A Colder War

by Charles Cumming

  “Hence the reason Kleckner woke up at midday.”

  “Hence,” Amelia replied, seemingly restored to a more acquiescent mood.

  “And how did Rachel administer this lorazepam, this delayed release Mickey Finn? Don’t tell me. A vial of white powder tipped into Ryan’s mojito?”

  Amelia took a sip of her wine. “Almost,” she replied, weaving around any implied condescension in Kell’s tone by producing an amused grin. “Rachel had it in chewing gum, as a matter of fact. Liquid as a backup if Kleckner didn’t take the bait. But he was keen to freshen his breath after Boujis, accepted her offer of some spearmint, chewed it for ten minutes, kissed her, and was asleep about an hour later. The booze did the rest.”

  “And Rachel?”

  “What about her?”

  “What if Kleckner realizes that he’s been duped? What if he has doubts about the new battery? What if he already knows that we are onto him and that Rachel’s trip to Istanbul tomorrow is just a ruse to draw him in? He could have her killed.”

  “That’s a little excitable, isn’t it? The SVR is hardly likely to start a third world war by murdering MI6 officers.”

  “They killed Cecilia Sandor and she was working for them.”

  “Precisely.” Amelia seemed pleased to have won the argument so easily. “In moments of disappointment, the Russians tend to kill their own. They don’t kill ours.” She surprised Kell by touching his shoulder as she passed him. “Besides, Rachel may not even have to see Kleckner in Istanbul.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s done her job. She switched the battery.” Amelia allowed herself the trace of a smile. “The phone is working. We can see Kleckner. We can hear Kleckner. If ABACUS takes the phone to the meeting, takes the battery out and leaves it even within fifty feet of their conversation, we will be able to isolate every single word.”

  50

  It was exactly as Amelia had promised, exactly as she had planned it. ABACUS went to his Georgetown dinner, ABACUS went home to bed. ABACUS woke up on Friday morning and then ABACUS went to see Alexander Minasian.

  Kell and the surveillance team stayed on him, for the simple reason that the battery might fail, that technology would render Rachel’s remarkable coup entirely useless. They saw him visit the embassy on Thursday afternoon, they tracked him to a cinema in Westfield. In the evening ABACUS was housed to the eight-man dinner at Galvin, then taken home to the Rembrandt in an MI5 taxi that just happened to be passing as the Georgetown mob spilled out onto Baker Street at one o’clock in the morning. The next day, with Kleckner booked onto a British Airways flight to Istanbul at 1840, the American had set his alarm for seven in the morning and embarked on a countersurveillance routine so prolonged, so complex, and so exhaustive that Kell, by the time Kleckner had vanished into the suburbs of Clerkenwell at six minutes past twelve, never to be seen again, could only sit back and admire his immaculate tradecraft.

  But it didn’t matter that the team had lost ABACUS a second time. Kell was obliged to go through the motions of disappointment and regret, reassuring Jez and Theo and Carol and the useless Nina that they had been up against a pedigree CIA officer and that there was no shame in failing to cover him. It didn’t matter because the BlackBerry kept beeping, the microphone kept working, all the way to a modest bed-and-breakfast in a semidetached house in Snaresbrook where Minasian was waiting in the lounge.

  “Where’s the owner?” Kleckner asked, exhausted by more than four hours of countersurveillance but pleased to see that Minasian had also cleaned his tail sufficiently for the meeting to go ahead.

  “We are the owner,” the Russian reassured him, and they had embraced like long-lost brothers.

  Kleckner had removed his sports jacket at the door of the bed-and-breakfast. He had left the battery in the inside pocket, hung the jacket up on a hook in the hall, then carried the phone unit into the meeting.

  The conversation between the two men was immediately transcribed. It was estimated that Rachel’s device had picked up as much as 80 percent of the dialogue.

  KLECKNER (K): Where’s the owner?

  MINASIAN (M): We are (emphasis) the owner.

  (Muffled)

  M: You look well, Ryan.

  K: Ditto.

  M: Having some fun in London? Seeing the girls?

  K: One girl. Maybe two girls.

  M: (laughter) So few!

