A Divided Spy (Thomas Kell Spy Thriller, Book 3) (14 page)

Kell jogged along Masbro Road in the heat of the afternoon, his shirt drenched in sweat, the operation crumbling around him. He called surveillance at Thames House, ordering teams back to The Wolseley and Claridge’s. There was still a small chance that Minasian was with Svetlana and that he could be arrested for complicity in Riedle’s murder. It was also entirely probable that the Russian had said his goodbyes, shouldered his rucksack and taken a taxi to Heathrow. Travelling under alias, Minasian would be out of UK airspace within three hours. Most likely Kell would never set eyes on him again.

He rang Amelia’s number.

‘You said there was a problem.’

It sounded as if she was walking somewhere in a hurry. Amelia’s voice, like his own, was breathless and rushed. She had so many other problems to deal with, and now Kell was presenting her with this.

‘ATLANTIC is down,’ he said, slowing to a standstill. Kell felt that he was giving SIS the ammunition with which to finish off the dregs of his career. ‘There was a shooting. They took him out.’

‘Dear God.
Who
took him out?’

‘Who do you think?’

Simon had reported by text that the police were now outside Sterndale Road and that there had already been a report of a shooting in the area on Twitter. Kell told Amelia that he was on his way to the scene.

‘You’re
what
?’ She sounded bewildered and angry. ‘Why? Tom, no. That’s an appalling idea. Do not show your face at Sterndale Road.’

Kell knew her too well. She was not trying to protect him. She was looking after number one. Her instinct was to distance SIS from the shooting. If Riedle’s death was pinned to the SVR, or it was discovered that he had been under surveillance, it would be Amelia who took the hit.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said.

‘Do not show your face, Tom. I am ordering you.’

It was a fair request. Every citizen was now a reporter and amateur cameraman. There would be smartphones outside Sterndale Road, passers-by capturing faces in the crowd and instantly posting the results on Facebook and Instagram. Within a couple of hours the
Daily Mail
would have shaky amateur footage from the scene. How would it look if Kell was recognized and identified? Yet he found himself saying to Amelia: ‘I know what I’m doing’ and ending the call before she had a chance to respond. He wanted to see what had happened for himself. He knew, with absolute certainty, that it had been a professional hit, just as he knew that he was taking the last few steps in his long career. After this, there would be nothing. Amelia would cut him out. In future years, Kell would be spoken of as the man who had lost Rachel Wallinger, the man who had lost Bernhard Riedle. Nothing he had done in his career before – or might ever do in the future – would dispel those facts, nor salvage his reputation.

The phone rang. Kell clicked it to mute. Let Amelia steam. He rounded the bend at the eastern end of Sterndale Road, hearing the sound of laughter in a garden as he passed a house on the corner. Bright sunlight on his face. A ponytailed schoolgirl in a purple uniform was skipping ahead of him, swinging a satchel. Kell felt utterly dejected. Without ‘Peter’, without Brussels, without the whole charade of entrapment, Bernhard Riedle would still be alive. It was Istanbul all over again. A person was dead because their life had been touched by Thomas Kell. He felt as though he was walking into a permanent solitude of shame and regret.

Mowbray called the mobile.

‘What’s going on?’ he said.

‘I’m heading down there.’ Kell knew what Mowbray’s answer would be, but still found himself asking: ‘Anything on the laptops?’

‘Nothing, guv.’

Mowbray also sounded emptied out, all of the wit and energy drained from his voice. Kell heard a text message coming into the phone, most probably from Simon. The side of his face was so soaked in sweat that the handset was sucking against his ears as he spoke.

‘Just stay in the flat, OK? Let me know if you hear anything from Claridge’s or the Wolseley.’

‘I already did.’ It sounded like Mowbray was reading from notes. ‘They said there was no sign of the group at the restaurant. Left at around two-fifteen. Claridge’s has TOLSTOY in his room, VALENTINA in the lobby. Nobody’s seen GAGARIN. Maître d’ at The Wolseley said she thinks he left before the other two. Caught a cab on Piccadilly.’

‘Of course he did,’ Kell replied resignedly, and hung up.

He was now halfway down Sterndale Road. He could hear sirens screaming in the distance. Cars had stopped in a line ahead of him and emergency lights were strobing at the end of the street. Kell checked the text message. It was indeed from Simon, confirming that an ambulance had arrived at the scene and that police officers were busy sealing off the block.

Kell was now less than three hundred metres away from the doorway in which Riedle had been shot. He came to a halt and wiped the sweat from his face with both sleeves of his shirt. He was carrying his jacket and took out a packet of cigarettes. He needed to be able to think clearly, to compose himself, to work out what to do. As he lit the cigarette, Kell heard another siren coming in from the south, almost certainly from the police station at Hammersmith. He looked at his watch. Not yet three o’clock. The shooting would be on the news within the hour.

