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

by Charles Cumming

  ‘If you were to give this poem to a man from outer space, it would provide you with a perfect insight into the English character, English culture.’

  ‘I would agree with that.’

  Kell could hear a police siren outside and wondered how much time was left to them. The Russian continued to read the poem. He did not quote from it aloud nor attempt to expand on his thesis. Indeed, Minasian seemed utterly satisfied by the act of reading, relaxed and self-possessed. He looked like a customer in a bookshop browsing the shelves on a lazy afternoon. Kell felt that he could understand why Riedle had become so covetous of Minasian’s attention. There was a sealed-off aspect to his behaviour; he could give the impression of being entirely comfortable in his own skin. For someone as needy and as romantic as Bernhard Riedle, such poise might at times have felt like a calculated insult.

  ‘Shall we continue?’ Kell asked, setting Mowbray’s iPhone to record and placing it on the table.

  ‘Of course.’ Minasian closed the Larkin, replaced both books, and sat down.

  ‘I’d like to speak about the future.’

  Minasian picked up his empty cup of coffee and looked down at the dregs. He took a spoon from the tray and began tapping the side of the mug, like the prelude to an after-dinner speech.

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  Kell tried to make himself comfortable, struck by the change in Minasian’s mood. ‘It will be obvious to you why we were interested in your relationship with Bernhard Riedle. You will have worked out some time ago why I have brought you to my apartment.’

  ‘That is the only part I do not understand.’ Minasian produced a wolfish smile. ‘You have shown me so much of yourself, Thomas. Your taste. Your style. The things you possess and the things you lack. I now understand a great deal more about you. Why would you take such a risk?’

  ‘I have nothing to hide,’ Kell replied, though he hated the idea of Minasian creeping around his personal effects. ‘I don’t see it as a risk.’

  ‘I heard that there were difficulties between you and MI6,’ Minasian continued. ‘I heard that after Istanbul you came into conflict with Amelia Levene. Perhaps you are now working for somebody else?’

  ‘I’m flattered that you paid so much attention to me, Alexander.’ Kell wondered where the hell Minasian was getting his information. For an awful, debilitating moment he wondered if Amelia had been right about Mowbray working for the SVR. ‘I can assure you that I’m still very close to Amelia.’

  ‘And will I be meeting her?’

  It was a strange question. Would Minasian expect a powwow with ‘C’ as a condition of his cooperation with the Service? Did his inflated sense of his own status and ability demand that? Or was he merely being mischievous?

  ‘That’s why I wanted to talk about the future,’ Kell told him.

  ‘Ah yes.’ Minasian produced a nod and a smirk. ‘The future.’

  A second spasm in Kell’s lower back. He rubbed the base of his spine and sat straighter in the chair. Minasian noticed his discomfort but said nothing. ‘I don’t want you to work for us because you feel you have no choice,’ he said. ‘I don’t want this to be personal. I don’t want it to be about Istanbul or Odessa, about Kleckner or Rachel—’

  ‘And yet you keep mentioning them.’

  Kell experienced Minasian’s sarcasm as a taunt. He wondered what had happened in the few minutes he had been gone to transform his attitudes to such a remarkable extent. He continued:

  ‘I want you to know that we understand your situation and that we would be sympathetic to any reservations you may have about the political and economic direction that your government has been taking in recent years.’

  Kell saw Minasian’s contemptuous reaction and regretted that he had ever countenanced such a clumsy approach. It was foolish in the extreme. Officers were taught to give agents a secondary justification for betrayal and Kell had believed that it would be beneficial to do so in this instance. Minasian was a proud man, clever and self-assured; crudely to blackmail such a person, to force him into treason against his will, might have been counter-productive. Kell had wanted the Russian to feel that he was on the side of the angels, fighting the good fight for SIS; not because Kell had a videotaped confession of his affair with Riedle, but because he despised the corrupt plutocrats and murderers in the Kremlin as much as he did. This had been naive. He was not dealing with a rational actor.

