A Divided Spy. Чарльз Камминг
Читать онлайн книгу.
had replied within twelve hours. Kell clicked to this final email.
I am very sorry. I was angry. Please don’t vanish. I am happy to be friends. I just want to keep you in my life and to try to understand what is happening to us.
You are so strong. I don’t think you have ever known heartbreak. I know that you have felt isolated and alone. I know that you have felt a panic about the structure of your life. But you have never known what it is to feel passed over, exchanged – the madness of loss. You have never lost somebody that you were not ready to lose, a person who felt, as I do, that you were holding his entire happiness in the palm of your hand. It’s like you have closed your hand. Made a fist. I need to be treated with delicacy, with kindness and compassion. Please provide this. I am begging you.
I am very sorry for the things I said. I did not mean them. Please consider what I said about Brussels. I can come and meet you anywhere, even if it’s just for lunch (or a cup of coffee!) In Egypt you said you had a period coming up in Paris. That would be perfect – I can be at the Gare du Nord in less than two hours from Brussels.
Kell drained the whisky, thinking of Paris, of Brasserie Lipp, remembering Amelia’s kidnapped son and the operation three years earlier, in which Kell had played the pivotal role in securing his release. On a pad beside the computer he began to write notes. The first word he wrote, in capitals, was CONTROL, beneath which he began to sketch out his ideas in more detail.
1. Power and control central to M’s personality. Must retain a position of dominance. What is he afraid of if he loses control? What is the vulnerability/insecurity we can exploit? The secret about his sexuality – or something else?
2. For R to be this upset/deranged, there must be huge charisma. Charm, apparent empathy, patience, sensuality. M extremely attractive – to young and old, male and female. He demands adoration. He nurtures it. So this must be partly cultivated, artificial behaviour.
Chameleon. Adapts himself to give people what they need for as long as he needs them.
3. According to R, M is highly judgmental/opinionated. Does he also react badly to criticism? Gloating self-image? Ask R in more detail.
4. What does M want? What can we give him? Do we flatter, or squeeze?
‘What are you writing?’
Mowbray had appeared beside him. Kell covered up part of the notes with his elbow, like a card player wary of revealing his hand.
‘Just some initial thoughts on Minasian.’
‘Yeah? Sounds like a nice fella, doesn’t he?’ Mowbray’s shirt smelled of cigarette smoke. ‘Real piece of work. Chewed up our Bernie and spat him out.’
‘Yes,’ Kell agreed. ‘He was out of his depth. Can’t have had any idea what he was getting into.’
Mowbray leaned over, his breath stale with whisky.
‘Flatter or squeeze. What does that mean?’
‘Exactly what it says.’ Kell was annoyed that Mowbray was being intrusive. ‘Either I make Minasian feel like top dog, tell him how great he is, feed his ego and his self-image, or I find out what it is that he’s hiding – and squeeze him.’
‘Hiding? You mean above and beyond the fact that he’s married to the daughter of a Russian oligarch but secretly likes taking it up the jacksie?’
Kell couldn’t contain a burst of laughter. ‘That may be all there is to it,’ he said. ‘Just that secret. Just Riedle. But I was interested by something Bernie said at dinner, very early on. That he thinks of Russians as corrupt, greedy. Wouldn’t surprise me if Minasian is involved in something illegal. Something financial, possibly linked to Svetlana’s father.’
‘You think he would have told Bernie about that?’
‘Who knows?’ Kell closed the laptop. ‘The system out there would certainly present a man in Minasian’s position with myriad opportunities to squirrel away some cash for a rainy day. He’s a vain man. A controlling man. A narcissist, for want of a better word. If he’s threatened by his father-in-law’s wealth, if Svetlana’s lifestyle is an affront to his masculinity and his sense of his own grandeur, if Minasian feels that he has to bring home more than an SVR salary, then – yes – he could be involved in corrupt activity.’
Mowbray returned to the sofa and appeared to be mulling over Kell’s theory. Kell scribbled ‘MONEY?’ on the notepad, underlining it twice, and wondered what Elsa might be able to find out about Minasian’s financial affairs if pointed in the right direction.
‘How much store do you set by those?’ Mowbray asked, flicking his head towards the laptop.
‘What do you mean?’ Kell asked.
‘I mean how much can we ever know somebody, just by reading what they’ve written, or what someone else has said about them? It’s all prejudice, isn’t it? I know there are people out there who think the world of Harold Mowbray. And I know there are people out there who think I’m more or less a complete arsehole.’ Kell smiled. ‘Seriously, boss.’ Mowbray was looking around for his glass. ‘This Alexander Minasian. Maybe he’s not as bad as we all think. Maybe we’re reading him wrong. Maybe one day you’ll get face to face with him and discover you have more in common with him than you ever imagined.’
Egypt Air flight MS777 from Cairo International Airport had touched down at London Heathrow a few minutes behind schedule at 15.44 on a cloudless English afternoon in May.
Shahid Khan had spent most of the journey trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep. He had been in a state of profound anxiety and could feel the judgment and suspicion of his fellow passengers weighing down on him like a rope coiled around his neck and shoulders. He had been travelling for five days. He had hated Dubai and wondered why Jalal had insisted that he go there from Istanbul. There were other countries, other cities, which did not require a visa for UK citizens. Shahid had looked them up online. Why subject him to Dubai? To strengthen him? To remove any doubts about his future actions? Shahid did not need such help. He did not understand Jalal’s reasons. He was at peace with the path that had been chosen for him. It was the will of Allah. Shahid looked forward to the day of his martyrdom as he looked forward to the defeat of Assad’s dogs, to the destruction and the humiliation of the American empire. This was his dream and the dream of the brothers and sisters he had left behind in the Caliphate. Many of them would not live to see this dream fulfilled. Shahid himself would not live to see it. But he would help to bring it about. This was a glorious and a pure thing.
The passengers disembarked into the terminal building. Shahid went with them, following the signs to Passport Control. In fourteen months of fighting in Syria he had not suffered with any illness, but in Cairo he had eaten food from a vendor in the street and suffered terrible sickness and cramps in his hotel room. Perhaps this was why he was in such an agitated state. He had lost weight and was still feeling sick. He had only been able to drink water on the aeroplane and to eat a few dried biscuits. And now he had to make it through the passport queue, past the Customs officers and the plain-clothes detectives – the most difficult moment of his journey. Shahid knew the obstacles in front of him. Jalal had spoken about them in detail and had told him how to behave.
Join any queue, he had said. Not the shortest one. Check the messages on your mobile phone, read a book or a newspaper. Take your jacket off if you are sweating. Do not evade eye contact and do not try to trick them. You are just another passenger. You are just another face. In the eyes of the British authorities, you are of no importance.
Shahid felt inside his jacket for the passport. He touched it. Also the mobile phone, provided to him by Jalal, and the wallet. Shahid had been given over one thousand pounds in cash. Jalal had promised that his contact at Heathrow