A Divided Spy (Thomas Kell Spy Thriller, Book 3) (5 page)

The two men stood face to face in the lobby. One of them was in a state of advanced shock. The other was pleased that the plan he had so meticulously prepared had come off without a hitch.

Thomas Kell, the brave, resourceful English neighbour who had come to the aid of Bernhard Riedle, placed a comforting hand on the German’s back and felt the quick surge and drop of his chest as he struggled to control his breathing. Riedle put out a hand to steady himself against the wall of the lobby and looked across at Kell.

‘I cannot thank you enough,’ he said. ‘Without your help …’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Kell replied. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

Riedle had a kind, friendly face, solid and bespectacled. It was a face Kell warmed to immediately. Riedle took a moment to gather himself, then quite literally dusted himself down, running his hands along his sleeves and down his thighs as though trying to drive away all evidence of contact with his attackers.

‘You said you didn’t lose anything?’ Kell asked. ‘They didn’t take any of your money?’

‘You didn’t give them a chance,’ Riedle’s face broke into a relieved smile. ‘They took nothing.’

Kell introduced himself as ‘Peter’ and explained that he had been coming back from eating dinner at a local restaurant. Riedle – to Kell’s surprise – introduced himself as ‘Bernie’, a nickname that had not come up in any of the surveillance of his email traffic. Taking advantage of the German’s mood of heartfelt gratitude, Kell suggested that he accompany him to his apartment and sit with him until he had completely recovered from the shock of the attack. To Kell’s relief, Bernhard happily agreed to the idea, adding that he was mesmerized by the skill and professionalism with which his neighbour had disarmed and chased off his assailants.

‘Were you once a soldier?’ he asked as they walked side by side up the stairs.

‘Not as such,’ Kell replied. ‘In a former life I worked as a diplomat, often in some fairly hairy places. Kenya. Iraq. Afghanistan. I was taught a bit of self-defence, you know? Luckily I very rarely get a chance to use it.’

‘Well, I am extremely grateful to you.’ They had reached the door. Riedle took out a set of keys. He was several inches shorter than Kell, who could see a small summer insect trapped in the light white hairs on the crown of his head. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if you had not appeared,’ he said, turning the key and ushering his guest inside. Kell walked into the hall and heard the thunk and click of a sliding bolt as Riedle closed the door behind them. ‘He had a knife. You cut him.’

‘He cut himself.’ Kell noted the same off-the-peg watercolours, candlesticks and soft furnishings that adorned his own apartment, two floors above. Clearly the developers had bought dozens of the same items in a job lot, distributing them evenly throughout the building. The layout of the rooms was also identical. A kitchen off the hall, a bedroom and bathroom to the rear of the apartment. ‘But not seriously,’ he said. ‘The blade must have touched his wrist as I went to disarm him.’

Riedle listened intently, though Kell was spinning a further deceit. The man who had been holding the knife was a former Polish intelligence officer named Rafal Suda whom Kell had met many years earlier while working on an SIS operation in Gdansk. Rafal had snapped open a small vial of theatrical blood that had dripped, effectively enough, on to the cobbles. His accomplice, Xavier Baeyens, a retired Belgian Customs official, had acquired the motorbike on which Suda had made his escape. He had stripped the plates, fudged the insurance, and put enough petrol in the tank to get to Bruges.

‘Should I call the police?’ Riedle asked.

It was a question Kell had been expecting and one for which he had prepared a suitably tortured answer.

‘It’s difficult,’ he said. ‘The same thing happened to a friend of mine in London recently. Broad daylight, cameras everywhere, two witnesses to a mugging at knifepoint. She lost her bag, her wedding ring, a cellphone, about three hundred pounds in cash. The police did nothing. They tried, of course, but it was impossible to track down the men who had attacked her. She got lost in weeks of bureaucracy and eventually nothing came of it.’

Riedle was momentarily frustrated. He wanted justice. Kell could see it in his face.

‘But they looked like drug dealers and local criminals,’ he said. ‘There might be photographs on file at the … the …’ He struggled for the correct English term. ‘Commissariat? Precinct?’

