A Colder War

by Charles Cumming

  The following morning, Gachon drove along the coast road toward Dubrovnik. Due to an accident near Split, there was heavy traffic and he was two hours behind schedule by the time he arrived at his hotel. Using a public phone box in the old town, he obtained final confirmation of the target’s position from his controller and received the go-ahead for the operation. To Gachon’s frustration, he was instructed to wait in Dubrovnik for an extra twenty-four hours and to take the ferry to Lopud no earlier than Saturday morning. The other elements of the plan were to be observed as arranged. The water taxi would still be waiting to take him off the island at the jetty of the Lafodia Hotel at 2330 hours.

  No explanation was given for the delay.

  31

  Kell didn’t bother traveling to Lopud under alias. If Cecilia Sandor was a Russian asset, a freelancer in the pay of the Iranians, the Chinese, or the Mossad, any false identity he attempted to use on the island would be ripped apart in a matter of minutes. As soon as Sandor became suspicious of Kell, she would trace him to his hotel, have his legend run through a database, and conclude that he was hostile. Pretending to a Greek real estate agent that he was an insurance investigator from Edinburgh was one thing; posing as Chris Hardwick to a former Hungarian intelligence officer with possible links to the SVR quite another.

  For the same reason, he didn’t suggest taking Elsa along for cover, even if Amelia could have spared her. Yes, a couple always drew less attention than a single man, in almost any environment, but Kell wanted to leave his options open. Having a “girlfriend” in tow might limit his access to Sandor. If she was as innocent as she appeared, Kell could introduce himself at the restaurant as a friend and colleague of Paul’s and try to ascertain what had happened on Chios in the days leading up to the crash. He was also—if he was honest with himself—keen to avoid being trapped in quasi-romantic cover with Elsa. Kell was troubled by his desire to get back to Istanbul, and to Rachel, as soon as the operation would allow.

  London had booked him into the Lafodia, the large hotel that Amelia had described at the southwestern edge of Lopud Town. There were two separate groups attending conferences at the hotel, as well as a number of holidaying families; Kell was grateful for the natural cover of crowds as he wandered back and forth from the beach or strolled along the pedestrianized path that curled around the bay in a half-mile crescent.

  Sandor’s restaurant—Centonove—was located some distance from the hotel, inside a small converted house a few meters from the shoreline. There were half a dozen tables positioned on a terrace overlooking the bay, several more inside the restaurant itself. No vehicles were permitted on the island, so the necklace of bars and restaurants along the bay were undisturbed by passing traffic.

  On his first full day on Lopud, a Saturday, Kell passed Centonove perhaps seven or eight times without setting eyes on Sandor. GCHQ were tracking her phone and laptop but had failed to inform him that Cecilia was spending most of the day in Dubrovnik “visiting a friend for lunch and then meeting a decorator in the afternoon.” When it transpired that Sandor was scheduled to work the Sunday evening shift at the restaurant, Kell booked a table for eight o’clock and spent the rest of the day at the Lafodia, reading a novel, swimming in the sea, and e-mailing Rachel. He was not permitted to tell her that he was on Lopud, nor would he have wanted to, for obvious personal reasons. Nevertheless, it was a source of agitation to Kell that he was obliged to lie to her, to give the impression that he was “in Germany on business.” It was like a reminder of the many years he had spent with Claire, unable to tell her where he was going, who he was meeting, the nature of the covert business he was conducting on behalf of the secret state. Furthermore, he sensed that Rachel knew he was deceiving her and that any relationship that might develop between the two of them would be compromised as a result.

  * * *

  Kell woke late on Sunday morning with the idea of walking to a ruined fort above the bay and carrying out basic distance surveillance on Sandor’s apartment, which was located directly above Centonove. Rachel had sent an e-mail overnight, complaining that she had been to “an amazingly boring party filled with amazingly boring people” at a nightclub on the Bosporus.