  There was always small talk at the start. Kleckner was used to that. Pretending to be friends, pretending that everything was just fine, but everybody’s hearts pumping at ninety beats a minute and aware that the sooner they stopped dicking around, the sooner they could shake off the paranoia of capture and go back to their so-called lives.

  M: The product is spectacular. Am I saying that word correctly?

  K: I guess. Sure. You’re saying it in a way that I can understand it so, yeah, “spectacular.” I understand what you mean.

  There was always flattery, too, the theater of reassurance. Kleckner knew the drill; Christ, he used it on his own agents. You’re the best. We couldn’t be doing this without you. Have no doubt that you’re helping us. One day all this will be over.

  Then it was down to business. Are you happy with the drop sites? Do you want to move from Buyukada? Is there any heat in Istanbul or a sense that Langley suspects a mole? It was always the same with Minasian.

  To all his questions, Kleckner gave reassuring answers. Yes, the drop sites were fine, the signals in and out were working well. No heat in Istanbul, no worries about a mole. Minasian wanted to talk about the new stream of reporting from the mayor’s office. Fair enough. Kleckner told him what little he knew. And the cache of CIA weapons heading for the border at Jarabulus? Sure, if you think you can stop them and do Assad a favor, that’s why I told you about them in the first place.

  But all Kleckner really wanted to talk about was Paul Wallinger. That was the reason he had risked Harrods and the Rembrandt. All he needed to know was why Sandor had been killed. He required answers on that. No, he demanded answers on that. And if he got the wrong replies, the wrong explanation, well then fuck you and fuck the SVR. Our little arrangement is terminated.

  M: As you know, one of the purposes of putting Cecilia with a senior figure in the SIS was to deflect attention away from your work.

  K: I’m aware of that. Of course I’m aware of that.

  M: If there was any sign of difficulties, if anybody became concerned about HITCHCOCK, about EINSTEIN, the rest, SIS and CIA (sic) would look at the relationship between Mr. Wallinger and Cecilia and spend many months, many years suspecting that he was the source of the leaks.

  K: Sure. So why kill her?

  M: [UNCLEAR]

  K: [UNCLEAR] … to believe that?

  M: Ryan, we are investigating, using sources.

  K: Bullshit.

  M: [UNCLEAR]

  K: Okay, so if [UNCLEAR]

  M: The plane crash was also an unfortunate incident.

  K: Incident or accident?

  M: Excuse me? Incident? Again, we had nothing to do with this. Our investigations, your investigations, the British investigation, all concluded mechanical failure. There is a small chance that Paul Wallinger took his own life. I have to admit interest in this.

  K: Okay.

  M: I push it too far. I try for a burn on Wallinger.

  K: You did what (emphasis)?

  M: [UNCLEAR] which was what Cecilia wanted.

  K: And you went along with that?

  M: She wanted to bring the relationship to an end. She wanted to go back to her boyfriend, the restaurant. I felt that I had to make a choice. Either we lose all of the access to H/Ankara, or we confront him with the reality that he has been involved in a relationship with an agent of the SVR, penetrated, compromised, and then we see what follows … [UNCLEAR]

  [DELAY—56 SECONDS]

  The meeting between Minasian and Kleckner thus confirmed that Paul Wallinger had never been working for Moscow. The transcript also
revealed that the SVR was lying to Kleckner. Intelligence obtained by SIS had confirmed that Cecilia Sandor had been murdered by a French assassin named Sebastien Gachon. As Kell had predicted, Sandor’s boyfriend, Luka, had also disappeared a few days after Sandor’s death. Moscow had been busily tidying up the loose ends around ABACUS. It was doubted that Luka’s body would ever be found.

  What came next on the transcript, however, pitched Kell and Amelia into an entirely new area of concern.

  [DELAY—56 SECONDS]

  M: [UNCLEAR] … this is the girl you mentioned?

  K: Yup (sic)

  M: Ryan, okay. Is this a good idea?

  K: What do you mean?

  M: You go to her or she comes to you, she approaches you?

  K: What, you think I’m that stupid? I met her at Paul’s funeral, we connected, I invited her to a party in Istanbul. (Pause, 3 seconds) Look, none of this shit is connected or your business in any way. I have to maintain some privacy.

