A Divided Spy (Thomas Kell Spy Thriller, Book 3) (10 page)

She now edged away from Kell, reached into her handbag and checked the screen of her phone. It was not clear whether she was consulting the time or checking for messages from the Office. It may have been that Amelia simply needed a few moments in which to process what she had been told and to decide upon her reaction. When she had deliberated long enough, she put the phone back in her bag, turned towards Kell and took a deep, somewhat melodramatic breath.

‘Tom.’ It was like sitting with a doctor who was about to deliver a diagnosis of inoperable cancer. Amelia put a hand on Kell’s knee, adding once again to the impression of a slightly forced and patronizing intimacy. ‘I know that losing Rachel in the circumstances in which we lost her was extraordinarily difficult for you. You feel angry, you feel guilty.’

‘With respect, you don’t know how I feel.’

It was Amelia’s turn to ignore Kell’s remark.

‘You want some measure of revenge for what happened. For Rachel’s murder to
mean
something. A day of reckoning.’

‘Don’t
you
?’

‘All of us have felt powerless in this respect, Tom. Rachel’s death was, among many other things, a humiliating time. We suffered because we had been unable to save her.’

What Amelia had said was true, yet her remarks did not take account of her own complicity in Rachel’s death. She had placed her in harm’s way and had failed adequately to protect her. Kell was still waiting for some indication that Amelia bore a sense of responsibility for what had happened.

‘You know that I have the greatest respect for you,’ she said. ‘Both as an intelligence officer and as a friend, I owe you a great deal, Tom.’ Kell knew that he was being softened up. The medical diagnosis was imminent. ‘Nevertheless, I have to say that what you’ve told me sounds very much like a trap. I don’t buy it. I don’t believe it. I think you’re being manipulated. I think Harold Mowbray is in the pay of Alexander Minasian.’

Kell felt a thump of humiliation and turned away. He found himself staring at Luigi, who waved at him across the room with a ripple of slim fingers. Kell looked back at Amelia, numbed by what she had told him.

‘Why would you think that?’

It had always been his secret doubt; the wretched possibility that Harold had been offered a hundred grand to betray him. Amelia obviously had inside information. Minasian’s supposed homosexuality, his relationship with Riedle, the imminent trip to London: it was all too good to be true. Kell had been played for a fool by a man he had trusted as a friend.

‘Instinct,’ Amelia replied.

Kell was surprised by her answer. He had been expecting conclusive evidence that Mowbray had been caught talking to the Russians: proof of a wire transfer; recordings of a clandestine conversation with the SVR.

‘Instinct?’ he said. ‘Is that all?’

With a dismissive movement of her eyes, Amelia suggested that instinct was all that the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service required in order to arrive at a fixed conclusion.

‘It doesn’t add up,’ she said. ‘It’s too easy.’

In his twenty-year career in the secret world, Kell – in common with many of his colleagues – had developed a theory that most of the Service’s greatest successes had come about, in part, because of cock-up and human error. He had never been a believer in perfect plans and immaculate conspiracies. Her Majesty’s enemies may have been clever and resourceful, but they were seldom so far-sighted, so operationally sophisticated, that they could entirely eradicate the possibility of accidents and mistakes. For a woman of Amelia’s experience to cast doubt on Kell’s story simply because it was ‘too easy’ ran counter to every instinct he possessed as a spy. It was when things were most obvious that they were often most true.

‘What doesn’t add up?’ he asked, though he knew exactly how Amelia was going to respond.

‘Well, for a start, even if you disregard the extraordinarily small possibility that Minasian’s sexuality has not been flagged up at some point by Moscow, you are asking me to imagine that a pedigree Russian foreign intelligence officer – the best of the best – takes the frankly insane risk of visiting a Western tourist hotel over the Easter holidays in the company of his secret boyfriend. You said that the hotel was popular with German tourists of a certain age and economic class? What if one of them happens to be BND?’

Kell could feel his anger rising as rapidly as his determi-nation to prove Amelia wrong. He answered immediately.

‘You know yourself that nobody in the BND has ever
seen
Minasian. He’s a ghost. When he was running Kleckner we had a meeting with Stefan fucking Helling trying to find out what he looked like. Remember? Nobody in the entire German espiocracy had a clue.’

Amelia was obliged to concede Kell’s point, but continued nonetheless.

