the balcony to smoke a cigarette, Kell clicked on the most recent message.

  It was dated ten days earlier and had been given the headline ‘Betrayal’. It was both a plea from Riedle, begging Minasian to come to Brussels so that they could patch things up, and a sustained attack on his character and behaviour. Reading it, Kell felt as if he was intruding on a private grief so intense as to be almost embarrassing in its candour.

  You are not the man I recognize, the man I love. You are so cruel to me, so hard and objective. What happened to us? Your attitude when we talked on the phone yesterday degraded everything that we once shared.

  That phrase – ‘when we talked on the phone’ – was as welcome to Kell as water in a drought, because it held out the possibility that Minasian would risk contacting Riedle again, perhaps making a call on Skype that Mowbray’s microphones would pick up.

  You coldly announce that you are still in love with Vera, that you are now disgusted by your true sexuality, by what passed between us. How do you think that makes me feel? You tell me that you still love her, that you now find Vera attractive, when we both know this is a lie. You have never wanted to be with her in that way. Why now? Why the change? Then you told me on the telephone that you feel more relaxed in her company than you ever did with me. What kind of a person says those things?

  A sociopath says those things, thought Kell. Someone incapable of compassion, of feeling anything but contempt for those who might ask something of them.

  I always admired your commitment to the ‘truth’. There had been so many lies in my own life when we met that I found your determination to act honestly in all things captivating. But I realize now that you are a hypocrite. Your ‘truth’ is just what suits you at the time. It disguises your ruthlessness, because you are indeed ruthless and unkind. You lie to Vera, you lie to me, you lie to your unborn children. You lie to yourself.

  Kell no longer knew if he was reading the email for operational reasons or purely out of human fascination. He worried that Riedle’s anger and spite, if it continued, would drive Minasian further and further away. At times he sounded like a man who had lost all reason and context.

  You have left me, but you have not tried to soften the blow or to use the simple white lies people use in these situations when they
care about not hurting a lover. What I hope for, what I need, is a small amount of compassion, of kindness, some sense that what we have been through together over the past three years means something to you. All I am asking for is a sense that you understand and are sensitive to the depth of my love for you. You know, better than anyone has ever known, how I think and how I feel and how difficult my life is now that you are not in it – and yet you treat me as if I was no more important to you than a boy picked up in a sauna.

  There was more. Much more. The suggestion that Minasian, a year earlier, had been introduced to one of Riedle’s friends and had slept with him. The accusation that he had taunted Riedle continuously with stories about the men (and women) he met in different European cities while working for the bank. There had clearly been a sado-masochistic element to the relationship which Minasian had encouraged and enjoyed. Added to what Riedle had told Kell at dinner about Minasian’s aggressive, sullen behaviour, the relationship amounted to a catalogue of emotional abuse. Kell wanted to go downstairs, to knock on Riedle’s door, ask him why the hell he had put up with it for so long, and then pour him a large Scotch.

  He clicked to the second email. It was, as Kell expected, a brief reply from Minasian, written four days after Riedle’s message, with no Subject line. The language was distant, cold and supremely controlled.

  I hoped that you would behave with more dignity, more courage. If you write to me like this again I will have nothing more to do with you. I refuse to engage with your insults and accusations.

  Kell noted the absence of any consoling words. Nothing to acknowledge Riedle’s pain or the accusation of infidelity. Nevertheless, Minasian was holding out the possibility of further interaction in the future.

  Riedle had replied within twelve hours. Kell clicked to this final email.

  I am very sorry. I was angry. Please don’t vanish. I am happy to be friends. I just want to keep you in my life and to try to understand what is happening to us.

  You are so strong. I don’t think you have ever known heartbreak. I know that you have felt isolated and alone. I know that you have felt a panic about the structure of your life. But you have never known what it is to feel passed over, exchanged – the madness of loss. You have never lost somebody that you were not ready to lose, a person who felt, as I do, that you were holding his entire happiness in the palm of your hand. It’s like you have closed your hand. Made a fist. I need to be treated with delicacy, with kindness and compassion. Please provide this. I am begging you.

  I am very sorry for the things I said. I did not mean them. Please consider what I said about Brussels. I can come and meet you anywhere, even if it’s just for lunch (or a cup of coffee!) In Egypt you said you had a period coming up in Paris. That would be perfect – I can be at the Gare du Nord in less than two hours from Brussels.

  Kell drained the whisky, thinking of Paris, of Brasserie Lipp, remembering Amelia’s kidnapped son and the operation three years earlier, in which Kell had played the pivotal role in securing his release. On a pad beside the computer he began to write notes. The first word he wrote, in capitals, was CONTROL, beneath which he began to sketch out his ideas in more detail.

  1. Power and control central to M’s personality. Must retain a position of dominance. What is he afraid of if he loses control? What is the vulnerability/insecurity we can exploit? The secret about his sexuality – or something else?

  2. For R to be this upset/deranged, there must be huge charisma. Charm, apparent empathy, patience, sensuality. M extremely attractive – to young and old, male and female. He demands adoration. He nurtures it. So this must be partly cultivated, artificial behaviour.

