A Colder War

42

Twelve hours later Kell was touching down in London.

He came from the ceaseless clamour and sweat of Istanbul into a city of permanent rain. It was always the same coming home: landing at Heathrow under grey skies; the same fat-turned-to-muscle Crystal Palace supporter driving the same gargling black cab; the gradual, but somehow reassuring adjustment to the smallness and the litter and the dimmed light of England. Rachel, having vanished from Kell’s life for the better part of three days, suddenly surfaced again, texting him incessantly on the M4 with a customary barrage of jokes about his age and a demand that Kell meet her for dinner.

My place. I’m cooking. Don’t forget your pacemaker, old man xxx

Kell had forgotten to put out the garbage before he left for Chios. Opening the door of his flat he was hit by a nauseating smell, close to the stench of death, and had to open every window in the place before walking the bag downstairs and throwing it in a skip eight doors down. Having sifted through his post, he showered and changed, then took a cab to Bayswater shortly after one o’clock.

Amelia was waiting for him in a branch of Costa Coffee at the northern end of the Whiteleys shopping mall. They walked to the empty office of a defunct mail-order catalogue business on Redan Place. It was here, almost two years earlier, that Kell had told Amelia about the plot to kidnap her son. He remembered the conversation as one of the most difficult they had ever endured, yet as they rode the lift to the fourth floor, Amelia seemed relaxed and uninhibited, whatever memories she retained of that afternoon now happily erased. She was wearing an almost exact replica of the outfit she had worn that day: a skirt with a navy-blue jacket; a white blouse; and a gold necklace. Kell noticed that it was the one she had worn to the funeral; the same necklace she had been wearing in the photograph that Wallinger had kept beside his bed in Ankara. The realization gave him an odd sense of reassurance, because such a symbolic choice surely suggested that Amelia had no doubts about Paul’s innocence.

‘The Office owns this place now?’ he asked as Amelia tapped in the security code, switching off a silent alarm.

‘Rents,’ she replied, dropping her handbag on the ground. She walked towards the kitchen at the far end of the room. ‘You want tea?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

The office had changed. Two years earlier it had been open-plan, rows of plastic-wrapped dresses hanging on racks along the south wall, desks covered in coffee cups and computers. Now the room had been sectioned off into six separate areas with a corridor running down the centre. Kell could see Amelia filling up the kettle at the far end of the office. There had been a red sofa outside the kitchen. That too was gone.

‘This place is operational?’ he called out, walking towards her.

‘About to be.’ She turned to face him. ‘I thought we could watch our friend from here. Team coming in at three to arrange the layout. Agree?’

‘Sounds like a done deal.’ Kell was impressed that Amelia had moved so quickly on Kleckner’s visit to London.

‘Let me get you his itinerary,’ she said.

As the kettle crackled and came to the boil, Amelia passed Kell a three-page document outlining ABACUS’s travel arrangements. Everything was there. Flight times, hotels, meetings, lunches, dinners. All put together within the previous twenty-four hours.

‘That was quick,’ he said. ‘Who did this? Elsa?’

It transpired that Kleckner had telephoned Jim Chater from Bursa, requesting some leave. The call had been picked up by Cheltenham. Chater had signed off on the trip and Kleckner had spent the rest of the evening back at his apartment in Istanbul, arranging the journey. Elsa had been watching his email and credit cards, GCHQ listening to his phones.

‘He’s staying at the Rembrandt?’ Kell was trying to recall where Kleckner had based himself on previous visits to the capital. In the beds of two or three different girls — he wasn’t certain how many — but never before at a hotel. ‘Why isn’t he using one of the Embassy apartments? Did he try for that?’

‘He did.’ Amelia was looking in a cupboard for a mug. She found one and pulled it down, muttering something about ‘fresh milk’. Kell had a sudden flash memory of Rachel in the kitchen at the yali. He remembered the way she had leaned across the counter, reaching for a box of tea. ‘There’s a delegation in town,’ Amelia was saying. ‘All the flats were full. Which makes our job that much easier.’

Kell wondered if he could light a cigarette or if the temporary office would be subject to Civil Service regulations. ‘Could be a smokescreen. Could be he’s staying somewhere else and has no intention of checking in.’

Amelia turned and appeared to hesitate before answering. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got a team going into the Rembrandt tomorrow morning, just in case. Harold heading it up. They’ll rig two rooms. If little Ryan complains about the first one, he’ll be moved to the second. Either way we’ll have coverage.’

Kell was again impressed by the speed with which Amelia had moved on the operation.

‘The Rembrandt is on Knightsbridge, yes?’

‘It is, yes.’ Amelia was pouring water into the mug.

‘Wonder if Ryan’s a fan of The Secret Pilgrim.’

She frowned and looked at him, confused. Kell came into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of water from a cooler by the window.

