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

by Charles Cumming

  Rosie was watching him very carefully.

  ‘So you think what ISIS is doing might be right?’ It looked as though she cared about his answer. ‘I’m not judging you, Shahid. We’re just chatting. You’re my boyfriend, you can tell me anything. I trust you.’

  ‘And I trust you,’ he said, and stroked her wrist. It was the first time she had called him her ‘boyfriend’ and he felt trapped by the word, even though he knew then that he could have all of her. ‘It’s just that things were very complicated in my head for a long time. I was so angry, you know?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I just felt like I didn’t belong, and my faith gave me that. I just felt like I wasn’t worth anything. I’d grown up not feeling that I was like other lads, that I didn’t have their opportunities on account of my skin, my background. You’re a white girl. You don’t know what that’s like. I was brown. They called me “nigger”. They called me “Paki” and “coon”. Me and my friends, we were third-class citizens. You grow up around that, you get stopped by the police because you’re brown, because you’re not wearing the right clothes, because your mum and dad are from a different country …’

  ‘So you got confidence, you got strength from fighting?’ she said, interrupting him. ‘I bet you did. I think it was brave of you to go out there. I wouldn’t go out there! I wouldn’t know what to do or where to start.’

  ‘It’s not your fight,’ Shahid replied, and saw that he had confused her.

  ‘I know it’s not my fight.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that I wouldn’t want you to see those things. To put yourself at risk. It’s no place for a girl.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit sexist? You said there’s lots of women out there.’

  Rosie started laughing. Shahid did not respond. He took a sip of the water and looked at the other couples in the restaurant.

  ‘What was I going to do here in England?’ he said. ‘Get a job in a corner shop? Drive a taxi? There were no opportunities for lads like me.’ Rosie nodded. Shahid often wondered what would happen to her, how she would remember him, after he was gone. ‘I’m glad I did it,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I did my duty as a Muslim.’

  ‘I’m glad too.’

  They were silent for a while. The waitress came and spoke to Rosie. Did she want anything else? Dessert? Coffee? She didn’t look at Shahid. When she had gone, he told Rosie that the waitress was racist, that she hadn’t liked it that he was with a white girl.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Rosie said, laughing. ‘That’s silly. People aren’t like that round here.’ Her eyes were soft in the candlelight. ‘Tell me more about Syria,’ she said. ‘Did you feel like you really changed things?’

  ‘Changed things? Yeah. Definitely. But it will be slow. The fighting will go on for a long time.’

  ‘But how does fighting change anything? How does what ISIS or what these rebels are doing stop the bombings? I don’t understand. Aren’t they the ones doing the bombings?’ Rosie forgot the name of the Syrian president and Shahid had to remind her. ‘That’s right. Assad. If you want to stop his killings and his slaughter, then how does more fighting do that? An eye for an eye, yeah? If I attack you, you attack me.’

  ‘I would never hurt you,’ Shahid replied.

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean the expression. The idea. They’re starting to attack ISIS now, yeah? I’ve seen it on the news. British and American planes. Their bombers.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s true. The Western governments fight them, but they can never win …’

  ‘But that’s what I’m saying to you! Nobody can win if you keep fighting. You get attacked in the street here in Brighton, you fight back, right, but you both end up in hospital.’

  ‘Not me,’ Shahid said proudly, and he could see the effect his words had on her. He remembered what she had written in her diary – He makes me feel safe. I like the way he looks and smells. His arms turn me on. There’s something a bit scary about him but I’ve always liked that, a bad temper. He’s so gentle but he has these sudden outbursts and it’s a bit frightening. Shahid knew that he could say or do almost anything and this girl would go along with it.