  ‘Is this the part where you tell me that my government is worse than your government?’ Minasian was enjoying himself. ‘That the Kremlin steals from its own people, that my country has been robbed by its politicians?’

  ‘The thought had occurred to me,’ Kell replied.

  ‘You tell me that the greatness of Russia is being held back by the greed and cynicism, the violence of a cabal of men around the President, men like me and my father-in-law who keep him in power, just as he keeps them in positions of influence?’

  Kell decided to run with the conceit.

  ‘You don’t need me, Alexander. You’re doing my job for me.’

  Minasian smiled. ‘Do you really believe this about Russia?’

  ‘I do,’ Kell replied. ‘And I fully expect you to respond by telling me that the West has caused all of Russia’s problems.’

  ‘This is something I also happen to believe,’ Minasian replied. ‘It is something you choose not to think about. For obvious reasons.’

  ‘Obvious in the sense that the arguments made in support of that idea are morally and politically infantile?’

  ‘Infantile?’ Minasian appeared to enjoy Kell’s choice of vocabulary. ‘Would you describe the sanctions against my country as “infantile”? The deliberate strategic and economic isolation of Russia by the Western powers in the post-Cold War era. This is “infantile”?’

  ‘The sanctions are an expression of dismay.’

  ‘Dismay,’ Minasian repeated.

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t had doubts in the past few years about the way Russia is heading.’

  ‘Thomas, I can tell you with one hundred per cent certainty that I have never experienced any doubt about the direction in which my country is heading. I cannot say the same thing about the United Kingdom, or her allies.’

  ‘Then I guess we must agree to disagree,’ Kell conceded. ‘But it’s interesting that you brought up Mr Eremenko.’

  ‘Interesting why?’

  ‘I wouldn’t necessarily have described him as being “helpful” to the future of Russia. All of the evidence we have assembled about his operations indicates that he has—’

  Minasian tried to interrupt. ‘Please, I am not at all interested in what you may or may not mistakenly think about the activities of my father-in-law.’

  ‘He has shown himself to be violent, not least this afternoon, less than a mile away from where we are sitting.’

  ‘You have no proof of that.’

  Why was Minasian protecting Eremenko? Out of familial loyalty? Because he planned to work for him one day? Or because he knew of another reason why Riedle had been killed?

  ‘This is a much larger problem than Andrei, isn’t it?’ Kell was now in a debate that he was determined to win. ‘This is a conversation about the future of Russia. About building roads and schools and hospitals, instead of buying ski chalets and townhouses in Notting Hill Gate. Whose side are you on, Alexander?’

  ‘You do not need to educate me, or the Russian people, on building schools and hospitals.’ A little fleck of spittle landed on Kell as Minasian spoke. ‘We educate our children properly. We treat the sick in our hospitals without first checking that they have enough money to buy the doctor a new car.’

  ‘You’re talking about America. You seem to think I work for the CIA.’

  Minasian reared back, as if Kell was operating at a level of intellectual discourse to which he had rarely sunk.

  ‘Britain is finished,’ he said, waving his hand in front of him like a child sweeping toys from a table. ‘The United States c
ertainly matters in international affairs. England is an irrelevance.’

  ‘That must be why so many of your countrymen are relocating here,’ Kell replied, and felt the tightening shame of his country’s slow decline.

  ‘You think I am so naive? You think I am a victim of Kremlin propaganda, of brainwashing?’

  ‘I never said that.’

  Minasian gestured outside. ‘You must know that there is no truth in this world, Thomas. Only versions of the truth. He who controls the past will control the future, no? And he who controls the present controls the past.’

  Kell seized on this. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four. Your favourite book.’

  The same look of irritation that had passed across Minasian’s face earlier in their conversation was momentarily visible again. Kell felt that he could see, however briefly, the man within. Just as quickly, it passed, like a single frame of film in the wrong reel. Minasian was restored to genial equanimity.

  ‘How did you know this?’ he asked.

  ‘Bernie told me.’