  Things are very quiet and dull here without you, Mr Kell. When are you coming back from Berlin? xxx

  The route to the fort began in the back streets of Lopud town and quickly wove uphill along a rocky path that meandered through a forest of pine and cypress. From the bay, Kell had spotted what appeared to be an abandoned shepherd’s hut halfway up the hill. Leaving the path and picking his way through thick undergrowth, he located the hut and—having ensured that he was concealed from view—trained a set of binoculars across the water at Centonove. There was no sign of Sandor, only the bald middle-aged waiter whom Kell had passed on three occasions, as well as a smattering of tourists eating lunch on the terrace. Cheltenham had triangulated Sandor’s cell phone to the building, so Kell assumed that she was upstairs in her apartment. The shutters were closed and the veranda outside her kitchen, on the southern side of the building, deserted.

  He swept the binoculars along the bay, left into town, right toward the Lafodia. It was almost midday and the heat was intensifying. Kell could see children splashing in the shallows, tourists in rented kayaks embarking on trips around the island, the ferry from Dubrovnik slowing on approach to the terminal. The normal buzz and drift of island life. He would like to bring Rachel here. Just a few nights together, a chance to sleep late, to catch some sun, eat good food. Instead Kell knew that it would be at least two months, perhaps three, before he was done with Kleckner and free to leave Istanbul, and only then for a short break before returning to Ankara. In that time, who knew what would happen to Rachel? Chances are she would soon head back to London and he would never see her again.

  He waited another five minutes in the shade of the hut. Still no sign of Cecilia. Standing up and shouldering the binoculars, Kell returned to the path, removing his shirt and continuing uphill toward the fort. Within ten minutes he had emerged from the forest to find himself among the ruins at the summit of an arid, rocky outcrop. He rested against a wall and tried to recover his breath, sipping from a bottle of water and wiping the sweat from his face. Behind him, to the southeast, Dubrovnik glittered in the midday sun. To the north, Kell could make out the tiny hulls of motorboats and yachts crisscrossing the strait. He checked his phone for messages, but there was nothing from Elsa, nothing from Rachel, nothing from London. He took several pictures of the ruins, then began the descent, passing two elderly British tourists as he tracked back through the forest. Halfway down, he again dropped off the path, clambered through the undergrowth, and returned to the cover of the shepherd’s hut.

  This time, Kell sat with his back to a shattered wooden door. The sun was at its zenith and he was aware of the danger of light reflecting off the surface of the binoculars as, once again, he trained them on Centonove. The door began to itch against the small of his back and he put his shirt on, smacking at his neck to kill an insect that had settled on his wet skin. He picked up the binoculars and traced along the bay, focusing on the cluster of tables outside the restaurant.

  And there she was. Cecilia Sandor. Emerging from the ground-floor entrance and making her way across the path to the terrace. The binoculars were powerful enough for Kell to make out the precise features of her face. He was surprised by what he saw. She was not a naturally beautiful woman; indeed, it looked as though Cecilia had used fillers extensively beneath her eyes and on her mouth. Her upper lip had the absurd and unmistakable swell of collagen, her vast breasts out of all proportion to an otherwise reedy frame. Seeing how tall she was, Kell thought instantly of Rachel’s nickname—the Na’vi—and grinned as a bead of sweat dripped down his back. Behind him, perhaps fifty meters away, he heard a group of three or four people walking past on the path. One of them was whistling a chunk of Tchaikovsky—either Swan Lake or The Nutcracker, Kell never knew the difference—and the melody lodged in his
mind as he continued to watch the terrace.

  Cecilia emerged from the restaurant carrying a bottle of water. She placed the bottle in front of an elderly couple, then spoke to a man of about thirty-five who was wearing sunglasses and a red polo shirt. The man was seated alone at the table farthest from the entrance. He had finished eating; there was an espresso cup on the table in front of him, and he was smoking a cigarette. Cecilia picked up what appeared to be a small metal tray on which the man had placed some euros to pay for his meal and held the tray in her hand as they spoke to each other. Then the man placed his hand on the small of Cecilia’s back, rested it there, and caressed her. Cecilia did not react until, as much as ten seconds later, the man moved his hand down toward her buttocks, at which point she eased him away and stepped back from the table.