  ‘The attacks have been even worse under Obama than under Bush,’ he said. He liked teaching her. He liked the feeling of being able to educate those who were ignorant. ‘The Middle East – the whole region since the invasions, the illegal invasions and occupations of Muslim lands – has been unstable and corrupt. My Muslim brothers and sisters are at the mercy of politicians, Rosie. My government. Your government. The greed for oil and the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of innocent people was for the sake of what? For power and money? The only solution is to fight back. The only solution is to go back to a time when things were pure. When people like you and me lived side by side in harmony and the Americans, the West, had not reached this state of corruption. They are murderers, Rosie, much more than ISIS are murderers. Obama drones. He kills without looking. He sits in his White House armchair and presses a button and whole families die. They don’t care about ordinary people. They never cared.’

  ‘Hey, let’s change the subject,’ Rosie said. She forced a smile. ‘This is all getting a bit sad. We’re meant to be having fun, no? I’ve had such a nice time. Food here’s so good.’

  ‘Really good,’ said Shahid. He was worried that he had revealed too much, that she might become suspicious of him. ‘I’m sorry to be so political,’ he said. ‘It’s just important to me. I don’t like seeing ordinary people suffer.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Rosie replied quickly. ‘But I feel like you’re so passionate about this stuff, that you believe in it so much, you should do politics or debates in public or something. That’s the way to change things, isn’t it? Not through wanting people to fight and get hurt. There are already so many wars, Shahid.’

  He allowed her to say that without contradicting her. Shahid wanted to explain to Rosie why it was necessary for people to die in order to create a better future, but he did not want to lose her. She would never understand.

  They asked for the bill. Rosie went to the toilet while Shahid paid. When she came back, he saw that she had applied lip gloss. He could smell a fresh burst of perfume. She bent down and kissed him on the lips in front of everyone in the restaurant.

  ‘I don’t want to go home,’ she said. ‘I’m not tired. Let’s go back to yours. Get a minicab.’

  43

  ‘How are you, Alexander?’

  ‘I am well. And how are you, Thomas?’

  ‘Fine. Glad you could make it.’

  The smell of Minasian’s cologne was one of the few consistent characteristics about him: his appearance had otherwise changed to such an extent that Kell felt as if he was sitting next to a new person.

  ‘What is that?’ Minasian asked, looking down into Kell’s lap. Kell was holding the plastic bag from Goldsboro Books. He passed it across.

  ‘I bought you something.’

  It was a blatant attempt to soften Minasian up, a gift that he hoped would help to establish a degree of rapport, even trust, between them. Kell knew that it was a risk, that Minasian would not necessarily respond to such a gesture; he might even think that Kell, by giving him a book of poetry, was playing on his sexuality.

  ‘This is extraordinarily kind of you,’ he said, taking the book out of the bag, unwrapping it and immediately turning to the copyright page. ‘A first edition.’

  ‘Bought it this afternoon.’ Kell had taken a slip road on to the A40, a triple-carriageway taking traffic west out of the city. ‘Have you seen the inscription?’

  Minasian turned the page and erupted in laughter.

  ‘England is not an irrelevance,’ he said, quoting what Kell had written. ‘I like this very much. Very funny.’

  Kell glanced across and smiled. ‘We should talk about when we’re next going to do this.’ He was following protocol. Always fix the next meeting with an agent as soon as you see them. You never know how long you’ll have.
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  ‘Of course,’ Minasian knew the tradecraft. The Russian services applied exactly the same principles. ‘I will be free in Warsaw for two or three hours on the afternoon of July twenty-fourth. How easy will it be for you to travel?’

  ‘I can be there,’ Kell replied.

  Kell knew that Warsaw was dangerous. More SVR on the ground, more FSB. Minasian could be walking him into a trap. But he felt that he had no choice. If he was going to run GAGARIN, this was the kind of risk that he would have to take; he was not always going to be able to call the shots. They made an arrangement to meet at a hotel in the centre of the old city. Minasian explained that Kell would be contacted in his room by a third party who would give him instructions on where and when they should meet. Kell didn’t like the sound of it and said so.

  ‘You seem to forget who’s running who, Alexander.’ He tried to keep an easy, friendly tone in his voice. ‘That’s not how this works. You don’t tell me where to meet. I tell you.’