‘Look. It just seems too cute. They have an argument right under Harold’s window. Poor Bernhard breaks into floods of tears. Minasian does a body swerve and leaves the resort. Meanwhile Harold just happens to find out Riedle’s name, address and serial number and call you up in London.’

A waitress passed behind their sofa with an almost-empty bottle of champagne. Kell was thirsty and flagged her down.

‘That’s what Harold
does
,’ he replied. He thanked the girl as she filled his glass, then waited until she had walked on. ‘He takes surveillance photographs, he breaks into reservations systems. Are you telling me Elsa is part of this conspiracy, too?’

Amelia shot Kell a jaded look, implying that Elsa was as eminently corruptible as any other freelance analyst on the books at Vauxhall Cross. Was it not the case that she had been uncharacte‌ristically incompetent on the current investigation? Elsa had not even been able to provide Kell with Minasian’s pseudonym at the Egypt hotel. Was that accidental or evidence of something more malign?

‘Don’t you believe in love?’ Kell asked.

‘Don’t I believe in
what
?’ Amelia assumed an outraged hauteur. ‘
Love
?’

Kell took a sip of champagne.

‘Think about Minasian,’ he said. ‘A married man, dutiful, loving towards Svetlana, proud to be serving the Motherland. But he has
needs
. He has a secret sexuality that
must
be serviced. We’ve had these guys before. Hard men in the IRA with wives back in Belfast and a boyfriend in the unit.’

‘Exactly
.
’ Amelia snapped her reply, a return of serve fizzing low over the net. ‘In the
unit
. They kept it local. They kept it intimate. I know the man you’re thinking of and I know the way he managed things. He maintained control over every element of his secret life by sharing it only with one person in his unit over whom he exercised complete tactical and moral influence.’

Kell tried to respond. Amelia again cut him down.

‘Let me finish my point.’ All the warmth and easy familiarity of her manner had dissipated. ‘Why doesn’t a man as clever and as careful as Minasian find a boyfriend in Kiev or Moscow? Why doesn’t he manage it in-house? Why does he fly from Ukraine to Cairo, from London to Brussels, carrying on like a dog on heat? Does he
want
to get caught?’

‘Love,’ Kell said again.

Amelia threw back her arms and gazed at the ceiling.

‘I give up,’ she said. ‘You’ve gone soft, Tom.’

There was a strange tenderness in the remark. With the exception of her relationship with Paul Wallinger, Amelia had lived so much of her own life at an emotional distance from the possibility of love that she could at times seem almost desiccated.

‘I haven’t gone soft,’ Kell replied. ‘Believe me, I have seen enough with Claire, heard enough about Minasian, realized the truth of Rachel’s behaviour towards me, to make me as cynical and as closed off to that sort of thing as you can imagine.’ It didn’t look as though Amelia had entirely understood what Kell was trying to tell her, but he pressed on. ‘I just happen to believe in Bernie Riedle. I have sat with him. I have listened to him. I have staged a mugging outside his apartment after which he almost wept with shock and gratitude. This is not a Method actor. This is a man who is in love with Alexander Minasian. And he believes that Alexander Minasian is still in love with him.’

‘Do
you
believe that?’ Amelia asked, and for the first time Kell glimpsed the possibility that she could be persuaded out of her prejudice.

‘Yes,’ he said firmly, though he was not at all sure that what he was about to say was even partly true. ‘I believe that Minasian is still in love with Riedle, in the sense that even the most heartless, self-interested individuals are capable of experiencing feelings of tenderness and affection, no matter how corrupted they may be.’

There was a momentary break in their conversation, punctured by the amplified sound of an object being tapped against the side of a glass. A burst of feedback, then a disembodied voice filled the darkened room.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the event is about to start. Will you please make your way to your seats?’

It was Kell’s first – and, he hoped, last – experience of the fashion catwalk. Fifteen minutes of male models walking between rows of seated
fashionistas
wearing a series of increasingly bizarre outfits: violet leather biking jackets offset by cream silk scarves as broad as bedsheets; aquamarine culottes worn with pale plimsolls and straw boating hats; tablecloth-check linen suits with three-quarter-length trousers. Kell sat beside Amelia, who had been given a seat in the front row. She was watching the proceedings with rapt fascination, occasionally leaning across to whisper a mischievous: ‘Oooh, he’s rather dashing’ in Kell’s ear. Across the runway, Luigi was seated at the right hand of Burt Lancaster, his fists clenched and knuckles white, eyes set in fierce concentration.