‘Police station,’ said Kell.

‘Yes. We could identify them.’

The brave English neighbour managed to look suitably dismayed by this idea.

‘If you need to do that, Bernie, of course I’d be happy to help. But I’m very busy with work and, being one hundred per cent honest, slightly reluctant to get dragged into a court case. I live in London, I’d have to keep coming back and forth to Brussels. You seem unharmed. Nothing was stolen, so you have no need to file an insurance claim. But of course if you
want
to …’

Riedle nodded. He could hardly ask Peter to waste time speaking to the police, to assist in pressing charges or to travel regularly from London to Brussels to stand as a witness in any ensuing trial. It was just a street mugging, after all. He had lost nothing but his dignity. It would be best for Riedle to comply with the wishes of the man who had so uncomplainingly come to his rescue.

‘Of course, of course,’ he said, turning towards the kitchen. He gestured at Kell to sit down. ‘Better to have a drink and forget all about it. These scum will never be found.’

As Kell muttered ‘Yes’, the mobile phone in his jacket buzzed with an incoming text. He assumed it was Harold, sitting upstairs in the rented apartment on the fourth floor, doubtless helping himself to a large tumbler of Kell’s single malt. Mowbray had been waiting in the lobby as Kell approached the passageway on Rue des Chartreux, ready to intercept any neighbour who threatened to leave the building while the mugging was taking place.

Kell checked the phone. It was a text from Rafal. He had met up with Xavier. They had abandoned the motorbike. Kell gave them the all-clear and thanked them for a job well done. Suda was due to return to Poland the next day, Xavier to take a ten-day holiday in Accra. Kell was putting the phone back in his pocket when Riedle appeared from the kitchen.

‘Can I make you a drink?’

Kell asked for whisky. His commitment to remaining on the wagon had lasted only until his first night in Brussels, when he had succumbed to the temptation of a glass of Talisker. He was not yet back on the cigarettes, but reckoned the Minasian operation would have him on twenty a day before the end of the month. As a precaution, he had bought a packet of Winston Lights and stowed them, still sealed, in the drawer beside his bed.

‘Ice?’ Riedle asked.

‘No, thank you. Just a splash of water to open it up.’

Riedle disappeared and returned with the drink. Kell sat down in a suede-covered armchair identical to the one upstairs in which he had read Rafal and Xavier’s surveillance reports on Riedle’s movements around Brussels. The staged mugging had been planned for the night before, only to be called off at the last moment when a taxi had pulled up on the opposite side of the street, just as Xavier was taking up position.

‘I like this expression,’ said Riedle, passing Kell the whisky. Kell thanked him with a brisk nod. ‘To “open it up”. The water does this with the flavour, yes? I do not drink whisky.’

Riedle himself was holding a long-stemmed glass of red wine and appeared to be slightly unsteady on his feet. Xavier had been tailing him all evening and had reported the consumption of two beers in the old town before eight o’clock, then an entire bottle of white wine at an Italian restaurant in the Rue de la Montagne. Shock usually took the edge off drunkenness, but Riedle had been saved from the lions and might easily be slipping into a state of euphoria.

‘Cheers.’

Kell lifted the whisky – blended, to judge by the smell – and the two men touched glasses.

It had begun.

They were smiling as they handed the envelope to Azhar Ahmed Iqbal. There were three of them. The oldest of the men, whom Azhar had never seen before, said that it was a genuine British passport that had come by diplomatic bag from Amman. An official in the UK Passport Office had been compromised by brave and resourceful agents of ISIS and had produced the passport in return for a sum of money.

Azhar opened the envelope. The passport was hard and cold to the touch. It was clean and new and would not easily bend in his hands. They were still smiling at him as they watched him look at it and flick through the pages.