  He could feel Minasian bristling. The fragile ego. The ceaseless will to power. His mood could slip so quickly from affable good cheer into hostile silence.

  ‘Fine,’ he replied, staring out of the window at the passing traffic. ‘You make the arrangements.’

  Kell let him run out on the line and slip the hook. It had been important to establish authority over him, but he did not want Minasian to feel humiliated.

  ‘Look,’ he said, maintaining an acquiescent tone. ‘It sounds fine. I know the Regina. Used to be the American embassy in Warsaw, right?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘I’ll get a room under the name Stephen Uniacke. But no third parties, OK? Nobody else comes between us.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Minasian replied.

  ‘You have the BlackBerry I gave you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So let’s communicate on that. If you don’t hear from me, we show ourselves in the lobby of the hotel between 2 p.m. and 3 p.m. local time. Same signal that we used today. If you’re wearing a hat, I’m going home. We meet in my room ten minutes after eye contact.’

  A tiny nod of agreement. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Tell me about STRIPE,’ Kell asked, trying to draw Minasian out of his sullen mood. ‘What have you found out?’

  ‘First I wish to say something.’ Kell took an exit off the A40. He brought the Peugeot to a halt at a set of traffic lights. Minasian was rubbing his face as he said: ‘I want to establish some laws.’

  ‘Laws?’

  ‘Rules.’

  The lights turned green. Kell moved forward. ‘I’m all ears,’ he said.

  Minasian made a small adjustment to his hair.

  ‘I have been doing a great deal of thinking.’ Another set of lights. Another column of traffic. ‘You were right about Andrei. He spoke to me. He told me that he knew about my relationship with Bernhard.’

  Kell was not at all surprised that Eremenko had taken his son-in-law to task, but was astonished that Minasian was telling him about it.

  ‘He said to me in very straightforward words that I must give up that side of my life, my behaviour with men, that I must concentrate on Svetlana. I must make the marriage work. I am determined to do this.’

  ‘OK.’ Kell did not want to show his hand before he had heard everything that Minasian intended to say. He could not be sure if the Russian was being sincere or simply embarking on another elaborate manipulation.

  ‘We have shaken hands on this and made a deal,’ he said. ‘We will have a child, if the IVF can work, and I continue to have my career with the SVR. In three years’ time, Andrei has suggested that I leave the Service and take over the bulk of his business interests.’

  ‘And what does this have to do with you and me?’

  ‘It is very simple.’ Minasian put the Larkin back inside the wrapping paper and placed the bag at his feet. ‘I will not survive if we continue in our relationship. I will be caught and I will be prosecuted. In all probability I will lose my life. I am asking you for clemency.’

  The traffic was moving steadily forward, the Peugeot boxed in. Kell was looking for a turning into a suburban cul-de-sac where he planned to park. What Minasian had said was exceptional, in his experience, and completely outrageous.

  ‘Clemency! We’re only just getting started.’

  ‘Not so.’

  Minasian had plainly run through every possible permutation of the conversation and now reached into the hip pocket of his jeans, pulling out what looked like a Duracell battery that he waved in Kell’s eyeline. Kell made the turn into the quiet suburban street and pulled up in the shade of a chestnut tree. He switched off the engine.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, though he knew the answer to his own question.

  ‘A flash drive. Containing information. A lot of information.’ Minasian unscrewed the copper section of the battery and showed that it could be separated from the lower half, revealing a hidden USB connector. ‘The names of three inspectors on the Iranian nuclear deal whose lives are in danger. Two of them resident in London, one in New York City. And detailed information on STRIPE.’

  Kell took the two sections of the flash drive and screwed them back together.

  ‘And the identity of your Syrian agent in London?’

  Minasian was aghast. ‘I cannot give you that, Thomas. I would sooner destroy my own career than reveal the identity of a source. I hope that you would feel the same way about me.’

  Kell had no choice but to say: ‘Of course, Alexander.’ He held up the battery. ‘Is he the guy telling you about STRIPE?’

