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

by Charles Cumming

  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 instructe
d 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.

  ‘Alexander!’ Kell called out, leaning forward from the back of the cab. He produced a beaming smile. ‘Why don’t we give you a lift?’

  33

  With a barely perceptible push in the lower back, Mowbray steered Minasian into the taxi. Kell indicated that he should sit in the fold-down seat opposite his own and made way for Mowbray beside him. Simon entered by the opposite door. With no safe house nor clearance from Amelia, Kell had little choice but to instruct the driver to take them to his flat on Sinclair Road. He was certain that Minasian would insist on returning to Claridge’s within a few hours, citing the risk of being reported absent by the SVR. That would give him only a very narrow window of time in which to pitch the Russian and to set up the basic parameters of their relationship. The conversation would be complex and fraught with risk. Kell had the Riedle notes to work from, combined with years of experience in recruitment and interrogation, but he had never been up against a serving Russian officer. Minasian was cornered and compromised, but he was not going to make life easy.

  There was the added problem of the taxi driver, who had sounded concerned as Minasian was bundled into the back of the cab.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he had said, as the doors slammed shut. ‘What’s the story, fellas?’

  To allay his suspicions, and to avoid any compromising conversation from the back seat, Kell replied with a hearty: ‘Fine, thanks, sorry about the confusion’ and quickly engineered a diversionary chat as the taxi moved east along Brook Green.

  ‘Did you see those guys playing Frisbee?’

  ‘I did!’ Mowbray replied, playing along with the ruse. Minasian was staring at Kell with nerveless blue eyes, powerless to prevent what was happening. Kell stared back, mesmerized by the sudden proximity of the man who had dominated his thoughts for so long. Minasian was of average height, but evidently strong and fit. Kell was struck not only by his surprisingly youthful appearance, but also by the quality of his clothes and general appearance. Not for him the down-at-heel uniform of the Russian working class; this, after all, was a man who stayed at Claridge’s and lunched at The Wolseley. His shirt and trousers were designer brands, his jacket tailored, the polished shoes made from hand-stitched leather. The steel edge of a chunky wristwatch was visible beneath the sleeve of Minasian’s cufflinked shirt and his fingernails were trim and clean; they had evidently been manicured. Kell had a mental image of a snake, slipping out of its skin and into another. As the driver turned left towards Blythe Road, Kell leaned forward, reached into Minasian’s jacket pocket and, encountering no resistance or objection, withdrew both his wallet and a well-used BlackBerry. There was a burst of eau de cologne.

  ‘Did you know that Frisbees began life as containers for pizza?’ he said, drawing a smile from Mowbray as he began to flick through the contents of the wallet. Russian credit cards and a driving licence – all in Minasian’s name – as well as a substantial amount of currency in euros, roubles and sterling. The wallet was lizard skin with an Asprey’s stamp. ‘Somebody saw a couple throwing one back and forth on a beach and offered to buy it from them for a dollar.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Mowbray replied, deadpan.

  ‘Whoever it was, he realized he was sitting on a fortune.’ Kell took the cover off the BlackBerry and removed the SIM and battery. ‘Got the design patented, made the tins in hard plastic, the rest is history.’

  Minasian was gazing out of the window. He looked detached and calm.

  ‘Just here, please,’ said Kell.

  They were at least twenty metres from his door. The taxi pulled over and Kell paid. Mowbray and Simon flanked the Russian as they waited for the driver to pull away. They were concerned that he might try to run. Kell knew better. Minasian was coming along not only because he had no choice, but because he believed that he could win whatever battle lay ahead of him.

  ‘The apartment is just over there,’ Kell said, as the taxi growled around the corner. ‘No need for you to come inside, Simon,’ he added, and saw a look of disappointment flit across the young man’s face. ‘Stay out here for a bit. Keep an eye on the street.’

  Minasian was looking up and down the road, doubtless trying to memorize his location. Simon took out his phone. Kell knew that he would soon be called home by his superi-ors, on the orders of ‘C’. Amelia would want to know where they had taken GAGARIN. She might even send a team to extract him.

  ‘Just through here,’ Kell said as they walked into the hall.

