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

by Charles Cumming

  ‘Vehicle staying where it is. Hazard lights. He’s walking up to the door, guv. Walking up to ninety-eight.’

  ‘Could be for the neighbour,’ Kell suggested flatly. ‘Father of the nine-year-old boy.’

  ‘Who the fuck is it?’ said Mowbray.

  ‘Not clear on that,’ said Simon. ‘Hold please. Hazards still flashing. Engine on the Lexus running.’

  29

  Bernhard Riedle heard the sudden burst on the doorbell and felt his heart surge. Dmitri was early. He checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror then picked up the intercom.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Delivery for Flat 3.’

  Riedle felt a slump of disappointment. He pressed the button for entry.

  ‘Are you inside?’ he asked as the lock buzzed and the door clicked open. ‘Do you require a signature?’

  ‘Please,’ said the delivery man. Riedle hung up, picked up the keys to the apartment and prepared to walk downstairs. He decided against putting on any socks or shoes and headed for the front door. It was cool in the narrow corridor outside the flat. The walls were dirty, the paint chipped along the skirting board.

  ‘Just coming,’ Riedle called out as he reached the turn at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Down here,’ said the man and Riedle could now see him.

  He did not look like a delivery man. He was wearing no uniform and did not appear to be carrying any identification. He was in his early thirties, smartly dressed, and seemed at first glance to be a neighbour or perhaps a friend visiting the occupants of the ground-floor flat. As Riedle reached the bottom of the stairs, he noticed that the man was not carrying a parcel or envelope of any kind. There was no box on the ground, though the front door was ajar. Perhaps the items for delivery were outside in a van.

  ‘Mr Riedle? Bernhard Riedle?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and stopped: ‘But how did you know I was here?’

  The man fired once, blowing out the back of Riedle’s head with a silenced handgun. His body was thrust backwards towards the door of the ground-floor apartment. The man then fired a second shot into Reidle’s chest, holstered the weapon, turned around and walked out on to the street.

  30

  ‘Subject just got back in the Lexus. Front seat. Vehicle has moved away.’

  ‘Where’s ATLANTIC?’ Mowbray muttered, staring at the live feeds. There were no cameras rigged in the stairwell or hall of the apartment. When Riedle had answered the intercom and walked downstairs, they had lost audio-visual.

  ‘Did you get a number plate?’ Kell asked. He sensed that something was badly wrong.

  ‘Partial,’ Simon replied. His voice sounded hesitant, uncertain.

  ‘Where the fuck’s he gone?’ Mowbray stood back to allow Kell to look at the screens. Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen. Sitting room. No movement inside the apartment.

  ‘What can you see from the hotel?’

  A slice of feedback on the speaker, then:

  ‘Could be he met the neighbour. She’s downstairs with the kid.’

  ‘That wasn’t my question,’ Kell replied. ‘What can you see?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  Kell turned to Mowbray. A lawnmower had started up in a neighbouring garden, forcing him to raise his voice.

  ‘The screens. Are they accurate? Can they be refreshed? Have we got some kind of glitch?’

  Mowbray shook his head. ‘They’re fine, boss. Doesn’t work like that. They don’t all go down at the same time. Different circuits.’ Mowbray could sense that Kell was already working off the worst-case scenario. ‘Simon’s probably right,’ he said, in an effort to console him. ‘Bernie’s just having a chat to the neighbour, killing time. He’ll be back any moment.’

  ‘No.’ Kell was shaking his head. He had understood what had happened, all of the ways in which he had failed to see how easily Riedle had been tricked. ‘He won’t be coming back.’

  Mowbray looked at Kell. Their worst fears were confirmed by Simon’s voice on the speaker, low and disbelieving.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What is it?’ Kell asked quietly.

  ‘We’ve got movement. Mother and son. They just came out the front door. She’s shielding him.’

  ‘Why?’ Kell asked, but he knew the answer to his own question.

  Simon’s voice was quick and shocked, sentences folding into sentences as he described the scene in front of him.

  ‘She’s distraught. They’re crying. We’ve got a crowd gathering. I’ve got people standing back. The kid’s in tears. Something’s happened, boss. I think there’s been a shooting.’

  Mowbray’s mouth hung open, frozen in mid-breath. Kell looked at him and placed a hand on his back, as if to take on the full burden of responsibility for what had happened. He understood everything now, in the way that ideas materialize in an instant and order themselves out of nothing. Minasian had sent a private team to erase his little problem. He had lured Riedle to London, then had him taken out, on the assumption that Scotland Yard would never be able to join the dots.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he told Simon. It was the first law of surveillance. Never leave your post, no matter what you see, no matter what you feel you can do to intervene.

  ‘I’m staying,’ came the reply. ‘I count two bystanders on phones, boss. Looks like emergency calls. They’re calling it in. The neighbour is being comforted. She’s got the kid in her arms. He’s still crying. They’re both still crying.’

  Kell heard the ping of a message on Amelia’s dedicated mobile. He picked it up. The screen said: ‘News?’

  ‘Problem,’ he typed back.

  ‘Again?!’ Amelia replied.

  How strange it was to think that she might have smiled as she typed that. Kell put the phone in his back pocket and picked up his private mobile. He told Mowbray to stay in front of the screens, instructed Simon to text him with updates. Then he grabbed his jacket and keys and ran outside to the street.

  31

  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 a
nd 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.’

  32

  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.