  Minasian looked away. ‘I cannot comment on that. It does not matter where the information came from. All I can tell you is that you must act on it quickly. Perhaps even in the next three days.’

  Kell felt a numb sense of dread.

  ‘An attack is imminent? Where?’

  ‘I do not know. We do not know. I am trying to discover this. I do not want to see innocent people die.’ Minasian turned away so that Kell could not see the look on his face. ‘I have taken a very great risk bringing it to you,’ he added despondently. ‘Only a few people in my Service know about this threat.’

  ‘I see.’

  Minasian began to list the principal information contained on the flash drive as a series of verbal bullet points. ‘The name on the individual’s passport. The number of this passport.’ With each detail, he struck the side of his right hand into the opposite palm. ‘The date of issue. The time and date of arrival of his flight from Cairo to Heathrow, eight weeks ago. It is all on there.’

  ‘I need more than that,’ Kell told him. ‘You said the threat could come at any moment. If we’re too late—’

  Minasian interrupted him.

  ‘With this passport we believe he has opened a bank account at a branch of Santander in Brighton.’

  ‘Brighton?’

  ‘Rented a one-bedroom apartment. Taken a job working as a night porter at a supermarket. With CCTV from the airport, and his place of work, you can surely make an arrest within twenty-four hours.’

  Kell experienced a counter surge of intense relief, like waking in the dead of night from a dream of sickness and death. He was going to stop a terrorist attack. He was going to be proved right. He tried not to give any indication of his gratitude, but clutched the flash drive tightly in his fingers as if it was a reward for every nerve and sinew he had strained in pursuit of his quarry.

  ‘That sounds hopeful,’ he said.

  It was oppressively hot. Kell turned the key in the ignition a single click and lowered all four of the electric windows. Minasian reacted to the cooling breeze that swept into the car, tilting back his head and stretching his neck.

  ‘What I want in return,’ he said, ‘is to be left alone. I want our relationship to end.’

  ‘Then why did you agree to Warsaw?’

  Minasian’s reply was instant; he had anticipated the question before Kell had even framed it. ‘Because I knew that you would want to organize a s
econd meeting. I knew that it would be the first order of business between us. I considered Warsaw suitable because I did not know if you would agree to my offer.’

  ‘I do not agree to your offer,’ Kell replied, adopting the same firm tone of voice with which he had rejected Minasian’s idea of introducing a third party. ‘I will still want to meet you in Poland.’

  Minasian looked beaten. ‘Then it will be the last time,’ he said. He touched the stubble on his face and Kell saw that he was extraordinarily tired. ‘I will not be your agent. I will not be your creature. For my own peace of mind, for my own security and personal pride, I cannot work for the British government.’

  ‘And yet you’ve just given me a flash drive which you say—’

  ‘Yes!’ Minasian’s face was a picture of frustration. ‘To save lives! To give you something that is of no cost to my country. You will stop this man. I have given you priceless information. If I were found to have done this, I would be charged with treason against the state. And what have you done for me in return? You have forced me into a position in which I am obliged to choose between my career and my marriage, my survival.’

  It was a completely convincing display of emotional distress, so much so that Kell found himself sympathizing with Minasian’s dilemma.

  ‘You’re being very melodramatic, Alexander,’ he said. ‘I haven’t given you that choice at all. Things aren’t nearly as bad as you’re making out.’

  Minasian did not reply.

  ‘Let me ask you something.’ Kell leaned an elbow out of the open window and turned in his seat. ‘Do you love Svetlana?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Do you love your wife?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And did you love Bernhard?’

  A lowering of the head, a melancholy glance out of the window. ‘I thought that I did.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that he provided me with things that my wife was not able to provide. I do not wish to discuss it with you. It is personal. This has nothing to do with our work.’

  ‘But what does she provide you with?’ Kell needed to show Minasian why it would be impossible to continue in the life that he was choosing. ‘Money? Is that it? Is that why you married her? So you could afford to buy the right clothes, wear the right wristwatch, feel that you’ve climbed your way out of the gutter?’