They drove on quiet country roads, avoiding the main highways, limiting the possibility of a bent Ukrainian cop pulling the Audi over as a favor to Moscow. Kleckner was out cold, slumped on the backseat after thirty seconds of hallucinogenic agitation in central Odessa when the ketamine had begun to work through him. Kell estimated that the American would be awake by the time the plane took off. Awake and ready to start answering questions.
* * *
A forest at the edge of a vast plain of fields, a metaled track leading to the airfield. Muggy in the late afternoon.
Nobody at the airstrip save for two British pilots smoking idly in the shadow of a derelict control tower, one called Bob, the other called Phil. Both of them long enough in the tooth not to ask about the cargo they were carrying. The flight plan had been filed, the right palms crossed with the right amount of silver. ABACUS would be taken out of Ukrainian airspace, the Gulfstream brushing the southern tip of Moldova, heading west into Romania, then refueling in Hungary before continuing north over Austria and Germany. Bob expected to touch down at RAF Northolt sometime around nine o’clock BST. Kell would take Kleckner to a safe house in Ruislip, an SIS team would try to ascertain the extent to which ABACUS had corrupted assets and operations in the region, then he would be handed over to the Americans.
Danny and Harold arrived five minutes after Kell. No smiles, no congratulatory handshakes as they approached the Audi and saw Kleckner’s drugged body slumped in the backseat. Everybody knew that there was still work to do. Danny confirmed that the rest of the team were leaving Odessa—some by road, some by rail, some by air via Kiev—then grabbed Kleckner by the feet and dragged him out of the car. Kell stood at the back door and took the American’s shoulders. He could feel the bulk of Kleckner’s muscles as he carried him toward the Gulfstream, the body that Rachel had kissed. He experienced no sense of elation, no joy at Kleckner’s capture. Indeed, as the American was hauled into the cabin, Jez helping to lay him across two seats at the front of the aircraft, Kell thought only of Istanbul and offered a silent prayer to the God in whom he still sometimes believed that Rachel Wallinger was safe.
66
She knew how to work the cover. She had texted Kleckner, called his cell phone, written him an irate e-mail. Even after Amelia had managed to get a message to her saying that ABACUS had fled to Odessa, she had kept up the facade, calling a friend in London and complaining that Ryan—“that American guy I told you about”—had stood her up, failed to keep to a promise of taking her out to dinner in Istanbul.
“You poor thing,” the friend had said, oblivious to the masquerade, oblivious to the fact that the SVR were listening in to Rachel Wallinger’s calls. “I know you really liked him. Maybe he’s just had to go and work or something. Maybe he lost his phone.”
“That old chestnut,” Rachel replied. “Fuck him. Makes me miss Tom.”
She knew that it was important to behave naturally, that Minasian’s people were most likely watching her. That there was a potential SVR threat against her, but only if it could be proven that she had been working against ABACUS on behalf of SIS.
So she had tried to enjoy herself. Or, at the very least, to live her life as she would ordinarily have lived it, given a few days of leisure in Istanbul. She had been to the Topkapi, she had breezed around the Blue Mosque, she had taken a boat along the Bosporus. And she had thought about Tom Kell, wondering if he would ever forgive her for the sin of consorting with Ryan Kleckner.
Rachel made the mistake of drinking alone on Sunday night, returning home from a restaurant in Yenikoy after dark. Too much alcohol on an empty stomach, her loneliness buttressed by grief and nerves and by Laura Marling on her iPhone. Approaching the house, she turned the music up loud, louder still when her favorite song came on, the mournful lament of “Goodbye England.”
Rachel climbed the steps to the front door of the yali, reaching for her keys. The music and the headphones were shrouding every sound in the city. She turned the key in the lock.
She did not look back. She could not hear what was going on around her. She closed the door behind her and walked into the house.
67
The Gulfstream took off into a setting sun. Jez and Harold drove the Audis back to Odessa. As Kell looked down at the airfield, the control tower as remote and indistinct as an abandoned church, he saw a small boy standing at the edge of the woods, mournfully waving at the departing aircraft, as if it were carrying away the bodies of the dead.