  Chameleon. Adapts himself to give people what they need for as long as he needs them.

  3. According to R, M is highly judgmental/opinionated. Does he also react badly to criticism? Gloating self-image? Ask R in more detail.

  4. What does M want? What can we give him? Do we flatter, or squeeze?

  ‘What are you writing?’

  Mowbray had appeared beside him. Kell covered up part of the notes with his elbow, like a card player wary of revealing his hand.

  ‘Just some initial thoughts on Minasian.’

  ‘Yeah? Sounds like a nice fella, doesn’t he?’ Mowbray’s shirt smelled of cigarette smoke. ‘Real piece of work. Chewed up our Bernie and spat him out.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kell agreed. ‘He was out of his depth. Can’t have had any idea what he was getting into.’

  Mowbray leaned over, his breath stale with whisky.

  ‘Flatter or squeeze. What does that mean?’

  ‘Exactly what it says.’ Kell was annoyed that Mowbray was being intrusive. ‘Either I make Minasian feel like top dog, tell him how great he is, feed his ego and his self-image, or I find out what it is that he’s hiding – and squeeze him.’

  ‘Hiding? You mean above and beyond the fact that he’s married to the daughter of a Russian oligarch but secretly likes taking it up the jacksie?’

  Kell couldn’t contain a burst of laughter. ‘That may be all there is to it,’ he said. ‘Just that secret. Just Riedle. But I was interested by something Bernie said at dinner, very early on. That he thinks of Russians as corrupt, greedy. Wouldn’t surprise me if Minasian is involved in something illegal. Something financial, possibly linked to Svetlana’s father.’

  ‘You think he would have told Bernie about that?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Kell closed the laptop. ‘The system out there would certainly present a man in Minasian’s position with myriad opportunities to squirrel away some cash for a rainy day. He’s a vain man. A controlling man. A narcissist, for want of a better word. If he’s threatened by his father-in-law’s wealth, if Svetlana’s lifestyle is an affront to his masculinity and his sense of his own grandeur, if Minasian feels that he has to bring home more than an SVR salary, then – yes – he could be involved in corrupt activity.’

  Mowbray returned to the sofa and appeared to be mulling over Kell’s theory. Kell scribbled ‘MONEY?’ on the notepad, underlining it twice, and wondered what Elsa might be able to find out about Minasian’s financial affairs if pointed in the right direction.

  ‘How much store do you set by those?’ Mowbray asked, flicking his head towards the laptop.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kell asked.

  ‘I mean how much can we ever know somebody, just by reading what they’ve written, or what someone else has said about them? It’s all prejudice, isn’t it? I know there are people out there who think the world of Harold Mowbray. And I know there are people out there who think I’m more or less a complete arsehole.’ Kell smiled. ‘Seriously, boss.’ Mowbray was looking around for his glass. ‘This Alexander Minasian. Maybe he’s not as bad as we all think. Maybe we’re reading him wrong. Maybe one day you’ll get face to face with him and discover you have more in common with him than you ever imagined.’

  15

  Egypt Air flight MS777 from Cairo International Airport had touched down at London Heathrow a few minutes behind schedule at 15.44 on a cloudless English afternoon in May.

  Shahid Khan had spent most of the journey trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep. He had been in a state of profound anxiety and could feel the judgment and suspicion of his fellow passengers weighing down on him like a rope coiled around his neck and shoulders. He had been travelling for five days. He had hated Dubai and wondered why Jalal had insisted that he go there from Istanbul. There were other countries, other cities, which did not require a visa for UK citizens. Shahid had looked them up online. Why subject him to Dubai? To strengthen him? To remove any doubts about his future actions? Shahid did not need such help. He did not understand Jalal’s reasons. He was at peace with the path that had been chosen for him. It was the will of Allah. Shahid looked forward to the day of his martyrdom as he looked forward to the defeat of Assad’s dogs, to the destruction and the humiliation of the American empire. This was his dream and the dream of the brothers and sisters he had left behind in the Cal
iphate. Many of them would not live to see this dream fulfilled. Shahid himself would not live to see it. But he would help to bring it about. This was a glorious and a pure thing.

  The passengers disembarked into the terminal building. Shahid went with them, following the signs to Passport Control. In fourteen months of fighting in Syria he had not suffered with any illness, but in Cairo he had eaten food from a vendor in the street and suffered terrible sickness and cramps in his hotel room. Perhaps this was why he was in such an agitated state. He had lost weight and was still feeling sick. He had only been able to drink water on the aeroplane and to eat a few dried biscuits. And now he had to make it through the passport queue, past the Customs officers and the plain-clothes detectives – the most difficult moment of his journey. Shahid knew the obstacles in front of him. Jalal had spoken about them in detail and had told him how to behave.

  Join any queue, he had said. Not the shortest one. Check the messages on your mobile phone, read a book or a newspaper. Take your jacket off if you are sweating. Do not evade eye contact and do not try to trick them. You are just another passenger. You are just another face. In the eyes of the British authorities, you are of no importance.