  M: I understand that. We understand that. So you have trust in her? Complete trust?

  K: Sure I do. One hundred percent. Jesus, you think the Brits would get Paul Wallinger’s grieving daughter to fuck Tom Kell just to pull me in?

  M: Tom Kell?

  K: SIS retread. Guy they sent out to Ankara when Paul died. They had a thing for a while. Look him up.

  M: [UNCLEAR]

  K: [UNCLEAR] … paranoid. I like this girl, man. (Laughter) She’s smart, she’s pretty. There’s no risk.

  M: Okay. So be disciplined. See her in Istanbul. Try not to get attached. This is my advice, although all advice in these situations, there is always no point? Am I correct?

  K: You are absolutely fucking correct.

  51

  “The first thing Minasian will do is run a check on you. Try to find out everything he can about your relationship with Rachel. Then he’ll turn it around. Go to every e-mail she ever wrote, every text message she ever sent, and find out if she knows that you’re investigating Ryan.”

  “I’m aware of that, Amelia.”

  They were walking through Notting Hill, the rain a memory, London trying its best to be warm and European. Rachel was already in Istanbul, Kleckner on the plane. Minasian had not shown his face at the Russian embassy and was assumed to have returned to Kiev.

  “What do we know about him?” Kell asked.

  “Very little.” Amelia’s frank admission took Kell by surprise. “Youngish. Younger than you, anyway. Post-Soviet, in the sense that he has no bloodstream ideological link to the old days. Still in nappies during the Gorbachev coup. Ukraine is obviously of strategic importance to the Kremlin, but I suspect Minasian was posted to Kiev solely to service Kleckner, not to work the EU angle. Married. Children. Family man. Peters thinks very highly of him.” Peters was the ranking SIS officer in the Kiev Station. “Minasian is thorough, slick, ambitious. A rising star. We think the order to kill Sandor originated in Moscow, not with him, and that Minasian may have argued against it. He might be your common or garden SVR psychopath, he might not. Either way, he’s still low enough on the food chain to do what he’s told when Moscow thinks it knows best.”

  Amelia was talking without looking at Kell, clipping along the pavement with impatient speed. Passing a policeman on the corner of Lansdowne Walk, she pressed Kell on his relationship with Rachel.

  “Is there anything, in any of your correspondence, in which you discussed the molehunt?” Kell drew Amelia’s eyes to his and produced a withering stare that nevertheless failed to deflect her. “Even if you didn’t mention the leaks, did you discuss why you were in Turkey?”

  “Of course we discussed that. Rachel knew that I was investigating her father’s crash. She knew that I’d been tapped up to replace him.” Amelia made a noise through her teeth; that revelation in itself constituted a breach of the Secrets Act. Kell settled on a mood of absolute candor. “She hated the fact that I couldn’t tell her what was going on. We tried to avoid the subject of my job as much as possible. I now realize, of course, why she was so reluctant to talk about the Office. Because all the time she was working for you.”

  “Not all the time, Tom…”

  “… she was afraid that I’d find out your dirty little secret.”

  “A dirty little secret that just happened to produce the intel which will put Kleckner behind bars. But thank you for your support and understanding.”

  It had been plain to Kell for some time that his friendship with Amelia might easily now deteriorate to a point from which it would never be salvaged. There would be too much bad blood between them. Too many lies.

  “Did you talk to Rachel about Cecilia Sandor?” he asked.

  “Did you?” Amelia’s quick, impatient glance further illustrated the extent of her frustration. Kell told her what she needed to know. “Of course we talked about her,” he said. “She was her father’s mistress. She knew all about her. So did Josephine. Rachel read their bloody love letters.”

  “And did you tell her that Sandor was Hungarian NSA?”

  It would have been easier to lie, to react with outrage at the accusation, but Kell knew that he was cornered. He had no choice but to tell the truth.

  “Yes. She knows that.”

  “Fantastic.” Amelia was shaking her head. “Was that a conversation or did you have it on e-mail?”

  “I would never commit something like that to paper.” Kell’s response sounded brusque, but he privately acknowledged that he could not remember precisely where or when or how he had spoken to Rachel about Sandor’s intelligence background. Nor did he confess to a further sin—that Rachel knew Sandor had been assassinated. Amelia already had too much to work with.