He continued to walk west, cars doing U-turns ahead of him, taking side streets to escape the jam. He could see two police officers patrolling the final block on the street. They had stretched three separate ribbons of blue-and-white tape across the road, in front of which a small crowd had gathered. Kell was shocked to see a child among them, holding his father’s hand as they gawped at the scene. There was an ambulance parked outside the property, as well as three police vehicles. An even larger crowd was being held back by police tape on the opposite side, closer to Simon’s hotel. Kell could see the window of Simon’s room. He called his mobile.

‘Sir.’

‘I’m about a hundred and fifty metres from your hotel. On the northern side of Sterndale Road. Can you see me?’

A momentary pause. Simon said: ‘Yes, sir. I can see you.’

‘Anything to report?’

‘Nothing.’

Then Kell saw something that made him rear back in disbelief. He instinctively stepped off the pavement and shielded himself behind a parked white van.

‘Jesus.’

Directly ahead of him, there was a man standing at the edge of the crowd. Black shoes, dark blue chino trousers, a white shirt. He was in his mid-thirties and wearing a grey sports jacket.

‘What is it?’

‘GAGARIN,’ Kell replied. ‘I have eyes on GAGARIN.’ In his consternation, he abandoned all protocol and dispensed with the codename. ‘I’m standing less than fifty feet from Alexander Minasian.’

On Kell’s orders, Simon walked out of the hotel room, locked the door and ran downstairs. Within moments he was among the crowds on Shepherd’s Bush Road. Looking east down Sterndale, he was able to confirm that the man standing at the edge of the opposite police cordon was Alexander Minasian.

‘You’re sure?’ Kell asked, though he himself was in no doubt.

‘Ninety-nine per cent,’ Simon replied. ‘I’ve only seen surveillance photographs, a couple of frames of video, but that’s got to be him. I don’t want to keep looking, risk eye contact, but it’s a match.’

‘You have sunglasses on?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He won’t notice you from that range. Tell me exactly what you see.’

Kell was less than the length of six cars from Minasian, but still close enough to the van to conceal himself if the Russian turned around. He had not yet done so. In fact, Minasian appeared not to have moved for a considerable period of time. He was standing with his hands on his head, looking directly at the ambulance parked outside number 98. A passer-by, noticing him, would have assumed that Minasian – in common with several other people nearby – was in a state of shock.

‘He looks freaked out, boss. Looks as amazed as the rest of us.’ Kell could see Simon standing just beyond the second of the two police cars. ‘Why is he here?’ he muttered. ‘Why take the risk?’

Kell realized what had happened. Minasian had not given the instruction for Riedle’s murder. It had come from someone else. Somebody who had found out about their relationship and was determined to stop it. He crossed to the southern side of Sterndale Road, still speaking to Simon.

‘We’ll find that out,’ he said. ‘Can you get over this side? Go down Dewhurst Road, the one parallel to this. We need to follow him, get him under some kind of control. I’ll call it in. If we can get teams ahead of GAGARIN and behind, there’s a net we can close. We must not lose him.’

‘I understand.’

Kell was grateful for Simon’s sangfroid. He was only in his early twenties, just a kid on a run-of-the-mill surveillance job. By making him leave his post, Kell was putting him into an operational context for which he would be minimally prepared.

‘See you in a couple of minutes,’ he said, and ended the call. He was through to Mowbray within ten seconds.

‘Harold?’

‘Guv.’

‘I’ve got visual on GAGARIN.’

‘You’ve got what-the-fuck?’

‘Get down here. Sterndale Road. Corner of Dunsany Road. Get a cab or a Boris bike if you can, we’ll need to be mobile if he moves. Call the Office. Tell them to flood as many people into this area as they can spare. Give them your number, get them to circulate the photographs. Tell them GAGARIN is dressed as described. No change in appearance.’

‘Why don’t you just arrest him?’

Kell could hear Mowbray already moving around the flat, grabbing whatever he would need.

‘Not here. Not when I can be filmed or photographed. We need to get him into a choke point, somewhere discreet.’

‘You’re the boss,’ Mowbray replied.

Simon had already made it to the corner of Dunsany Road. Kell saw him slow from a sprint to a brisk walk and they made nodding eye contact. Minasian was about twenty feet away from him, still staring at the stunned activity outside Riedle’s building. Kell had not yet seen his face. Minasian’s hands were now back by his sides and he was standing perfectly still, making no attempt to shield his identity or to blend in more naturally with the crowd.