Ryan Kleckner woke up over Romania. Groggy, muscle-slow, then aware of the plastic cuffs binding his wrists, the belt buckled tight around his waist. He convulsed briefly, like the start of an epileptic fit, then relaxed back into his seat, aware of the hopelessness of his position.
The first man he saw was Thomas Kell.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“You’re being flown to London,” Kell told him. He was seated on a fold-down chair, facing the American. “You’re in the custody of SIS.”
“The custody of what the fuck? Can you untie me please? What the fuck happened here?”
It was odd to hear Kleckner’s voice. Kell had listened to it so many times, on tapes and feeds and recordings of one kind or another. Only once—at the party in Bar Bleu—had he actually been in the presence of the American. He waited for Kleckner’s rage and shame to subside; it would only be a matter of time before the personality and the training imposed itself. A man as immune to moral consequence as Ryan Kleckner would believe that he could talk his way out of capture. His self-confidence was bulletproof.
“You want to explain what’s going on? You got people from the Agency onboard?” he asked.
“Sadly they couldn’t join us,” Kell replied.
“So this is how MI6 operates now? We can just grab one of your guys, drug him, tie him up? You going to be okay with that, Tom? We can render one another?”
Kell knew that Kleckner was being smart, trying to probe for a weakness. Jim Chater’s willingness to transport Yassin Gharani to a black prison in Cairo—and Kell’s failure to stop him—had effectively cost him his job and his reputation.
“Let’s not get too excited, Ryan. Would you like a drink?”
“What have you got? Caipirinhas? Isn’t that your favorite?”
“You have a good memory.”
“Rachel told me.”
A smile curled at the edge of Kleckner’s lips as he registered Kell’s reaction. Kell longed to tell him that he had been played by Rachel, that her affection for him had been a mirage, that every kiss she had planted on his body, every moment of lust and intimacy they had shared, had been a sham. Rachel had no more cared for Ryan Kleckner than a call girl cares for a client.
“How’s that going?” he asked.
“What? My thing with your girlfriend?”
“Yeah. Got any trips to Paris planned? Taking her home to meet your mother?”
Kleckner jerked forward, as far as the belt would allow. There was a note of supercilious triumph in his voice as he stared at Kell.
“When we land, and when I get a chance to talk to the people who actually know what’s been going on, who actually know why I made a relationship with the SVR, and when they find out that SIS has effectively kidnapped a CIA officer without permission or due process, I kind of get the feeling that your career, the careers of your superiors, in fact the entire relationship between my Agency and your dipshit Service, will be fucked into the next century.”
Kell experienced a brief chill of foreboding before reassuring himself that Kleckner was bluffing.
“Don’t worry, Ryan,” he said, “you’ll have every chance to explain yourself.”
Kell stood up and made his way down the cabin. Danny was snoozing beside a window at the rear of the aircraft. Kell checked his watch. It was just after five Ukraine time, three in London. He was concerned about Rachel. He wondered why Amelia hadn’t contacted the plane and tried to speak to him. Perhaps no news was good news: Rachel was probably a
lready back in London.
Kell was pouring himself a glass of water in the galley half an hour later when he felt the plane begin to descend. At first, he thought nothing of it. It was only when he glanced out of the window that he saw city lights less than two thousand feet below and realized that the Gulfstream was landing. He put the drink to one side and walked down the aircraft, past Danny, past Kleckner. The cockpit door was open. He closed it behind him and spoke to the pilots.
“Where are we? Why are we so low? Refueling?”
The sun was no longer visible ahead of them. The plane had changed direction.
“New flight plan, sir,” Phil replied.
“Says who?”
“They’ve told us to land in Kiev.”
68
“They’ve told us what? Who did the instruction come from?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say, sir.”
Kell braced himself in the narrow confines of the cockpit as the Gulfstream hit a river of turbulence. He wondered if the SVR had got to the pilots. Phil offered enough cash to land the plane in Kiev, nobody any the wiser.