  One of the neighbours had left a box of empty bottles for recycling near the door on the ground floor. There were parcels and letters on the large fuse box that served as a shelf for mail. Kell led Minasian upstairs, Mowbray following behind them.

  ‘Come in.’ Kell unlocked his door. He was suddenly hungry and realized that it would be a long time before he was able to eat a proper meal. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  Minasian walked inside. He passed the kitchen and went into the living room, looking for all the world like a man sizing up a property for rent.

  ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’

  Minasian spun around and looked at Kell as if he had suggested something quite uncommon. The Russian had not yet spoken. He frowned and dropped into a hard-backed chair. Kell found an iPhone charger, connected it to a power source, propped up his phone on a pile of books and aimed the lens at Minasian.

  ‘This conversation will be recorded,’ he said.

  Minasian shrugged as Mowbray drew the curtains to reduce the brightness of the sunlight streaming through the windows. The air in the flat was stale, the temperature muggy, but Mowbray switched on a small desk fan rather than open the window. The risk of traffic distortion on the audio was too great.

  ‘Glass of water?’ Kell suggested. ‘Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘Coffee,’ Minasian replied. It was the first word he had spoken. His voice was deeper than Kell had expected, the Russian accent not as pronounced.

  ‘How do you take it, Alex?’ Mowbray asked, moving towards the kitchen. ‘Sugar? Dash of white?’

  Minasian did not reply. For a considerable time, nothing was said. Kell lit a cigarette and manoeuvred a chair until he was sitting opposite Minasian. He checked the initial footage from the iPhone for framing and focus, then replaced it.

  ‘Can you confirm your name, please?’

  ‘Why?’ Minasian asked.

  ‘Because you have no choice.’

  Minasian reacted with a look of impatient disdain that Kell suspected would become familiar.

  ‘Name,’ he said.

  ‘You know who I am.’

  ‘Name.’

  Mowbray emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray on which he had placed two cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar, some milk and a plate of biscuits. There was a low table between the two men and he set the tray down, nodding at Minasian.

  ‘There you go, Alex. I made it black. Just the way you like it.’

  ‘Menya zovut Aleksandr Minaysian.’

  ‘In English,’ Kell replied.

  Minasian’s response was reluctant and near-inaudible.

  ‘My name is Alexander Alexeyich Minasian.’

  ‘Again.’

  ‘My name …’ There was a stubborn, humiliated pause. ‘Is Alexander Alexeyich Minasian.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

 
Minasian looked at Kell, half-pleadingly. Kell demonstrated by his reaction that he expected Minasian to comply.

  ‘Ya ofitser Es Ve Er.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  Minasian spluttered a contemptuous laugh.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I said are you married?’

  ‘You know that I am.’

  ‘Please tell us your wife’s name.’ Kell wanted to humiliate Minasian, to see the suffering of the man who had made him suffer. Yet he knew that he must control his anger, his yearning for revenge.

  ‘You know this also,’ Minasian replied.

  ‘Tell us her name.’

  ‘Eremenko. Svetlana.’

  ‘And who is Bernhard Riedle? Who was Bernhard Riedle?’

  On this occasion, Minasian did not hesitate.

  ‘He was a friend,’ he said, eyes dropping to the floor. ‘He was a decent man.’

  Kell spooned two sugars into his coffee and indicated to Mowbray that he should leave the room. As he did so, heading towards the bedroom at the back of the flat, Minasian leaned forward.

  ‘How do you know that I am not being followed?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Kell replied briskly.

  It was the truth, though he had guessed from Minasian’s behaviour in Sterndale Road – not to mention the longevity of his relationship with Riedle – that he was not a man who was ordinarily tracked by his own people.

  ‘Then you are taking a big risk, no?’

  ‘You would know all about taking risks, Alexander.’

  Minasian interpreted the remark as a compliment and allowed himself a momentary smile. It was astonishing to see the effect of this on his face, as though his earlier sullenness had been a mask that he could decide to wear or remove on a whim. The lurching mood swings in Minasian’s temperament, described in such detail by Riedle, were beginning to play out in front of his eyes.