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

by Charles Cumming

  ‘That’s what I wondered.’

  Kell was silent as he continued to analyse what he had been told. It was unthinkable that the SVR would have a gay officer on its books, married or otherwise. SIS had only begun recruiting openly homosexual employees in the previous ten or fifteen years; modern Russia was antediluvian by comparison. If Minasian’s secret were exposed, his career would end overnight.

  ‘Who else have you spoken to about this?’

  Kell dreaded the simple reply: ‘C’ because it would instantly shrink his options. The wheels of his imagination had begun to turn, a dormant ruthlessness circling Minasian’s vulnerability like a bird of prey. If his nemesis was hiding a secret of this magnitude, he was vulnerable to an extent that was almost beyond belief. But if Amelia knew about it, she would sideline Kell on any subsequent operation, doubtless citing ‘personal issues’ and ‘clouded judgment’.

  ‘I haven’t told a soul,’ Mowbray replied, though his eyes slid to one side and he tapped his mouth with a napkin as he spoke. Kell studied the face and could not be certain that Mowbray was telling the truth. A tiny section of sunburned skin around his nose looked as if it was about to flake off.

  ‘Not even Karen?’ he asked. Spousal pillow talk was an occupational hazard among veteran spies; the habit of secrecy became harder and harder to sustain as the years went by.

  ‘Never discuss work with the wife,’ Mowbray replied quickly. ‘Never. Something we agreed on from day one. Last time she asked me was ninety-one or ninety-two, when they arrested a bunch of IRA in London. She was watching John Simpson on the Nine O’Clock News, said: “Did you have something to do with this?” I told her to mind her own business.’

  ‘But she saw Minasian?’

  ‘Oh yeah. All the time.’

  ‘What does that mean? She met him?’

  ‘No. Neither of us did. But we were staying at the same hotel. Caught the whole show.’

  Kell saw the glint in Mowbray’s eye, the suggestion of an even greater prize.

  ‘Call it trouble in paradise,’ he explained with a predictable grin. ‘Our man from Moscow wasn’t getting on very well with his boyfriend. They kept fighting. Arguing.’

  ‘All of this played out in public?’ Kell was beginning to wonder if Harold had stumbled on a set-up, Minasian role-playing the moody boyfriend for the purpose of an undisclosed SVR operation at the hotel. Perhaps the relationship had even been staged for Mowbray’s benefit, or Harold himself had been turned by the SVR.

  ‘Not exactly.’ Mowbray was leaning forward again, still grinning. ‘You see, I made a point of watching them whenever I could. Surreptitious photos, eavesdropping in the bar.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Kell had an image of Mowbray prowling around a sun-blasted Egyptian tourist resort with a long-lens camera and a boom microphone. ‘Any chance I could see those photos?’

  Mowbray had been biding his time, waiting for the invitation. Setting his knife and fork to one side, he shot Kell a look of mischievous self-satisfaction and reached back into his jacket pocket. Inside were half a dozen colour photographs, the size of postcards, four of which spilled on to the ground as he retrieved them.

  ‘Fuck,’ he muttered. It was like watching a conjuror trying to learn a new trick. ‘Here you go.’

  Kell took the photographs and experienced an extraordinary feeling of exhilaration. He turned to check his background. A chef in stained check trousers was standing three feet behind him, stretching a ball of dough on a small cushion. Kell’s body was cloaked in heat. He craved alcohol.

  The first photograph showed Minasian standing alone at the edge of a swimming pool, in bright sunlight. He was wearing Rayban sunglasses and navy blue swimming shorts. Fit for his age, defined musculature, an expressionless mouth. The man who had given the order to kill Rachel. He felt a visceral hatred towards him. There was a woman’s blurred shoulder in the left foreground of the shot, presumably Karen. Mowbray had used her as a decoy.