“I’m going to ask you again,” Kell said. “Who is telling you to do this?”
He could already see the glow of an airport, a column of landing lights shimmering in the distance. The plane would be down in less than five minutes, an SVR team swarming all over the Gulfstream within ten.
Phil pulled back a set of headphones, looped them around his neck.
“Best thing I can do is ask you to sit down, sir.”
The request contained an edge of patronizing threat, the captain pulling rank on a passenger. Kell’s lifelong irritation with bureaucratic arrogance kicked in like the jolt of turbulence.
“What airport is this?” he said.
“Boryspil. Kiev.”
“International?”
“That’s the one,” Bob replied.
Phil was muttering into a mike, presumably to air traffic control. Kell looked at the banks of lights and switches above the pilots’ heads, as mysterious to him as circuit boards. He had no choice but to return to his seat. They were moments away from landing. As he opened the cockpit door, Kell saw Kleckner looking directly at him.
“Trouble, Tom?” he said, with a wildcat grin.
“What makes you think that?” Kell replied, and buckled himself in for landing.
69
The Gulfstream soared down in the black night, kissed the runway, and taxied to an isolated corner of the airport. Once the plane had come to a halt, Phil emerged from the cockpit, walked halfway down the aisle, and announced that a vehicle was en route to the aircraft and that “all passengers have been asked to remain on board.”
“That include me?” Kleckner asked.
There was a look of weary triumph on his face, as though he knew that his safe passage to Moscow was now assured.
“Yes,” Kell told him. “That includes you.”
Kell unbuckled his seat belt and approached the American. He took a knife from his back pocket and moved it in front of Kleckner’s face.
“Wait a minute…,” said Phil.
Kell reached behind Kleckner’s back, cutting the plastic cuffs around his wrists. Danny was smiling. As soon as his hands were free, Kleckner popped the catch on his seat belt and stood up. He was stiff and in pain, reaching for the area on his thigh where Jez had injected the ketamine.
“What did you guys use on me?” he asked.
Kell ignored him.
Phil returned to the cockpit as the engines on the Gulfstream powered down. Orange lights were strobing beyond the fuselage, the aircraft encased by the night. As the noise of the jets diminished, Kell looked out of the starboard window to see a second plane parked alongside. The registration mark began with the letter N. An American flight. Kell felt the dark echo of extraordinary rendition. Kleckner had begun to walk around the aircraft, stretching his legs, rubbing his wrists. The strength returning to him, the lean, exercised cunning. Kell watched him for a while, trying to glimpse the traitor within, trying to get some sense of the motive that had driven Kleckner to deceive. But he looked just as he had looked on that first night in Bar Bleu: tanned, worked-out, good-looking. Throw stones on a beach in California and you would hit fifty men just like him. Most likely there had been nothing more than money and a malign pleasure in deceit: no ideological conviction, merely betrayal for its own sake.
“You look tired, Tom,” Kleckner said, turning toward Kell.
Again, Kell did not respond. Instead he crossed to the opposite side of the cabin. A vehicle was making its way across the concrete apron. Yellow headlights moving at speed. Bob emerged from the cockpit and opened the main door on the plane. The wind and the jet scream of Boryspil punched into the cabin. Kleckner reacted by blocking his ears. Danny winced and sat down. Kell walked toward the door and looked out over the airport.
“Who is in the car?” he shouted.
“You tell me,” Bob shouted back.
* * *
There were three of them. Kell stood at the open door and watched as a black Mercedes-Benz came to a halt a few meters from the Gulfstream. A powerful wind was blowing across the apron, two passenger aircraft taxiing on the runway three hundred meters to the south. The driver snuffed out the headlights, switched off the engine, and opened the rear left door.
Amelia Levene stepped out into the night. Kell looked across to the opposite side of the vehicle, where the passenger door had opened. As a plane screamed overhead, a spotlight swept across the runway, and the short, stocky figure of Jim Chater emerged beneath the starboard wing. He was wearing a suit. He turned and looked up at the Gulfstream. With an almost imperceptible dip of the head, he acknowledged Kell. Kell did not move. Chater leaned back into the car, retrieved what appeared to be a cell phone, and slammed the door.