Three months earlier, Azhar had been taken into a room in Raqqa and had sat on a stool beside a blank white wall. Someone had taken his photograph. One of the men, a fighter from Tunisia who had worked as a barber, had shaved off Azhar’s beard and cut his hair so that he would look good in front of the camera. Azhar saw that this photograph had now been laminated inside the passport. He looked successful and educated. He looked like a businessman. It was exactly what they wanted.

‘You like the way you look?’ Jalal asked with a sly grin.

‘Yeah. I like it,’ Azhar replied.

‘But now you are not Azhar Ahmed Iqbal from Leeds, no? You are no longer Omar Assya. Who are you, my friend?’

Azhar looked down at the name printed beneath the photograph. He had been using the
kunya
‘Omar Assya’ for at least three years as a way of obscuring his identity from the West Yorkshire Police. He had grown used to it.

‘Shahid Khan.’ Azhar did not mind the name. They had made him a year older. But then he saw his place of birth. ‘From
Bradford
?’ he said. ‘Why did you say I was from fookin’ Bradford?’

All the men laughed. When they had calmed down, when Azhar had finished talking about the rivalry between Leeds and Bradford, and when he had started to get used to being called ‘Shahid’, Jalal told him that he had to protect the passport at all costs. He should also carry it around with him so that it became slightly worn and looked less new. Before returning to the United Kingdom, Shahid was to fly to Dubai and then to Cairo so that the passport would show arrival and departure stamps from the UAE and Egypt. This would help to dispel any suspicion if a member of the UK Border Police at Heathrow looked more closely at the passport and decided to question Shahid about his movements. Should this happen, Shahid was to say that he had been attending his cousin’s wedding in Dubai and had returned home via Cairo so that he could visit the Pyramids. If he was subjected to more intense scrutiny – if, for example, he was taken into an interview room by an officer of the British MI5 – Shahid was to rely on the biographical details of his real life. So: Shahid Khan went to the same school as Azhar Ahmed Iqbal; he had the same cousins, the same brothers and sisters, as Azhar Ahmed Iqbal. That way he could tell his favourite family stories and make his background sound more realistic. The trick was to stay as close to the truth as possible. It was when you started to lie that you ran into trouble.

‘What about my job?’ Azhar asked. ‘What do I do for work?’

Jalal said that this was a good question which proved that they had chosen the right soldier for the operation in England. He told ‘Shahid’ that he was to say he was unemployed and about to move to London to look for work. He was to say that he had spent the last of his savings on the trips to Dubai and Cairo. Jalal would see to it that a Facebook page and mobile phone account were set up in Shahid Khan’s name. He would have other profiles on the Internet that would fool the British MI5. Jalal told Shahid that he had time in which to adapt to his new identity and to ask more questions like the one he had just been clever enough to ask. Jalal insisted that it was ‘extremely unlikely’ that Shahid would be questioned by the British. Thousands of young Muslim men passed through Heathrow Airport every day. They would make sure that his flight arrived at the busiest time of day. Shahid would be well dressed – they would provide good clothes for him – and he would look educated and respectable. It was the will of Allah that Shahid Khan be allowed to pass into his former country.

Shahid had absolute faith in Jalal’s judgment. It was Jalal who had taught him about the beauty of the Caliphate. Shahid embraced him. He embraced the other men. They told him that he was brave and would soon be spoken of as a hero who had avenged the Prophet. Shahid believed them. It was all that he wanted. To be a hero in their eyes, in the eyes of the true believers, and to do God’s will.

Kell and Riedle talked until two o’clock in the morning.

Kell had sensed immediately that it would take at least two or three such encounters before Riedle would begin to open up about ‘Dmitri’. It was obvious from a certain detachment in his conversation that the German wanted to present himself in a good light, particularly in the aftermath of the mugging, which had plainly unsettled him. He was a proud man. A successful man. Kell knew from Elsa’s research that Riedle was responsible for a large team of architects in Hamburg and had been a partner at his firm for more than ten years. He listened closely as Riedle explained the work he was doing in Brussels, occasionally adding stories of his own about his phantom career as a diplomat in the Foreign Office. Riedle, who spoke faultless English as a result of spending seven years working in London, was evidently highly regarded within architectural circles, but tended to keep himself to himself. He valued his privacy and had few close friends. With the exception of his three-year relationship with the married Minasian, Riedle’s lifestyle appeared to be morally unimpeachable: Elsa and Mowbray had not flagged up any predilection for rent boys or problems with drugs and gambling. His interests stretched from English and American literature to Chinese contemporary art to the street food of Mexico and the music of Brazil. He was educated, thoughtful and unfailingly polite. Kell liked him.