  The next three photographs were all taken by long lens from an elevated position, angled down towards a garden in which Minasian was standing with his lover. When Kell asked, Mowbray confirmed that he had been sitting on the balcony of his room at the back of the hotel and had overheard the two men arguing. In the first shot of the sequence, they were embracing, Minasian topless, the older man wearing a pale pink short-sleeved shirt, white shorts and plimsolls. He was tanned with chalk-white hair that was bald at the crown. In the second shot, the older man appeared to be extremely upset, his eyes stained with tears, Minasian leaning back as if to disengage from what was happening in front of him. In the third shot – Kell assumed that he had looked at the sequence out of chronological order – Minasian was gesticulating with his right arm in a manner deemed threatening enough for the older man to be shielding himself by raising his hand and turning to one side. Was he afraid of being hit? The next photograph, apparently taken with a different lens, from a new angle, showed the older man crouching down in a separate section of the garden, hands covering his face.

  ‘What was going on?’ Kell asked.

  ‘They were shouting at each other like a couple of teenagers.’ The waitress removed the bowls of hummus and mashed aubergine. There was a clatter as something fell over in the kitchen. ‘Big fight between two queens about “lying” and “broken promises” and Minasian being a “prick”. I couldn’t make much of it out.’

  ‘They were always speaking English?’

  ‘Mostly. Far as I could tell, the old boy didn’t speak Russian. He’s German. From Hamburg.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I’m not an idiot, guv.’

  ‘Nobody said you were, Harold.’

  Kell took a bite of lamb and invited Mowbray to continue. He was about to order a beer when he remembered that the restaurant was dry. A single glimpse of the secret world had been enough to strip him of a seven-month commitment to remain booze free.

  ‘His name is Bernhard Riedle.’

  ‘How are you spelling that?’

  Mowbray wrote down the name on a piece of paper and passed it to Kell.

  ‘I got into the hotel email. Piece of piss. Jumped on their wi-fi, hacked into the account used by the reservations manager, read Riedle’s messages.’

  ‘Undetected?’

  Kell felt uneasy. Mowbray wasn’t trained in surveillance. If Minasian had caught even a scent of his interest – the eavesdropped conversations, the clandestine photographs – he might have turned the tables and engineered an investigation of his own into the nosey couple from England.

  ‘Of course undetected. Did the whole thing from my room. Took fifteen minutes. Anyway, here’s the interesting bit. Minasian stayed under a pseudonym. Riedle called him “my partner Dmitri” in the emails.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Kell. ‘He’s married. Riedle could be covering for him. Did you get a passport? A surname?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But Minasian would have had to show one when he checked in. So either Riedle really does think his boyfriend is called “Dmitri” or he’s conscious that Alexander Minasian works for the SVR and is travelling under alias.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’

  Mowbray looked momentarily confused, as if Kell had identified a flaw in his thesis. For his own part, Kell was surprised that Mowbray had failed to join the dots.

  ‘If I go on holiday with my girlfriend “Anne Smith” and she travels on a passport calling herself “Betty Jones”, I’m going to ask her how come she has two identities. Unless she’s from the Office.’

  ‘True,’ said Mowbray. ‘You are.’ There was a sheepish pause while he made a silent calculation. Kell sensed his embarrassment and urged him to continue.

  ‘Well,’ he said, rubbing the back of his head. ‘We can discount the idea that Riedle is a spook. Once I got home I did some digging around. He’s an architect.’

  ‘From Hamburg?’

  ‘Originally, yes. That’s where he has his practice
, anyway. Right now, though, he’s spending a lot of time in Brussels.’

  ‘Reason?’

  ‘Some kind of office building. Swish headquarters for a Belgian television company. He’s designing it, living in an apartment there while it goes up.’

  ‘With Minasian paying him the occasional visit?’

  ‘Negative, Houston.’

  ‘They broke up?’

  ‘They broke up,’ Mowbray replied.

  Kell immediately saw this not as a setback, but as an opportunity. A man in love is less likely to betray his partner. A man with a broken heart can be manipulated into acts of vengeance.

  ‘You said Riedle was feeling sorry for himself? That’s what you meant? Minasian dumped him?’

  Mowbray squeezed his chafed nose and looked to one side, timing the delivery of a chunk of bad news. The waitress, who had passed their table several times in the preceding minutes, trying to ascertain if the two middle-aged gentlemen intended to finish their meals, finally made her decision and began collecting their plates of half-eaten food.

