A Divided Spy (Thomas Kell Spy Thriller, Book 3) (18 page)

‘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.’

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 Saturday. 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.’

‘I won’t have any surveillance,’ Minasian replied firmly. It appeared to be a matter of personal and professional pride that Kell understood this. ‘We will not be disturbed.’

‘If you abort,’ Kell continued, ignoring this, ‘go back to Claridge’s. Somebody will make themselves known to you and we will make an alternative arrangement. It’s imperative that we meet next week, even if you have to get out of bed at three o’clock in the morning and talk to me through a wall in your hotel.’

There was a useful ambiguity built into this last statement. Minasian could interpret it in one of two ways: as a plea for more information about the imminent terrorist attack; and as a warning that Kell would not hesitate to turn him in to the SVR if he failed to make contact.

‘I will be there,’ Minasian replied, meeting Kell’s gaze.

‘If anybody stops you or asks awkward questions, tell them you’re buying classic British food to take back to Kiev. Marks and Spencer marmalade, branded chutney. Earl Grey tea. Tikka Masala.’ Minasian nodded. ‘Once we’ve made eye contact, that’s where you’ll go. Downstairs to the Food Hall in the basement of Marks and Spencer. Put a stopwatch on it.’

There was a momentary pause as Minasian committed the plan to memory. ‘A stopwatch?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand.’

Kell took a long draw on the cigarette then stubbed it out.

‘You can reach the basement car parks from the Food Hall,’ he said. ‘There are moving walkways in the wine section which will take you to different levels in the car parks. Go to the Middle Car Park, Level Two. Exactly ten minutes after we have first made eye contact, walk to Aisle 45. It’s the one right in front of you. I’ll go down to the car park by a separate route, drive past and pick you up in a vehicle.’

‘Will you be alone?’

Kell could tell him nothing about Amelia’s refusal to countenance the operation; he could not even be certain that he would be permitted to meet Minasian in nine days’ time. After all, ‘C’ was sending a car for his agent. If she intended to interview Minasian, however briefly, Kell’s link with the Russian would be snapped. Amelia would want control of GAGARIN and saturation on the threat from STRIPE.

‘I will be alone in the car,’ he replied. ‘But we will have people in other vehicles for back-up. Making sure you’re safe.’

‘As well as making sure
you
are safe,’ Minasian replied, with what Kell considered to be unnecessary emphasis. He greeted the remark with a patient smile, then outlined plans for a fallback if either man was unable to reach the first meeting.

‘If one of us can’t be in the men’s section between half past two and three, we try again two hours later. Between half past four and five. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ Minasian scratched the side of his neck. ‘What about making contact in the meantime?’ he asked. ‘While I am away?’

Kell stood up, took a BlackBerry from a stash of three he kept in a nearby drawer and handed it to Minasian.

‘This is PGP encrypted,’ he said. ‘If you learn anything about STRIPE that’s time-sensitive – if you have a target, a date, in other words only if the attack is imminent – you can send that information to me in such a way that you will not be compromised. Otherwise I suggest we have no interaction and meet on Friday. I don’t trust computers, I don’t trust phones. Never have, never will.’ Right on cue, there was a prolonged buzz on the intercom. Kell ignored it. ‘Do everything you can in the next nine days to find out what’s known to the SVR about this individual,’ he said. ‘His name. The number of the passport he was given, how it got to him, who he’s working with. It’s possible that my people already have him in their sights or know individuals associated with him. Anything that was gleaned by the SVR could be matched up with our intel. I need to know what he’s planning to do, when he’s planning to do it.’

‘Of course,’ Minasian replied.

Kell stood up and lifted the receiver just as the intercom began to buzz a second time.

‘Hello?’

‘Vehicle for Mr Thomas?’

‘We’ll be down in five minutes.’

Kell replaced the receiver and picked up Mowbray’s iPhone. He stopped the second recording and put the phone in his back pocket.

‘We’ve got a car for you,’ he said. Minasian looked up in surprise. ‘Time for you to be going.’

Kell opened the connecting door and walked through to the bedroom. Mowbray was looking out of the window, curtains pulled to one side. Kell stood beside him and saw a bottle green SIS Vauxhall parked on a double yellow line outside his flat, hazard lights flashing.

‘Got here quicker than I thought,’ he mumbled. ‘Cross kept saying time was a factor.’

It didn’t sound like one of Amelia’s stock phrases; Kell wondered how many other officers were now involved in the effort to prevent him from forging a workable relationship with Minasian. It was a source of almost grotesque frustration to him that Amelia seemed so determined to keep the Russian at arm’s length. Surely, once he had confronted her with the evidence about STRIPE, she would reconsider her position?

He walked back into the sitting room to find Minasian standing in front of the bookshelves. He was running his finger along the spines of some Dickens, almost on tiptoes as he peered up at the titles. Kell had an abrupt feeling that this might be their first and last encounter. Anything could happen in the next few days. Minasian’s relationship with Riedle could be unravelled by the SVR and his career ended at a stroke. His marriage to Svetlana could collapse under the pressure of what had happened, placing Minasian at the mercy of Andrei Eremenko. And then there was the interference from Amelia. She could prevent Minasian and Svetlana re-entering the UK, citing sanctions against the Russian elite.

‘When you come back next week, are you travelling under alias?’

Minasian shook his head. He appeared to have been wrong-footed by the timing of Kell’s question.

‘Better to do so,’ Kell told him. ‘I assume you have British documents, a British passport?’

With reluctance, but a faint trace of professional pride, Minasian conceded that this was the case.

‘Use it,’ Kell told him. ‘Just to get through the border.’ He looked around for his house keys. ‘Time for us to go,’ he said.

Minasian looked at his watch. Kell walked past him and opened the curtains and the window. The air pouring into the room was cool and clean. The sound of children playing in a nearby garden was interrupted by a car alarm sounding on the opposite side of the building. Minasian rolled his neck and stretched his jaw, looking like a man who has emerged unscathed from a minor altercation on the street.

Mowbray came out of the kitchen and nodded at the Russian. Minasian did not appear to recognize him from the hotel in Egypt. Kell passed the second iPhone to Mowbray, indicating with a look that he should again encrypt the video and send it on to Amelia.

‘We should go,’ he said, turning to Minasian, who was staring at the phone like a man in a trance. ‘Do you have everything?’

‘I came only with my jacket. If you could please now return my BlackBerry?’

‘Of course.’

Kell passed the battery, SIM card and phone to Minasian, then led him towards the front door. They walked out of the building, leaving Mowbray inside the flat. When the driver saw Kell coming down the steps towards the street, he opened the door of the Vauxhall.

‘Mr Kell?’

He was a short, neatly turned-out man in his late fifties, tanned and silver-haired. Kell was surprised that he had used his surname in front of Minasian.

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m to take you to your meeting.’

At first, Kell wondered if he had misunderstood. He looked across at Minasian, then back at the driver.

‘To my meeting …’

The driver nodded towards the Russian.

‘Your friend is to walk away.’

Minasian could not hide his pleasure and pivoted around, grinning at the pavement. Kell felt a sense of impotent fury. He tried his best to conceal his annoyance and apologized to Minasian for what had transpired.

‘My mistake,’ he said. ‘I thought they were sending a car for you.’