At no point in the evening did Riedle mention his sexuality. Kell hinted that his own marriage had broken down several years earlier, but quickly moved the subject on when he sensed that Riedle was uneasy. Don’t rush him, he told himself, moving through the rusty gears of a hundred yesteryear recruitments. Let the relationship flourish in its own good time. If Riedle thinks that you are discreet, that you are astute and wise, that you are, above all, sympathetic to his cause, he will become your agent. Allow him to warm to you, to trust you, finally to confide in you; Kell’s influence would be the drop of water that causes the whisky to open up.

And so it came to pass. The two neighbours made a plan to meet for dinner two nights later at Forgeron, a fashionable brasserie in a district of Brussels frequented by Belgian hipsters and optimistic couples on second dates. Riedle appeared at half past seven wearing a lively grey tweed suit, brown brogues and a pale pink shirt, offset by a cream tie spotted with large blue polka dots. He was sporting a new, thicker pair of glasses that were almost identical to those worn by every architect Kell had ever encountered. He was tempted to make a joke about typecasting but instead complimented Riedle on the choice of venue.

‘Yes. It’s wonderful here,’ he said, reminding Kell of a music-hall impresario as he gazed around the room. ‘I have reserved a table on the balcony.’

Kell looked up. The ‘balcony’ was a narrow raised metal walkway on the first floor, no more than five feet wide, set with tables for two. Riedle confirmed their reservation with the maître d’ and the two men were led upstairs by a waitress who shot Kell an exaggeratedly friendly look, judging him to be Riedle’s boyfriend and wanting to appear supportive. There was a low roof above the balcony and an overweight man occupying the first of three tables. The man’s chair was jutting out so that Kell was obliged to perform an elaborate ducking manoeuvre in order to pass him. The waitress had selected the furthest table on the walkway and took their orders for drinks. Kell was pleased when he heard Riedle asking for a kir. The sooner there was alcohol inside him, the better.

There were pleasantries and exchanges of small talk while they studied their menus and drank their aperitifs. Riedle, who had his back to the other diners, raised a toast to Kell and insisted that he was going to pay for the meal ‘as a thank you for saving me’. During their conversation at the apartment, Kell had explained that he was working on an investment project in Brussels, a suitably vapid job description which he hoped would discourage any further interest. Nevertheless, Riedle asked if his meetings were going well and Kell was able to say that it was ‘early days’ and that ‘a number of parties still needed to be sounded out’ before the ‘proper financing’ could be guaranteed. Riedle’s own account of a difficult meeting with a services consultant that afternoon took them halfway through their first course, by which time they were drinking a bottle of Chablis. Kell had ordered smoked salmon blinis, Riedle a vichyssoise.

‘How is your food?’ Riedle asked.

‘Not identifiably Russian,’ Kell replied, and was glad to see a momentary discomfort flicker in his companion’s eyes. He had chosen the dish as a private joke, but now realized that it might lead him towards Minasian. ‘How’s your soup?’

‘Fine.’

Taking advantage of a slight pause, Kell inched towards Dmitri.

‘The blinis are fine, but I’ve broken a personal promise. Just as one should never eat bouillabaisse outside Marseilles, I believe you should never order these’ – he indicated his plate – ‘outside Moscow.’

‘You have been to Russia?’ Riedle asked. Kell could feel him lifting from the bottom of the river, circling upwards through the dark waters, rising slowly to the bait.

‘Many times,’ he replied. ‘The caviar is not as good as it once was – and it’s certainly more expensive nowadays – but I still go there for business.’