  ‘He dumped him,’ said Mowbray. ‘Gigantic lover’s tiff.’

  ‘After the argument you witnessed? That was it? They separated?’

  Mowbray nodded, staring at the table.

  ‘The photos you saw, then Riedle crying on his own in the garden. That was the last time we saw Minasian. I assume he left that night. There was a twenty-two hundred Air Egypt flight from Hurghada to Cairo. He could have gone anywhere after that.’

  ‘And Riedle?’

  ‘Stayed another two days. Had breakfast in his room, ate dinner alone with a look on his face like his life was over.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’ Kell asked. ‘Just from a look on his face? Maybe he’s that kind of person.’

  Mowbray pitched backwards in his seat, as if Kell had been unnecessarily confrontational. Kell apologized with a raised hand and took the opportunity to order two glasses of mint tea. He was aware that his adrenaline was running high, an eagerness to ensnare Minasian clashing against long-practised instincts for caution and context.

  ‘What I meant was …’

  ‘Don’t worry, guv.’ Mowbray offered a conciliatory hand of his own. ‘I know what you meant. How did we know he was suffering? Why was he wandering around like a lovestruck adolescent?’

  ‘Precisely. How did you know?’

  Mowbray pulled out a packet of cigarettes and set them on the table. Kell looked at them and resented his own self-discipline.

  ‘Riedle spent a lot of time at the pool, reading off an iPad. Struck up a friendship with one of the boys down there. Egyptian kid, good-looking.’

  ‘Gay?’

  Mowbray realized what he had said and shook his head vigorously, chasing off the inference.

  ‘No. Nothing like that. Married, wife and kid in Luxor. Early thirties. Laid out our sunbeds in the morning. Brought us drinks. Put up the umbrellas when the sun got too hot. You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, I got talking to him and he said how Riedle was unhappy. He’d broken up with his boyfriend. They’d been seeing each other for over three years, had the latest in a long line of nasty rows. “Dmitri” had left the hotel, gone off with a new man.’

  ‘He told all that to a pool boy?’

  Mowbray seemed to be aware that the interaction sounded far-fetched.

  ‘Bernhard struck me as the confessional sort. Needy, artistic, you know? Any sympathetic ear will do for a type like that. “I’m in pain, come and listen to me. I’ve built a new house, come and look at it. I’m miserable, make me feel better.” And we tell strangers our secrets, don’t we? He’s never going to see the pool boy again, never going to build him a house in Luxor. He was a convenient shoulder to cry on for a couple of miserable days in paradise.’

  Kell felt a strange and disorienting sense of kinship with Riedle, the empathy of the broken-hearted man. He remembered his own dismay at Rachel’s treachery, then the long months of grieving that followed her death. He accepted the mint tea from the waitress, who smiled at Mowbray as she placed a glass on the table in front of him. Kell was surprised when Mowbray asked for the bill. What was the hurry?

  ‘You’ve told nobody about this?’ he asked.

  ‘Nobody, guv. Just you. I knew what it would mean to you, after everything that happened. Wanted to give you the opportunity.’

  Kell found himself saying ‘Thank you’ in a way that caused Mowbray to produce a conspiratorial nod. A small burden of complicity had been established between them. Yet it was disconcerting to consider that choice of word: ‘opportunity’. An opportunity for what? Kell knew that nothing would ever erase the pain he had suffered over the loss of Rachel. Vengeance would not bring her back to life, nor alter the dynamics of his relationship with Amelia. Recruiting Minasian would bring Kell a modicum of respect from colleagues at SIS for whom he felt little but contempt. So why do it? Why not stand up, shake Mowbray’s hand, put fifty quid on the table to cover the bill and walk out of the restaurant? His better future lay outside SIS – he knew this, he had come to terms with it – and yet Kell felt powerless to suppress his hunger for revenge.

  ‘You know that I’m going to go after him, don’t you?’ he said.

  ‘I assumed that, yes,’ Mowbray replied.

  The waitress brought the bill.

