A Colder War

57

Ryan Kleckner could not come to terms with the suddenness with which his work had come to an end. Returning to his apartment in the early hours of Saturday morning, he had tried to convince himself that the woman on the aircraft was not the same woman he had seen in Harrods. It was a coincidence, a case of mistaken identity. Surely he was not being tailed? What clues had he given? What mistakes had he made? None. He was certain that if there was fault in the operation, it had to have come from the Russian side.

Then the text message from Minasian. BEŞIKTAŞ. A single word, bringing everything to an end. KODAK blown. Get out of Istanbul. Follow agreed procedure.

Kleckner had sat and stared at the screen of his BlackBerry, even as he realized that his apartment was most likely compromised and that his every move was being watched by a room full of analysts in Langley and Istinye. He felt humiliated, ashamed. It was the first time that he could remember experiencing such sudden and profound despair. He had no choice but to pack, leaving behind countless belongings — pictures, books, records, items of clothing — that he knew he would never see again. He doubted that he would make it as far as the door of his apartment. They were probably waiting for him outside.

But to Kleckner’s surprise, he found that he was able to leave the building unmolested. To go to the phone booth and to call the number that Minasian had given him. When he heard the woman answering in Russian, he gave the agreed response: ‘BEŞIKTAŞ THREE’. There was a pause, after which the woman repeated the code and hung up.

Kleckner had not known whether or not the message had been conveyed to Minasian until he had stolen the cell phone on the ship. One of the passengers had left the phone on a table in the entertainment lounge and Kleckner had scooped it. There had been no signal for several hours. He had waited in his cabin, then out on deck at night, watching the bars on the screen, like a paramedic waiting for a pulse. At last, perhaps because the ship had drawn closer to the Romanian coast, he had been able to send a message to Minasian.

Serenissima. Lunedi.

It was simple enough. The name of the ship, which the SVR could track online, and the day when Kleckner hoped to be picked up. Within minutes, the Russian had replied, confirming receipt of the message with the agreed word. Kleckner had wanted to speak to him, to find out what had gone wrong, but knew that it would be unsafe to do so. He was convinced that Minasian had been compromised. In all the scenarios that his mind rehearsed, Kleckner would not allow himself to believe that Rachel had tricked him or had been working in concert with Thomas Kell. Ryan Kleckner didn’t make mistakes. The Brits didn’t do honeytraps. The fault lay with Moscow.