  ‘Is that right?’ There was an edge of wary suspicion in Minasian’s reply. Kell knew that this was the moment to change the direction of the conversation. He had been foolish to think that he could persuade a pedigree SVR officer out of his beliefs. Such a man was not about to examine his prejudices for flaws, or to thank Kell for showing him the light on Kremlin malfeasance. After all, by bringing Kleckner to justice, Kell had dealt Minasian a near-fatal blow. The Russian would be as anxious to avenge Odessa as Kell himself burned to avenge Rachel’s murder. By blackmailing him into working for the West, Kell was giving Minasian the best possible opportunity to do that. That was why Amelia had been so reluctant to touch him. He was a Trojan horse.

  ‘I suggest we have another cup of coffee,’ he said. He was aware that they were running out of time. ‘Let’s dump the politics. It was a mistake for me to engage you on issues that are extremely sensitive to both our countries.’

  Minasian picked up his empty coffee cup and handed it over.

  ‘Look,’ he said, gesturing freely with both hands. ‘It is not necessary to avoid politics altogether.’ The Russian conveyed a sudden and unexpected sense that he could accommodate some of Kell’s arguments. ‘I would like to cooperate. I was not completely truthful. I sometimes have profound doubts about the direction in which my country is heading. For this reason, I can see areas in which we can both usefully collaborate without a loss of dignity or common sense on my side.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Kell.

  ‘On terrorism, for example.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Common ground.’

  ‘Common ground,’ Kell repeated.

  Minasian sat down. ‘I don’t want England to suffer,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kell could hear Mowbray talking on the telephone next door, his voice a low defensive rumble as he doubtless listened to Amelia’s demands.

  ‘What sort of things will you want from me?’ Minasian asked. There was a note of surrender in the question.

  ‘You know exactly what we will want,’ Kell replied. Though he was aware that Minasian was trying to manipulate him, he reeled off a shopping list of requirements. ‘Anything well-informed on Ukraine, anything that will give us some idea of the Kremlin’s long-term goals in the Middle East. The identities of SVR sources in the UK—’

  ‘What about terrorism?’

  ‘What about it? You keep mentioning that.’

  ‘I have information.’ Minasian looked down at the floor, apparently deep in thought. Then he met Kell’s gaze. ‘An attack on UK soil is imminent.’

  Kell felt a chill sweep across his back.

  ‘An SVR attack?’

  Minasian shook his head.

  ‘Not us,’ he replied. ‘Something we know about. Our sources. ISIS is bringing its war to London. On this issue, for example, I would be very happy to cooperate with the Secret Intelligence Service.’

  36

  Less than a minute later, Mowbray walked into the sitting room. He did not knock. Kell turned to look at him, angered by the interruption.

  ‘Need to speak to you, sir.’

  ‘What is it?’ he said, walking into the bedroom and closing the door.

  ‘Time’s up,’ Mowbray told him. ‘Amelia’s sending a car.’

  ‘When?’ Kell asked.

  He felt like a man who had woken up from a deep sleep. He was finding it difficult processing what Minasian had told him. He could not know if the terrorist attack was a diversionary tactic or a genuine threat.

  Mowbray looked at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Depends on traffic, I guess.’

  Kell assumed the vehicle would be coming from Vauxhall Cross. It was still the rush hour, so there was the chance of a delay.

  ‘What about the film? Did you send it?’

  Mowbray nodded.

  ‘So where does she want to take him? Back to Claridge’s?’

  ‘Search me.’

  Kell reacted quickly. There was no time to guess at Amelia’s strategy. He went back into the sitting room.

  ‘Tell me more,’ he said.

  Minasian frowned.

  ‘More?’

  ‘About the attack. About ISIS. What have you heard?’

  ‘It is just something I was told by a colleague in Kiev.’ Minasian was picking at the fabric of his trousers. ‘I do not know specific facts. The man is a British national from Leeds who has been given a clean-skin passport by elements in ISIS.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Kell had the strong impression that Minasian was plucking the story out of thin air.