‘You were a diplomat there?’

‘No. Briefly in Armenia in the mid-nineties when I filled in for somebody on sick leave, but never Moscow.’ Kell had to be careful not to push too hard. ‘Minasian’ was an Armenian surname. Though it was almost certainly the case that Dmitri had presented himself to Riedle as a Russian citizen, he might occasionally have spoken nostalgically of his forebears in the Caucasus. The best cover is the simplest cover, one which draws on truthful elements in the spy’s background. ‘Have you been yourself?’ he asked, sipping his Chablis without an apparent care in the world. ‘Moscow? St Petersburg?’

‘I do not trust Russians,’ Riedle replied, with an almost petulant finality. ‘I have personal reasons. I despise their politics, their leadership.’

‘It’s certainly a worry …’

‘I sometimes think that the Russian character is the end of kindness, you know? The end of everything that is nice and good in this world.’

Kell was not a fisherman, but knew the angler’s rapturous delight in feeling that first bite on the lure. The sudden tug, the ripple on the surface of the water, the line running out as the fish ran free.

‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ he said, though he understood all too well.

‘As I say, personal reasons.’ Riedle finished his soup and set the spoon down gently. ‘I have to be careful what I say. I don’t want to come across as racist or as a bigot …’

‘You are among friends, Bernie. You can say what you like. I’m not here to judge you.’

That was all it took. Riedle pulled the sleeve of his jacket, squeezed a ruby cufflink and was away.

‘When I think of the Russian temperament, I think of sin,’ he said, looking at Kell as though he was both morally ashamed and politically disappointed by what he was about to say. ‘I think of money and the greed for riches. A state apparatus that robs its own people, politicians filling their pockets at the expense of the men and women they are elected to represent. I think of violence. Journalists silenced, opposition politicians murdered for the exercise of free speech. Corruption and death always going hand in hand.’ He took a sip of water, like a pianist composing himself before embarking on the final movement of a concerto. ‘When I think of Russia I think of deceit. Husbands deceiving wives. Young women seducing older men because they crave nothing but money and status. Deceit in business, of course. Do you follow me? The Slavic temperament is human nature at its most base. There is no kindness in Russia. Everything is so raw and brutal. They are like animals.’

It was an astonishing diatribe, and one to which Kell responded with the obvious question.

‘You said you had personal reasons for feeling this way?’

A waiter had inched along the balcony and begun to clear away their plates of food. Kell hoped that the interruption would not cause Riedle to soften his prejudice or, worse, change the subject.

‘I don’t wish to bore you with those,’ he said, ordering a bottle of Chianti. ‘I can’t only talk about myself this evening, Peter.’

‘No. Do.’ Kell sensed that talking about himself was exactly what Bernard Riedle wanted to do. ‘I’d be interested to hear your reasons. I sometimes find myself thinking the same way about Russia, particularly when it comes to murdered dissidents.’

Riedle took his eyes away from Kell and past him towards the large street window. He appeared to be lost in thought. It was like watching a man in a dealership trying to decide whether or not to buy an expensive car.

‘I had a relationship with a Russian,’ he said finally, the bustle and noise of the restaurant rendering his voice almost inaudible. ‘A man,’ he added. Riedle examined Kell’s reaction with sudden intensity. ‘Does this make you uncomfortable?’

Kell wondered if there had been something in his facial response to indicate disapproval, because he knew that Riedle was searching for any evidence of homophobia.

‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘Does the man live in Hamburg?’

Riedle shook his head.

‘You were together a long time?’

‘Three years.’

‘When did you break up?’

Riedle swallowed a long, glass-emptying mouthful of Chablis.

‘Last month,’ he replied, and looked over the railing that ran along the length of the walkway, down towards the entrance of the restaurant. Kell could see a chef standing over a bed of crushed ice, shucking oysters. ‘I was in Egypt,’ he said, again bringing his eyes back to the table. ‘A holiday. Things had not been good for a long time. He decided finally to end things.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Kell had a memory of Claire blithely informing him that she was in a new relationship, less than a month after their separation. ‘Nothing worse than a break-up,’ he said. ‘How are you coping?’