  6

  They had made it easy for Jim Martinelli.

  Kyle Chapman had asked for his address in Peterborough. He had said that four separate UK passport application forms would arrive at his home within the next seven days. He told Martinelli that if he took the forms to work, processed them in the usual way in his capacity as an application examiner, and guaranteed that the passports would then be sent out to the individuals concerned, his debt of £30,000 would be cleared.

  Chapman gave Martinelli a warning. He said that if he attempted to contact any law enforcement official in relation to the passports, or kept a record of any of the information contained in the application forms, he would be killed. Chapman told Martinelli that he was working on behalf of a ‘businessman in Tirana’ with connections to organized criminal groups in the UK who would ‘happily’ hunt him down and ‘enjoy listening to you begging for your life in some warehouse in Peterborough where the only thing that moves is a rat taking a shit and a fucked-off Albanian touching an electric cable to your testicles’. Chapman added that if, at any point, he or his client became aware that Martinelli was suffering from ‘stress’ or had taken sick leave, or was in any way considering a change of job within the next six months, he would suffer the same fate. It was a simple exchange. The passports for the debt. No behavioural problems at work. No midnight confessions to the Samaritans after ‘half a bottle of Smirnoff and a good cry’. If he delivered the passports, he would be free of his debt. Nobody would ever come near him again, nobody would ever finger him for abusing his position. Chapman and his associate in Albania were ‘men of their word who believed in loyalty and good professional conduct’.

  Martinelli had agreed. He had felt that he had no choice. Five days later, the passport applications had arrived at his home. Two of them had the photographs of Caucasian males attached, the third a picture of a woman in her mid-twenties, possibly with roots in north-east Africa or the Arabian peninsular. The fourth showed a fit-looking male in his early twenties who was almost certainly of Indian or Pakistani heritage. His was the only name that Martinelli committed to memory, because he had felt – looking into the young man’s blank, pitiless eyes – that he was betraying not only himself by allowing such a man to possess a falsely obtained British passport, but also, potentially, the lives of many others.

  The young man’s name was Shahid Khan.

  7

  As soon as he had shaken Mowbray’s hand outside the restaurant, Kell set to work.

  He needed to discover more about Minasian, to find a way of running him to ground. He knew that the Russian would have left no trace of himself
in Hurghada, save for a false passport and a few brisk, pixelated appearances on hotel CCTV. With that in mind, Kell instructed his old friend and ally, Elsa Cassani, a freelance computer specialist based in Rome, to try to find out the surname on which ‘Dmitri’ had been travelling in Egypt. To his surprise, her efforts failed. There was no record on the hotel computer of Bernhard Riedle’s companion; the room had been registered and billed solely in Riedle’s name. Kell assumed that if ‘Dmitri’ had presented a passport, the details had either been lost or transcribed by hand.

  That meant going after Riedle. If Kell could befriend him and earn his trust, he could stripmine Riedle for information about Minasian’s habits, his character traits, his strengths and weaknesses. Such a psychological portrait would prove invaluable when the time came to try to recruit him. Above all, Riedle could provide Kell with a means of communicating with Minasian. Used correctly, the heartbroken lover could be the lure that would draw Kell’s quarry out into the open.

  With Elsa having drawn a blank, Kell put his doubts about Mowbray to one side and hired him on £750 a day for ‘as long as it takes to get me face-to-face with Dmitri’. Such was Kell’s determination to pursue Minasian without involving Amelia Levene that he was prepared to spend much of the £200,000 fee SIS had deposited in his bank account following the Kleckner operation. It had always felt like blood money to Kell; to use it in pursuit of Rachel’s killer felt not only just, but liberating.

  Mowbray was immediately successful. By Saturday he had located Riedle’s address in Brussels and ascertained that he was living in a block of luxury, serviced apartments in the Quartier Dansaert. Kell found the agents online and took out a three-week rental of his own on an apartment in the same building. He then travelled with Mowbray to Brussels on the Eurostar, taking two rooms at the Hotel Metropole. The next afternoon, less than five days after meeting Mowbray in Westbourne Grove, Kell had moved into the apartment.

  8