Kell turned to Danny and to the two pilots, who had gathered at the front of the plane.
“You’d better give us some time,” he said. “Wait in the car.”
“Sure,” Danny replied, and followed Bob and Phil down the steps. They stopped on the tarmac and shook Amelia’s hand, like visiting dignitaries. Chater ignored them. Kell turned back into the plane and called out to Kleckner.
“Ryan! Your friends have come to see you.”
Kell saw the look of hope in Kleckner’s eyes, his delight at the prospect of Moscow rushing to his aid. Yet his expression barely changed when he saw Jim Chater at the top of the steps. Kell had expected Kleckner to look stunned, the victory slumping out of him. If anything, he looked relieved.
Chater brushed past Kell and stared at Kleckner. Eye contact. Kleckner turned and looked out through a portside window. Kell felt the sudden, pure fear that SIS had been duped. ABACUS a triple, played against Minasian for a purpose so obscure, so brilliant, that Langley had been prepared to give up HITCHCOCK and EINSTEIN just to sustain the deceit.
Amelia was at the top of the steps. She walked into the cabin, nodded at Kell, playing a hand of cards to which he was not yet privy. Chater raised the steps on the Gulfstream and sealed the door. It was suddenly very quiet.
“So we’re all here,” Amelia said.
Kell could feel his heart quickening. He knew that if Kleckner spoke next, if he stood up and went to Chater, the game was up. A handshake between trusted colleagues, an operation blown, and two high-ranking Brits to shoulder the blame. Kell could tell nothing from Amelia’s expression. Chater simply looked angry and tired. Kell had to keep reminding himself that the notion of Kleckner’s innocence was absurd.
“Ryan,” said Amelia, narrowing her eyes as though she was having difficulty bringing Kleckner into focus. It seemed enormously significant to Kell that Amelia, rather than Chater, had opted to speak first. “Jim has kindly agreed that Tom and I should be allowed a few moments with you before you are taken into American custody.”
Kell felt a surge of relief, even as he absorbed what Amelia was saying. SIS was to be given no opportunity to interview Kleckner, t
o measure the extent of his treachery. ABACUS was Kell’s catch, the Service’s triumph, but Langley was taking him home.
“Ryan?” Amelia said again. “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” Kleckner muttered.
He was going to play a long game. Acting cool, trying to stay calm. Kleckner had been cornered but would not allow his captors the satisfaction of seeing him fold.
“My Service has some questions regarding an asset in—”
“I’m sure you do…”
“Don’t interrupt, Ryan.”
They were the first words Chater had spoken. Kell found something touching in the use of Kleckner’s Christian name. How many times would Chater have sat with Kleckner in meetings, secure speech rooms, in restaurants and bars, assessing him, teaching him, trusting him?
“Thank you, Jim,” Amelia replied, with regal precision.
Kleckner stood up. He began to move toward them, only for Chater to erupt in sudden fury.
“Sit the fuck down.”
The sudden outburst caught all of them by surprise. Kell saw the hate coiled in Chater’s face. He thought of Kabul, the cramped room, the sweat and the fear of the Gharani interrogation. Chater feral and raging, spewing venom in the heat. His mood had turned in an instant.
Kleckner sat down. He seemed aware of the wretchedness of his situation, but there was a look of forced pride on his face, as though he was determined to go down fighting. Kell heard the smothered roar of a jet landing on the far side of the airport.
“So,” said Amelia, arranging her handbag on the floor as she took a seat opposite Kleckner. “As I was saying. We have a question about an asset in Iraqi Kurdistan. Somebody that Paul Wallinger was looking at.”
Time was a factor, but Kell instinctively felt that Amelia was moving too quickly into interrogation. It did not surprise him when Kleckner ducked the question.
“You know Tom well, right?”
A Colder War Page 32