Riedle seemed both surprised and comforted by the question. ‘Not well,’ he said. ‘To be honest, Peter, I am suffering.’

Kell leaned towards him, doing his job. ‘I’ve been there,’ he said. ‘You don’t sleep. You can’t eat. You’re angry, you feel lost. It doesn’t get any easier with age. If anything, these things become worse.’

‘Yes,’ Riedle replied. ‘You felt this with your wife when your marriage ended?’

Kell hesitated for a moment, because he hated drawing Claire into operational conversation. It was tawdry and disloyal to use her for the purposes of deception; there had to be something in his life that remained sacred. Everything else, for years and years, had been infected by spying.

‘My marriage was different,’ he said. ‘My wife and I met when we were very young. We grew apart. We became different people as the years went by.’ Kell might have added that there had been times when he had blamed Claire for the entire squeezed and cut-down shape of his life; that he had been liberated by their separation. Or he might have said that there were still moments, when they met for lunch or saw one another at a social occasion, when he felt an almost gravitational pull towards her, a longing to be reintegrated into their former life. Instead, he said something comparatively bland, but undeniably true: ‘I think she found the demands of my job very difficult. There was also an added, very painful complication in that we were never able to have children.’

The waiter brought their main courses and the bottle of Chianti. It was then that Riedle mentioned Minasian for the first time.

‘I’m embarrassed to admit that Dmitri – my lover, my boyfriend – was married.’

Kell allowed himself to process the revelation, seemingly for the first time, before responding.

‘These things happen,’ he said. ‘Adultery is commonplace. Men find themselves conflicted. Particularly in Russia, I imagine, where the attitude to a person’s sexuality is so toxic. Embarrassment is pointless, Bernie. Shame is what we feel when we are worried about what other people are thinking about us.’

‘This is a very liberal view.’ Riedle smiled with avuncular disapproval, touching one of the polka dots on his expensive cream tie. The light caught in his designer spectacles and flashed off a lens. ‘Dmitri was tormented by his deceit. Or, at least, he pretended to be.’

It was a first meaningful glimpse into the Minasian personality. Kell said: ‘What do you mean, “pretended”?’ as he scribbled notes in his mind.

Riedle lifted his knife and fork and carved into the fatty edge of a lamb cutlet. ‘Perhaps I am being unfair,’ he said. ‘His wife has been ill for many years. Some kind of muscular difficulty which leaves her in great pain.’

Kell suspected that this was a lie. There was nothing in the files about Svetlana Minasian suffering from a debilitating illness, muscular or otherwise.

‘That’s awful,’ Kell said, a judgment that caused Riedle to wince. He wanted no expressions of sympathy for the woman; she had simply been an obstacle blocking his access to Dmitri.

‘It is and it is not,’ he replied. ‘She prevents him from living the life he wants to live. From being the man he wants to be. She is also highly critical of him, closed off in her thinking. Spoiled and judgmental.’

Kell wondered how much of this was true. He suspected that Minasian had constructed flaws in Svetlana’s character that would both console Riedle and justify his emotional distance from the marriage.

‘And children? Do they have any?’

Riedle shook his head. ‘No.’ There was a strange kind of satisfaction in his reply; it suggested the complete absence of a sexual relationship between Minasian and his wife. ‘I think Dmitri was very sophisticated, very clever when it came to presenting himself to me in a certain way,’ Riedle said, with a perceptiveness that took Kell by surprise. ‘He knew what I wanted and he knew how to give it. He also knew how to take it away.’

‘Take what away? You mean his love for you?’

Like a breeze coming through an open window, Kell remembered the enveloping intimacy he had known with Rachel, the deepest and most fulfilling love he had ever felt for a woman; a love ripped away in a few short days by the realization that she had been lying to him. He thought of Amelia’s cunning and of his own role in deceiving Riedle. Minasian was the common denominator. ‘Dmitri’ controlled them all.