A Colder War

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 was 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 OK 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 favourite?’

‘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 already 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? Refuelling?’

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.’