  “Have you heard from her?” she asked.

  “Amelia, I haven’t heard from her since we had a row in the restaurant. It’s what you wanted, right? It’s the cover. I’m the jilted lover, she’s not responding to my calls.”

  “Good. At least that’s one positive. As soon as she gets in touch, I’ll let you know.”

  52

  Alexander Minasian had left the Snaresbrook bed-and-breakfast, boarded a Central Line train into London, arranged a meeting with the SVR head of Station at a restaurant in Shepherds Market, and told him about KODAK’s relationship with Rachel Wallinger.

  “Kell,” he said. “Tom Kell. What do you know about him?”

  “The name is familiar. I can look into it. We will have files.”

  “He was sent out to investigate the Wallinger accident. He had a meeting with Jim Chater at the American embassy in Ankara. According to KODAK, he came with this woman to a party he was hosting at a bar in Istanbul.”

  “Kell knows Chater? They are friends?”

  Minasian indicated that he did not know the answer to the question. He knew only that KODAK was possessed of a visceral hatred of Jim Chater. That he posed as Chater’s underling and creature, an admiring junior colleague learning at his master’s knee, but that KODAK despised the American’s ethics and working methods. Indeed there had been times when Minasian had felt that Ryan Kleckner’s work for the SVR was, in part, motivated by his animus against Chater.

  “You have the date of this party?”

  The head of Station was picking at a plate of chicken liver pâté. Minasian was not in the mood to eat.

  “KODAK’s birthday,” Minasian replied. “According to the girl, that was the first night that she and Kell had met. We need to confirm that. They began a relationship that continued until Rachel returned to London. They had dinner here on Tuesday night, when she broke everything off. By then KODAK had already contacted her. She says she was more interested in seeing him.”

  “According to who?”

  “According to KODAK. This is what she told him on the night she came back to the Rembrandt. She says Kell is too old. Maybe forty-three, forty-four. She is only just thirty, she doesn’t want to be trapped in a relationship with a man she has no intention of marrying. Now she’s in Istanbul, she wants to have dinn
er with KODAK, he thinks she likes him.”

  “Who do you believe?”

  “It is not a question of who I believe,” Minasian replied, signaling for the bill. “It is a question of what the intelligence tells us.”

  53

  As soon as the BA flight had touched down in Istanbul, Ryan Kleckner switched on his BlackBerry. Within thirty seconds he had received a text from his mother, downloaded various work-related e-mails on three separate accounts, and sent a message to Rachel telling her how much he was looking forward to seeing her for dinner the following evening. It was after midnight, so he was not surprised when Rachel did not reply.

  Kleckner was seated by a window on the starboard side of the aircraft, directly over the wing. There was the usual crammed rush for carry-on baggage as the engines powered down. Kleckner was obliged to remain in his seat for several minutes while the passengers beside him stood up, retrieved their bags, and waited in the aisle. A flight attendant made an announcement, in both English and Turkish, informing the passengers that there would be a short delay before the cabin doors were opened.

  A few moments later, Kleckner was finally able to shuffle into the aisle, to find enough space in which to stand up, and to fetch his black wheeled suitcase from a locker on the opposite side of the aircraft. As he placed the suitcase on a vacant seat, he looked down the cabin at the mass of tired, impatient passengers waiting to exit the plane.

  He had always hated crowds. Blank-eyed, lazy faces. Women who had allowed themselves to grow fat and sullen. Children screaming for food and toys. Kleckner wanted to push through all of them. From a young age he had been certain of his own superiority, that his intellectual and physical advantages placed him above reproach. Whatever flaws he was thought to possess—vanity, arrogance, an absence of compassion—were, to his mind, strengths. They were also easily disguised. Kleckner found it simple to win the trust of strangers; he had been able to do it long before he was trained to that purpose. To dissemble, but also to see through to the cold center of people, to intuit and understand the motivations of colleagues and friends, were gifts that he seemed to have possessed from birth. There were days when Kleckner wished that he would be found out; that somebody would have the wit and the ingenuity to see through him. But such a moment had never come.