  What had Kell just seen? It was impossible to know whether Cecilia had moved his hand away out of irritation, or simply because she did not want other customers at the restaurant to see what was happening.

  Kell knew immediately what he had to do. Standing up, he left the binoculars beside the hut and moved as fast as he could back toward the path. He was wearing shorts and sneakers, and the plants and trees picked at his skin as he struggled through the undergrowth. It was essential that he try to identify the man before he left the restaurant. Kell began to jog along the path, his phone jumping in his back pocket as he descended toward the town. He was soon completely drenched in sweat and taking deep gulps of air as he ran, cursing his addiction to cigarettes. The phone began to ring but he ignored it. Within three minutes he had reached the end of the forest path and could turn toward the bay through the narrow back alleys of the town. His pace was slowing, but he urged himself on, formulating a plan as he ran and knowing that he could rest and catch his breath as soon as he was within a stone’s throw of the restaurant.

  Reaching the harbor, Kell found himself among thick crowds wandering around the shops and cafés close to the pier. He assumed these were mostly passengers from the midday ferry that he had observed approaching the island half an hour earlier. The sight of a sweating, panting Englishman with a roasted face drew stares as he turned north and began to jog toward Centonove. Within a minute, the terrace of the restaurant was in sight. Within another ten seconds, Kell could see that the man in the red shirt had left. He swore under his breath and stopped running, his lungs stinging, gasping for air, his head, neck, arms, and legs broiled by the afternoon sun.

  Kell looked up. To his relief, he could see the man coming toward him on the path. There was an elderly lady in front of him, dressed in black widow’s weeds, as well as a middle-aged British couple whom Kell recognized from the Lafodia.

  This was his only chance. Kell was going to take a crazy risk, of the sort that he might have tried on the IONEC twenty years earlier, to prove an aptitude for courage and quick thinking. It was operationally near-suicidal, yet he had no choice.

  The British couple were within ten meters of where Kell was standing. Hoping that they would pass without seeing him, he turned his back to stare at a rack of postcards outside a small shop. If they stopped and tried to talk to him, to offer help to a struggling tourist, the plan would be unworkable. Kell was still desperately short of breath and continued to gasp for air as he picked up one of the postcards. To his relief, the British couple walked past without stopping.

  He immediately put the postcard back, turned around, and moved into the center of the path, effectively blocking it. With sweat pouring down his face, Kell made direct, pleading eye contact with the man in the red shirt as he walked toward him. The man frowned and slowed his pace, recognizing that Kell was trying to communicate with him. Putting his weight unsteadily on his left foot, but adding no further exaggeration to his already disheveled appearance, Kell raised his hand and took the gamble.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Sure.” It sounded like a Balkan accent. The man was perhaps closer to forty than thirty-five, but good-looking and fit. He was wearing a chunky metal watch on a tanned wrist, pressed linen trousers, and a pair of expensive-looking deck shoes. The red polo shirt had a Lacoste crocodile on the chest.

  “Could I ask a big favor?”

  “Favor?”

  “Do you have a phone I could borrow?”

  The words were no sooner out of Kell’s mouth than he remembered that he had forgotten to switch off the sound on his own iPhone. If it rang in his back pocket, he was finished.

  “You need make a call?” The man looked genuinely alarmed at the sight of the medically unstable British jogger standing before him.

  “Just to my hotel,” Kell replied. He nodded toward the white hulk of the Lafodia, a quarter of a mile along the bay. He could not risk putting his hand into his back pocket and feeling for the mute switch on the phone. He would just have to pray that it didn’t ring. “My wife. I came out without my…”

  To Kell’s amazement, Lacoste quickly extracted a Samsung from his hip pocket, swept his thumb over the screen, and handed him the unlocked phone. “You have the number?”