‘Harrods,’ he said. ‘Best counter-surveillance site in Western Europe. A guy with Kleckner’s training goes in there, he’ll lose our team in less than five minutes. So many switchbacks, so many rooms within rooms. It’s a labyrinth.’

‘A wilderness of mirrors,’ Amelia replied archly. He could sense that she was making a calculation about manpower. How could she organize a team big enough to saturate Harrods if and when Kleckner chose to go there? It would mean having at least twenty watchers on call for the entire five-day duration of Kleckner’s visit, far more than she could justify to the risk-averse jobsworths at MI5. Kell put her out of her misery.

‘Let me worry about it,’ he said. ‘He’s just as likely to go to Harvey Nichols or wander around the V&A.’ She withdrew the teabag from the water and threw it in a pedal-bin. ‘Just tell me about women,’ Kell said, sipping the water.

Amelia looked perplexed. ‘What about them, Thomas?’

‘Did Elsa look at Kleckner’s Facebook? Isn’t there a girl on there he likes, one he slept with last time he was in London?’ He was trying to remember the woman’s name. He could recall the profile photo, because the left side of her head had been almost completely shaved. Both parties had made a promise to one another that they would get together next time Kleckner was in town. ‘We should cover her flat, anyone else who Ryan’s been in touch with about his trip. He has a habit of setting himself up for dates, nights out, booty calls. Has there been any of that?’

‘Booty calls?’ Amelia had adopted the tone of a shocked maiden aunt. ‘I’ll have it looked at. As far as I know, Ryan has no plans other than to see some old friends from Georgetown.’

Kell left the office just after three. He shopped in Whiteleys, bought groceries at Waitrose on Porchester Road, and sank a six o’clock pint at the Ladbroke Arms, where Kathy welcomed him back with the enthusiasm and excitement of a sailor’s wife greeting her husband off an aircraft carrier in Portsmouth. He was aware that this would be the first time that he and Rachel had been together on home soil. Kell expected her to be different in London, more reserved, putting on a layer of armour to protect herself from deeper commitment. Perhaps they would come to see that what had passed between them in the previous few weeks was no more than a giddy infatuation; a holiday romance.

As soon as he walked into her flat, however, they were kissing, taking off their clothes, tripping towards the bedroom. Everything about Rachel was as Kell had remembered it: the opiates of her perfume and her kiss; the weight and shape of her languorous body; the sense in which he was communicating the strength of his feelings for her without words. There was a kind of frenzy to his desire that he could not, and did not want to conceal. And that desire was matched by a quality of gentleness and passion in Rachel that drugged him into a state he had rarely known. Thomas Kell had witnessed violence and appalling brutality, deceit and artful cunning. He had seen men killed, families torn apart, careers destroyed by greed and lies. He was not a sentimental man, nor did he have any illusions about people’s motives or the human potential for cruelty. In his long marriage to Claire, a relationship repeatedly smashed open by her infidelities, Kell had nevertheless felt deep affection for his wife. But he had never known this narcotic agitation, the state of grace in which he found himself whenever he was in Rachel’s company. Not in forty-four years.

Just as they had done in Istanbul two weeks earlier, they dressed at dusk and walked outside in search of dinner. (‘I was lying about cooking,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to get into your trousers.’) They talked about Rachel’s new job, about a problem she was having with her neighbours, about a family holiday planned by Josephine for August. It was only towards the end of the meal that Kell decided to broach the subject of H/Ankara; in the rush of a second bottle of wine it seemed dishonest not to speak about it.

‘I’ve been offered a permanent position in Turkey.’

‘That’s amazing,’ Rachel said. ‘You must be thrilled.’

A vain part of Kell’s character wished that he had detected at least some small evidence of disappointment.

‘I haven’t accepted yet,’ he said quickly. ‘A lot depends on the operation I’m working on now.’

Rachel’s eyes dropped to the table. They both knew that Kell would not be permitted to speak candidly about his work. Though he was aware of this and sensed Rachel’s reluctance to discuss the subject, he nevertheless forced the point.

‘It’s your father’s job. Effectively.’ Rachel was still looking down at the table. ‘How would you feel about that?’

Kell was conscious that he had gone too far. The entire restaurant was filled with couples and families and groups of friends, none of whom appeared to be talking to one another. They had come to one of Rachel’s favourite Thai restaurants, and the plink-plunk of piped music became as grating as nails being dragged down a chalkboard.

‘Rachel?’

‘What?’

There it was again; the sudden, flared anger of their first night in Istanbul, her face a sullen, disappointed mask. This time, however, Kell knew that she was not drunk; he had hit a nerve of impatience and grief and Rachel’s mood had collapsed as a consequence.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That was stupid of me. Let’s talk about it another time.’

But she remained stubbornly silent. Kell tried to start a conversation about a book they had both read, but the ill feeling between them crackled like static and Rachel would not respond. He was irritated by how quickly the easy romantic rhythms of the evening had been dismantled. Perhaps, for all of the sex and conversations, the thousand emails back and forth, they would always be relative strangers to one another.