Kell sensed that he was about to move. Sure enough, with Simon just a few feet away, Minasian turned to his left. There was a tree beside Kell that he used for partial cover, but he was too intrigued to resist studying Minasian more closely. This was the first time that the two men had been so close to one another: in Odessa, Minasian had been a name on a radio; on the plane in Kiev, just a voice on a phone. Now, finally, he could see the man himself. Minasian had a surprisingly youthful face, unlined and clear-skinned, beneath a mop of dark brown hair, combed and parted neatly to one side. In another era, he might indeed have been an eager Soviet astronaut, or perhaps a rural doctor, affable and ruddy-cheeked.

‘He must be heading for Brook Green,’ Simon said. He was looking at Kell as they spoke. ‘I’ve got low power on my phone, boss. I’m sorry.’

Kell knew that there was little point in complaining. He needed Simon to stay sharp and to remain calm, for as long as they were in contact. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, raising a conciliatory hand. ‘Conserve battery. Text me. Switch off your wi-fi. That will give you a few extra minutes. I’ll walk behind you, parallel.’

Kell was wondering how long it would take for Amelia to scramble a team. Minasian was now about fifteen metres ahead of Simon on the opposite side of the street. The Russian was walking with an almost methodical slowness towards Brook Green, a small, triangular park at the edge of Shepherd’s Bush Road. With his lowered head and slightly hunched back, he looked like a man coming to terms with a terrible shock. Minasian had evidently been on his way to meet Riedle, only to discover that he had been shot. Why, then, had he remained at the scene? Why had he stood for so long, observing the activity around the flat? Was it possible that the impact of Riedle’s assassination had affected him to such an extent that he had momentarily lost all reason and common sense? Perhaps. For months Kell had thought of Minasian as a perfect spy, ruthless and intimidating, yet in the brilliant sunshine of this extraordinary afternoon, he looked lost. There was no obvious tradecraft in his behaviour, no discernible anti-surveillance. Kell was tailing him as easily as he could have tailed the schoolgirl twirling her satchel.

Such a state of affairs could not last. Even as Kell dialled Amelia’s number, he knew that Minasian would soon work out that he was a marked man. If the SVR had killed Riedle, Minasian was next; at the very least, his career was over. If the killer had been dispatched by Svetlana it meant not only that his wife knew of his affair with Riedle, but that their secret correspondence had also been breached. How else had the killer known about the rendezvous in Sterndale Road?

Amelia’s phone switched to voicemail. Was she ignoring his call? As Kell left a message, he tried to imagine what he would do in Minasian’s position. Return to Claridge’s? Make a run for the airport? He was convinced that the Russian would act in character. In other words, that he would do nothing rash, nothing to suggest that he was guilty of any crime. A combination of intellectual pride and professional vanity would compel Minasian to finesse his way out of the crisis into which he had fallen. He would find a way of denying his relationship with Riedle; of explaining why he happened to have been passing Sterndale Road. Kell knew that he was facing a significant challenge. It would be one thing to grab Minasian and to put him under interrogation. It would be quite another to force him to act against his own interests and in the service of the British government.

Simon had reached the one-way street running east-to-west alongside Brook Green. Minasian was ahead of him, walking on a stretch of road used by black cabs; at any moment he might hail one and be gone. Realizing this, Kell ordered an Uber, hoping that a car would come quickly enough to allow him to follow Minasian if he grabbed a taxi.

The Russian crossed the road. Simon was still about fifteen metres behind him. There were women in bikinis sunbathing in the park, two men in jeans with their shirts off flying a Frisbee across a narrow expanse of grass. Minasian approached the first of two caged public tennis courts and came to a halt, watching a rally between a man and a woman. It was possible that he was now trying to ascertain if he was being followed. Simon did not break stride but instead – to Kell’s admiration – hailed a young woman walking a small dog as though she was an old friend, immediately engaging her in conversation. It was superb tradecraft. His body language suggested a relaxed and familiar relationship between them. When Simon bent to pet the dog, the woman smiled and encouraged him to do so. At the same time, Minasian turned towards the second tennis court, reassured that he was alone. A coach and a young teenager were about to start a lesson. The surface of the court was littered with bright yellow balls which they were busily picking up. The Russian took out his phone and began to type a message as the coach kicked several of the balls towards the service line. Kell took the opportunity to make a call of his own to Mowbray, only to see a message from Amelia that astonished him.

Stand down. Pointless. Let him go.

It was incomprehensible. Had Amelia become so corporatized, so risk-averse, that she would let a compromised SVR officer float away in central London? Kell swore aloud, even as he fought the surely inconceivable idea that Amelia had known in advance about Riedle’s murder. A second message came through to allay his suspicions.

Leave it with me. Office will fully investigate. Not your responsibility.

Kell was about to respond when a call from Mowbray interrupted him.

‘Guv?’

‘What’s happening?’

‘It’s the Office. They won’t authorize it. They won’t send any teams.’