  ‘We call him by the cryptonym STRIPE,’ he added. ‘We believe that he travelled from Leeds to Syria in order to fight jihad.’

  ‘That’s all you know?’

  ‘It is all I can remember.’

  When Minasian saw that Kell was dissatisfied by this answer, he moved to reassure him.

  ‘I will of course endeavour to discover more details so that the attack can be thwarted.’

  Though Minasian’s motive to lie was obvious, Kell had to take what he was saying seriously. He had no choice. Besides, if the Russian was making it up in order to play for time, and the threat later proved to be false, Kell would turn him in. Minasian knew that.

  ‘And how are you going to get that information to me?’ he asked, trying to call Minasian’s bluff.

  The Russian reacted quickly.

  ‘However you wish to proceed.’

  Kell felt like a tennis player being pulled around the court by a pro. He knew that he had no more than thirty minutes to arrange every element of his relationship with Minasian: channels of communication; language; crash meetings. Having run Kleckner for more than two years, Minasian would know all of the tricks, all of the pitfalls. In this sense, Kell was lucky to be working with a fellow professional, but it was still not enough time.

  ‘How long are you staying in London?’ he asked.

  ‘We leave tomorrow.’

  Kell took out a packet of cigarettes. He looked around for Amelia’s lighter and found it on the floor beside Minasian’s chair.

  ‘You’re going back to Kiev together?’

  Kell lit the cigarette and offered one to Minasian, who declined. He could sense that he was reluctant to answer the question. Secrecy and evasion were sown into his character. It was a few seconds before he replied.

  ‘We are flying to Moscow together. I will be back in London in eight days.’

  ‘Exactly eight days?’ Kell made the calculation. ‘Thursday next week?’

  Minasian nodded.

  ‘Why are you coming back?’

  Kell suspected the reason, and was not surprised when Minasian confirmed it.

  ‘We have a further appointment with the doctor,’ he said. ‘On Thursday morning. I have promised to accompany Svetlana. We arrive late on Wednesday evening, we will be staying at Claridge’s, we leave whenever the doctor is satisfied. Possibly Saturda
y. Possibly Sunday.’

  ‘And your Service is happy for you to take this time off? You’re not in London on any other business?’

  Again Minasian hesitated. It was completely contrary to his nature to answer questions about his work, particularly from an enemy officer.

  ‘I have one responsibility while I am here.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘To make contact with an agent.’

  Kell wondered why Minasian was already cooperating so freely.

  ‘Who?’

  The Russian smiled. ‘Nobody on your side,’ he replied, sensing Kell’s disquiet. ‘A Syrian official, not a British national.’

  Kell wanted to ask further questions about the source, but there was no time left in which to do so.

  ‘Then I suggest that we meet on the Friday,’ he said.

  Minasian looked at his watch, as though it contained an appointments calendar detailing his every move for the next three weeks.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Friday morning or afternoon?’

  ‘Afternoon,’ Kell replied.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Do you know the Westfield shopping mall, here in White City?’

  ‘I know of it,’ Minasian replied. ‘I have never been inside.’

  Westfield was within walking distance of Kell’s flat. He knew the building well.

  ‘There’s a large branch of Marks and Spencer towards the back of the mall, in the north-east corner. Do you know that chain?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The men’s section is on the first floor. It’s a large area, a lot of room to move. Escalators, lifts, several exits. That’s where we’ll meet.’

  ‘I can check it out tomorrow. Walk the ground.’

  ‘Do that,’ Kell suggested, though he wondered when Minasian would have time before his flight out of the country. ‘I’ll be there between two thirty and three. Do what you have to do to clean your tail. If you feel good about proceeding, find a white shirt in the men’s department and pick it up. Carry it around with you. I will do the same. You see me with a white shirt, I’m happy. If you think we have a problem, wear a baseball cap or a hat of any kind and we’ll abort. I will do the same. If you see me wearing a hat, no white shirt, go back to your hotel.’