‘Let’s not do this,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I was being insensitive. I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

‘Forget it,’ she said.

But the evening was over. They sat in prolonged silence to a background of harps and pipes, Rachel looking off to one side of the restaurant, her face sullen and bored. Kell, stirred by a mixture of frustration and fury at the sudden change in her behaviour, proved incapable of reviving her mood. Eventually Rachel went to the bathroom and he asked for the bill. As they walked out of the restaurant five minutes later, accosted by the greyness and the litter of a damp, ill-lit East London street, Rachel turned to him and said:

‘It’s probably better if you don’t stay.’

Kell felt the fury inside him simmer, but did not reply. He could still hear the plink-plonk of the music receding behind them as he turned and walked away. The romantic in him was crushed with disappointment; the man of reason and experience merely raged at Rachel’s over-reaction. Kell cursed himself for talking about Ankara, but cursed Rachel still more for lacking the patience and the goodwill to let his remarks pass.

He did not turn around. Nor did he respond when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Instead, he lit a cigarette, walked to the underground station, waited on a crowded platform for the last Central Line service of the night, and returned in silence to West London. Emerging from the lift at Holland Park station half an hour later, he saw that Rachel had twice tried to call him; she had also sent a text message containing a single question mark. He did not respond. Instead, he stepped out on to Holland Park Avenue and took out a packet of Winston. A man and a woman walked past him, arm in arm. The man asked for a cigarette and Kell gave him one, lighting it wordlessly and receiving effusive thanks in return. There was a smell of dog shit in the air: Kell couldn’t tell if it had been on one of the couple’s shoes, or was just general to the area. He began to walk east, not yet heading home, and was gripped by a determination to work. Revived by the cigarette, he hailed a taxi and was at Redan Place in less than five minutes.

There was no security guard on duty downstairs. Kell let himself into the building using a fob key. He rode the lift to the fourth floor, only to find the door to the office propped open by boxes piled three-high on the ground. The lights were on in one of the larger rooms halfway down the corridor, the flickering shadow of someone moving around. Kell called out:

‘Hello? Anybody home?’

The movement ceased. Kell heard a grunted ‘What’s that?’ and saw Harold Mowbray’s face looking out into the corridor. Harold was squinting, trying to bring Kell into focus. He looked like a man peering into an oven to see if his dinner is cooked.

‘That you, boss? What you doing here this time of night?’

Mowbray had been the Tech-Ops man two years earlier on the operation to find Amelia’s son. Good with microphones and miniature cameras, good with one-liners to break the tension.

‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ Kell replied. ‘It’s good to see you.’ He was surprised by how much he meant it. The kinship of old colleagues came as a relief.

They approached one another in the gloom of the corridor and shook hands.

‘So what’s going on this time?’ Harold asked. ‘Amelia got a secret daughter she doesn’t know about? I felt like we were in Mamma Mia on the last gig.’

Kell laughed, ignoring his regret at how stubborn and short-sighted he had been not to call Rachel back.

‘Cousin we have concerns about. Ryan Kleckner. Based out of Istanbul. He’s in London for five days, has a crash meeting at some point that he won’t want anyone witnessing.’

Harold nodded. Kell went back to the main door and flicked a switch, strobing the lights in his office. Harold confirmed that he was happy with the coverage in the two rooms at the Rembrandt. Kell had obtained the names and addresses of the Facebook girls and told Harold to wire their apartments for sound, not sight. The Georgetown dinner was booked for Wednesday night at Galvin, a restaurant on Baker Street. They briefly discussed the possibility of wiring a table, but concluded that it would be pointless. Instead they would have taxis in front of the restaurant timed to coincide with Kleckner’s exit.

‘That’s more Danny’s bag, yeah?’ Mowbray was referring to Danny Aldrich, another veteran of 2011, who would head up the surveillance team in the absence of Javed Mohsin.

‘True,’ Kell concurred. ‘At some point Kleckner is going to try to disappear.’ Harold was standing in Kell’s office. Both men were smoking cigarettes, having pushed the windows wide open. ‘We’ll only have seven people watching him, eight max. Ideally I’d like to get something on to him, either some dust or a microphone.’

‘Yeah, Amelia mentioned that.’

Kell looked up. ‘She did?’

Harold looked as if he had spoken out of turn. Kell had the impression that he was concealing something. He remembered his conversations with Amelia in Istanbul: the sense of parallel operations taking place without his knowledge, of privileged information being withheld.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, stubbing out the cigarette. Harold turned and walked back into the corridor. Kell followed him to the closed-off area in which he had been setting up the Rembrandt surveillance screens. He could not see Harold’s face as he said: ‘You know. Usual stuff. What’s the latest tech, what can we do to ensure eyes and ears on a target.’

‘And what can we do?’

Harold recovered and shot him a trademark grin. ‘I’m working on it, guv,’ he said. ‘I’m working on it.’