Kell asked Mowbray who he had spoken to at Vauxhall Cross.

‘“C”,’ he replied. ‘She won’t wear it. Says we should let GAGARIN take off. I can’t argue with that. She’s paying my bills. I have to do what she says.’

‘Like fuck you do,’ Kell told him. ‘We’re bringing him in. Where are you?’

‘Far end of Sterndale Road.’ It was obvious from Mowbray’s tone of voice that his loyalty to Kell trumped any misgivings he might have about ignoring Amelia. ‘Where do you want me?’

Kell knew that there were at least two streets perpendicular to Mowbray’s position that would get him north of Minasian within three or four minutes. He instructed him to head south towards the park and then to look for the tennis courts.

‘I’ve got an Uber on its way,’ he said, ‘Simon nearby. You on foot?’

‘Yup.’

‘No bike? No cab?’

‘Couldn’t find one. Traffic’s terrible.’

The conversation was interrupted by another incoming call. Kell switched to answer it.

‘Hello?’ he said.

There was a long delay. Somebody on a speaker phone. In the time it took him to answer, Kell was able to ascertain that Minasian was still watching the tennis and that Simon had taken a seat on the grass.

‘Hello. This is your Uber driver.’

The accent was Middle Eastern, the English rudimentary. A Frisbee fell to the grass within a few feet of Simon.

‘Yes. Where are you?’

Another long delay. Kell repeated his question, watching Simon, watching Minasian. The tennis coach was giving the teenager a tip about his forehand.

‘Very bad traffic. I am W14.’

Kell turned back towards the wall. A small boy in a bright red helmet shot past him riding a bicycle.

‘OK.’ A siren screamed on Shepherd’s Bush Road. Kell was obliged to raise his voice. ‘I’m on the north side of the park,’ he shouted. ‘Brook Green. Can you see me?’ It felt absurd to be calling in the support of an Uber driver in order to tail an SVR officer, but what other options were left to him? A taxi could come past at any point. If Minasian turned around and jumped in, he would be gone in a moment. Reporting the number plate would be pointless; use of the recognition technology needed clearance from Amelia.

‘I can see you …’

The line went dead. Kell swore within earshot of a passing mother and child but had no time to ring back. Mowbray was on hold.

‘I’m coming on to Brook Green,’ he said. He sounded out of breath, age catching up with him. ‘Remind me what GAGARIN’s wearing.’

Kell described Minasian’s clothing. ‘Can you see a playground?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Beyond that, two tennis courts. Our side, the man with dark brown hair. Watching a coach and a teenage boy, grey jacket slung over his right shoul—’

‘I see him. Jesus.’

Mowbray was twenty seconds away from the tennis courts, Simon a similar distance on the opposite side. Minasian was effectively surrounded. But as Kell turned around, he saw a black cab on Shepherd’s Bush Road, orange light lit, indicating left towards the park. Minasian looked in the same direction. The taxi would be passing him in under thirty seconds.

‘Shit.’

‘What is it?’ Mowbray asked, still on the line.

‘Taxi coming. I’ve got an Uber on its way, but the driver could be in Dalston for all I know.’

‘GAGARIN’s hailing it.’

Kell turned and saw what Mowbray had seen. Minasian had stepped away from the tennis courts and was waving his right hand in the air, trying to attract the attention of the driver.

‘I’m going for it,’ he shouted, running to intercept the taxi. ‘Get alongside GAGARIN. We’re taking him with us.’

Kell raised his arm, ran to the edge of the park and stepped into the road, forcing the cab to brake in front of him.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Kell said, as he leaned through the window. ‘Didn’t mean to step out that far.’

‘Geezer in front saw me first,’ the driver replied, pointing ahead to Minasian.

‘That’s all right, he’s a friend of mine, we’re all going the same way,’ Kell replied, and climbed into the back seat as the driver released the lock. Looking through the windscreen, Kell could see Minasian lowering his hand. Mowbray, who was still connected on the mobile, was only four or five metres away from him. The two men would soon be face to face.

‘He’s going to recognize you from Egypt,’ Kell said.

‘So what?’ Mowbray replied, and as Kell instructed the driver to pull up alongside them, he heard Mowbray engaging Minasian in conversation.

‘You’re coming with us, chum …’

‘Just here, please,’ Kell told the driver, opening the door as the taxi slowed to a halt.

Only then did Alexander Minasian seem to realize what was happening to him. Blue eyes flickered very quickly from side to side and his body tipped forward as he absorbed what Mowbray had said. Just as quickly, Minasian tried to recover his composure, but the sight of Kell inside the cab astonished him. He looked panicked, like a condemned man who has glimpsed the scaffold for the first time. Simon was now beside him, blocking off any possible escape route towards the park.