‘Here she is,’ said Amelia, as the bone-thin Sophie finally appeared at the end of the runway. She was wearing a beautiful black evening dress, open at the shoulders and across the back, and passed Amelia’s seat like a spectre, making no eye contact with her godmother.

‘Tell me about Mowbray in Odessa,’ Amelia asked, once she had left the runway. All of the male models had now gathered on the narrow stage.

‘What about him?’ Kell replied. He was aware of Luigi staring at them in quiet disapproval. Guests were not supposed to chit-chat during the show.

‘Who saw Minasian?’ Amelia asked. ‘Did Harold spend time with him in the arrivals area?’

Kell could still replay every frame of what had happened at the port a year earlier. He knew that Mowbray had been nowhere near Minasian.

‘Danny and Carol took him down after Kleckner came off the ship. Harold was outside the terminal all the time, making sure the SVR didn’t grab him from the Customs hall. He knew what Minasian looked like from our photograph, but they never got face to face. Danny Aldrich filled him with ketamine. He was out almost immediately.’

Sophie had appeared for a second time, now wearing a sleeveless vest and a pair of black silk trousers not dissimilar – at least to Kell’s untrained eye – to the ones being worn by her godmother.

‘And later?’ Amelia asked.

‘Nothing.’ Kell glanced across at Luigi and tried to warm him up with a flattering smile. ‘Harold was around before we took off in the plane. He and Danny drove back to Odessa, flew out that night. Minasian never set eyes on him.’

Amelia was looking to her left, tracking Sophie’s approach. She passed their seats and returned backstage. Kell wasn’t worried by Amelia’s questions. He felt only a sense of impatience that it was taking her so long to trust his judgment.

‘The Russians know where I live,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be at all difficult for them to track me down. If what you’re saying is true, that Harold has been turned and is working against me, it’s an extraordinarily elaborate way of exacting revenge for blowing Kleckner. Easier to throw me under a train, no?’

‘Perhaps Minasian doesn’t know you’ve left us and wants to recruit you?’ Amelia suggested. There was a burst of applause as the audience reacted to one of the outfits. ‘Perhaps this is his way of drawing you in.’

Kell laughed at the idea. ‘Then why doesn’t somebody come and find me at The Havelock in Brook Green?’ Kell adopted a cod Russian accent. ‘Hello, Meester Kell. My name eez Vladimir. I know you unhappy. Let me buy you pint.’

Amelia smiled, but as she turned back to him, Kell saw that her eyes were soft with concern.

‘
Are
you unhappy?’ she asked. In years gone by, Kell would have fallen on her tenderness with gratitude, but he was now too hardened against her. It was simpler to treat all expressions of kindness as a manipulation. ‘I don’t even work for you any more,’ he said. ‘What could I possibly tell Minasian that would be of any use to the SVR?’

‘You’ve always underestimated your importance, Tom. You could tell them a great deal.’

Kell again ignored the deliberate flattery; Amelia had too many tricks up her sleeve for anything she said to be taken at face value. A song was playing, a synthesized version of ‘Don’t Stand So Close to Me’ that Kell didn’t recognize.

‘Who have you got in the SVR?’ he asked. The question was deliberately provocative, but he was in the mood to push her.

‘Never you mind,’ Amelia replied.

Kell knew that she was being disingenuous. The Service had had nobody on the books a year earlier; the chances of a successful SVR recruitment in the intervening period were vanishingly small.

‘You still don’t have anybody, do you?’ he said. ‘At least, anyone of any stature.’

A knowing grin curled across Amelia’s face, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. Kell again looked across the runway and nodded at Luigi. This time, the Italian nodded back.

‘Nobody,’ Kell repeated. He was taunting her now. Amelia did not respond. The show was drawing to a close and all five male models had lined up on the stage. They left a gap between them, through which a bearded Italian of indeterminate age emerged from backstage to rapturous applause. He was flanked on one side by Sophie, on the other by a second female model, equally emaciated. Both had their arms wrapped around him. Kell assumed that he was the man who had designed the clothes.

‘Do you think Andrei Eremenko would look good in culottes?’ he asked, turning to face Amelia as both of them began to clap. He could feel her wariness clearing like clouds burning off on a summer morning.

‘Just the thing to wear in the bar at Claridge’s this season, darling,’ she replied.

That was when Kell knew that she had changed her mind.