A Colder War (6 page)

“Do you know where he was staying on Chios?”

Makris directed his eyes toward the flight plan. “Does it not say?”

Kell turned the sheet of paper around and held it up for inspection. “Hard to tell,” he said.

Makris pursed his lips, as if to imply that Chris Hardwick had caused secondary offense by his failure to read and understand modern Greek. He took back the flight plan, studied it carefully, and was obliged to admit that no address had been given.

“There seems to be only Mr. Wallinger’s residence in Ankara,” he conceded. Clearly, this was a minor breach in aeronautical protocol. Kell suspected that, first thing in the morning, Makris would hunt down a junior colleague at the airport and take significant pleasure in reprimanding him for the oversight. “But there is a telephone number,” he said, as though to compensate for the clerical error.

“A telephone number on Chios?”

Makris did not need to look back at the code. “Yes.”

According to a preliminary report sent to Amelia the day before the funeral, Wallinger had used his own logbook and JAR license to hire the Cessna in Turkey and his own passport to enter Ankara, but had then left no trace of his movements once he arrived on Chios. His cell phone had been switched off for long periods during his stay and there was no activity on any Wallinger credit card, nor on his four registered SIS legends. He had effectively spent a week on Chios as a ghost. Kell assumed that Wallinger had been with a woman, and was trying to conceal his whereabouts from both Josephine and Amelia. Yet the lengths he had gone to suggested that it was equally plausible he had been making contact with an agent.

“Do you recognize the number?”

“Do I
recognize
it?” Makris’s reply was effortlessly condescending. “No.”

“And have you heard anything about what Mr. Wallinger was doing on Chios? Why he was visiting the island? Any rumors around town, newspaper reports?”

Kell accepted that his questions were what is known in the trade as a “trawl,” but it was nevertheless important to ask them. It did not surprise him in the least when Makris suggested with a light cough that Mr. Hardwick was exceeding his brief.

“Paul Wallinger was just a tourist, no?” he said, raising his eyebrows. It was clear that he had no desire to improvise an answer. “I certainly have not spoken to anybody, or read anything, which suggests other interests. Why do you ask?”

Kell produced a bland smile. “Oh, just background for the report. We need to ascertain whether there was any chance that Mr. Wallinger deliberately took his own life.”

Makris tried to appear appropriately dignified as he considered the grave matter of Paul Wallinger’s possible suicide. It had doubtless occurred to him that such a verdict would absolve Chios Airport entirely of any responsibility in the crash, thus ending, at a stroke, the possibility of a lawsuit against the engineer who had checked the Cessna.

“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 restaurant 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.