  Kell nodded and muttered heartfelt thanks, then began tapping out the number of his private U.K. cell phone, which he had left in the safe in his room. It began to ring. He heard the automated message responding on voice mail.

  “Welcome to the O2 messaging service. The person you are calling is unable to take your call…”

  Kell knew that he would have to improvise a nonexistent dialogue with his “wife” and hope that it sounded credible.

  “Hi. It’s me.” An appropriate pause. “I know. Yes. Don’t worry. I’m fine.” Another delay. Lacoste was staring at him, his expression entirely blank. “I’m just borrowing a phone off a very kind passerby. I think I’ve torn a muscle in my leg.” Another pause. It occurred to Kell that he would later be able to hear his own improvised performance, recorded for posterity. “No, I’m fine. But could you ask the hotel to send down one of their buggies? I don’t want to have to limp back.”

  Kell took the weight off his injured leg and winced to accentuate a burst of imaginary pain. Lacoste could not have been less interested in the nuances of Kell’s performance: he was looking out across the bay and seemed to be perfectly happy waiting for the call to end.

  “Or maybe sprained it,” Kell said, hearing a sustained tone as the messaging service cut him off. “I’m not sure.” He counted out two more seconds, long enough for his imaginary wife to question the seriousness of his injury and perhaps the good sense of asking the hotel to rush to his assistance. Then Kell said: “Yeah, maybe you’re right” as Lacoste turned to face him once again. Kell tried to study the features of his face as closely as possible, to commit them to memory. “Look, I’d better get off the line,” he said. “I’m using someone’s phone and he needs to get away.”

  Kell had assumed that Lacoste could speak English and had been listening to every word of the phantom conversation. To his surprise, however, Cecilia’s mystery man merely frowned and bounced his eyebrows, suggesting that he did not fully comprehend why Kell had needed the phone in the first place. Kell duly conjured three more snippets of imaginary dialogue, then rang off, telling the dead phone line that he was catching his breath outside a shop halfway along the bay. He then handed back the Samsung, thanked Lacoste effusively, and watched as he strolled off in the direction of the ferry terminal.

  Ten seconds later, in an act of God for which Kell sent thanks and praise to the heavens, the iPhone began to ring in his back pocket. He went into the shop to answer it.

  “Tom?”

  It was Elsa. Kell smiled at the coincidence.

  “Funny you should ring,” he said. “I’ve got a number I need you to check.”

  32

  As soon as Lacoste was out of sight, Kell left the shop and limped along the promenade to a small café where he ordered a Coke and a toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich. Even ten minutes later he was still physically exhausted and made the latest in a series of private promises to join a gym and d
o some regular exercise. Having paid his bill he then walked back along the promenade, exaggerating his phantom limp as he passed Centonove, just in case Cecilia happened to be watching. There was no sign of her, only the bald-headed waiter attending to a rowdy table of six on the terrace.

  Kell continued along the path. A group of young boys were splashing in the sea, watched over by an overweight man wearing orange Speedos and a Croatian football shirt, his topless wife asleep beside him. There was a smell of pine and engine oil, a summer sense of nothing much mattering, of people having all the time in the world.

  Back in his room, Kell opened the safe. He would text Lacoste’s number to Elsa. Working at her usual pace, it would probably be less than twenty-four hours before she had identified the man, traced his IP address, obtained an itemized copy of his cell phone bill, and accessed his e-mail accounts. If Lacoste was in a relationship with Cecilia—a relationship which she had run in parallel with Wallinger—it would show up on their correspondence like UV dye on a banknote.

  Kell tapped in the four-digit code, swung open the door of the safe, and reached for his mobile. Sure enough, a missed call was registered on the phone icon. He tapped the screen and texted the number to Elsa. His shins and knees still throbbing from the run, Kell went to the beach for a swim before falling asleep in his room to the sound of clacking seagulls and a chambermaid vacuuming in the corridor outside.