Still, said Mowbray, we need to have a chat.
Isnt that what were doing?
Face to face. Mano a mano. Too long and complicated for the phone.
That could mean only one thing. Work. Blowback from a previous operation, or a dangled carrot on something new. Either way, Mowbray didnt trust Kells landline to keep it a secret. Anybody could be listening in. London. Paris. Moscow.
You remember that Middle Eastern place we used to go to on the American gig?
Which one? The American gig had been the molehunt. Ryan Kleckner. A CIA officer in the pay of the SVR, Russias foreign intelligence service.
The one with the waitress.
Oh, that one. Kell made a joke of it, but understood that Mowbray was being deliberately obscure. There was only one Middle Eastern restaurant that both of them had been to on the Kleckner operation. Westbourne Grove. Persian. Kell had no recollection of the waitress, pretty or otherwise. Mowbray was simply making sure that their table wouldnt be covered in advance.
Can you make dinner tonight? he asked.
Kell thought about stalling but was too intrigued by the invitation. Besides, he was looking at another night of leftovers and House of Cards. Dinner with Harold would be a fillip.
Meet you there at eight? he suggested.
You will know me by the smell of my cologne.
4
Kell arrived at the restaurant at quarter to eight, early enough to ask for a quiet spot at the back with line of sight to the entrance. To his surprise, Mowbray was already seated at a table in the centre of the small, brick-lined room, his back to a group of jabbering Spaniards.
It was fiercely hot, the open mouth of a tanoor blowing a furnace heat into Kells face as he walked inside. A waitress, whom he vaguely recognized, smiled at him as Mowbray stood up behind her. Iranian music was playing at a volume seemingly designed to guarantee a degree of conversational privacy.
Harold. How are you?
Salam, guv.
Salam, khoobi, Kell replied. The heat of the tanoor as he sat down was like a summer sun against his back.
You speak Farsi? They were shaking hands.
I was showing off, Kell said. Enough to get by in restaurants.
Menu Farsi, Mowbray replied, smiling at his own remark. Iranians dont like being confused for Arabs, do they?
They do not.
Mowbray looked to be recovering from a bad case of sunburn. His forehead was scalded red and there were flaking patches of dry skin around his mouth and nose.
Been away? Kell asked.
Funny you should mention that. Mowbray flapped a napkin into his lap and grinned. Went to Egypt with the wife.
Why funny?
Youll see. Shall we order?
Kell wondered why he was playing hard to get. He opened his menu as the waitress passed their table. Mowbray looked up, caught Kells eye and winked.
So, he said, spring-loading another joke. You can have a skewer of minced lamb with taftoon bread, two skewers of minced lamb with taftoon bread, a skewer of marinated lamb cubes with taftoon bread, two skewers of marinated lamb cubes with taftoon bread, a skewer of minced lamb and a skewer of marinated lamb cubes with taftoon
I get it, said Kell, smiling as he closed the menu. You order. Im going to the bathroom.
There was a strong smell of hashish leading up to the gents. Kell stopped to look at a wall of turquoise tiles inlaid on the staircase, breathing in the smoke. He wanted to trace the source of the smell, to find whoever had rolled the joint in a backroom office and to share it with them. In the bathroom he washed his hands and glanced in the mirror, wondering why Mowbray was coming to him with tall tales from Egypt. What was the scoop? ISIS? Muslim Brotherhood? Maybe he was the bagman for a job offer in the private sector, an ex-SIS suit using Kells friendship with Mowbray as a lure. There had been five or six such offers in the previous twelve months, all of which Kell had turned down. He wasnt interested in private security, nor did he want to be a nodding donkey on the board of Barclays or BP. On the other hand, if the pitch was something Russian, something that would get Kell close to the men who had ordered Rachels assassination, he would give it serious consideration.
I forgot, Mowbray announced, as Kell settled back into his seat. They dont serve booze.
Dont worry about it. I gave up.
Fuck off.
Seven months dry.
Now why would you want to go and do a thing like that?
Tell me about Egypt.
Mowbray leaned forward and put a hand in his pocket. Kell thought he was going to produce a photograph or a flash drive, but he kept it there as he spoke. If Kell hadnt known that Mowbray was capable of far greater subtleties, he might have assumed that he was triggering a recording device.
Hurghada.
What about it?
One-horse town on the east coast. Mainland Egypt. Red Sea, facing Sinai.
I know where it is, Harold.
Last three years, Karen and me have been flying there for a bit of winter sun; easyJet goes three times a week. Car picks us up and drives us an hour south to a place called Soma Bay. Four hotels and a golf course, back-to-back, arse end of nowhere. Fresh water piped in from the Nile, turns the fairways green, fills the swimming pools. Coral reefs and scuba diving for the grown-ups, camel rides on the beach for the kids. In the tourist industry they call it a hot flop.
The food arrived. Mashed aubergines with garlic and herbs. Feta cheese mixed with tarragon and fresh mint. A bowl of hummus was placed in front of Kell, nestled beside a basket of flatbread.
Theres your taftoon, he said, encouraging Mowbray to continue.
Anyway, we always stay at the same place. German-owned, German efficient, German-occupied sunbeds. Never seen a Yank there, never met a Frog. The occasional Brit, from time to time, but mostly German pensioners and Russian oligarch types with dyed hair and third wives who probably werent alive under Gorbachev. Am I painting the picture?
Vividly, said Kell, and took a bite of taftoon.
So, guv, heres the thing. Heres the reason I wanted to see you. Something very strange happened, something I can still hardly believe.
Mowbray looked like he meant it. There was an expression of amused consternation on his face.
They do breakfasts, he said, nodding slowly and looking across the table, as though half-expecting Kell to finish his sentence. They do breakfasts every morning
What a breakthrough in hospitality, Kell replied. I must go and stay there.
Mowbray didnt laugh. His eyes were fixed somewhere around Kells left ear.
On the second last day we were there, this couple walks in. Two men. You get that kind of thing at the hotel. Theyre comfortable with gays, lots of it about, even for a Muslim country. Mowbray sipped his tap water, trying to slow himself down. Karen looks up and makes a noise of disapproval. He checked himself. No, not disapproval, shes not homophobic or anything. More conspiratorial than that. Like a joke between us. Look at the fruits, you know?
Mowbray didnt laugh. His eyes were fixed somewhere around Kells left ear.
On the second last day we were there, this couple walks in. Two men. You get that kind of thing at the hotel. Theyre comfortable with gays, lots of it about, even for a Muslim country. Mowbray sipped his tap water, trying to slow himself down. Karen looks up and makes a noise of disapproval. He checked himself. No, not disapproval, shes not homophobic or anything. More conspiratorial than that. Like a joke between us. Look at the fruits, you know?
Sure, said Kell.
They were both dressed in white shirts and white trousers. Thats very German, too. Ninety per cent of the guests look like theyre playing at Wimbledon or members of some cult. Pristine white, like an advert for one of those soap powders that really deliver at low temperatures. Kell resisted telling Mowbray to get on with it because he knew how he liked to operate. And theres an age gap between them, he said, maybe fifteen or twenty years. The older bloke is the one facing me. German money, you can tell. He sits down with what looks like a fruit salad, black-rimmed glasses, suntan. I cant see the boyfriend, but hes younger, fitter. Late thirties, at a guess. The old boy is camp, a bit effeminate, but this one looks straight, macho. Theres something about him that triggers me, but I cant yet tell what it is.
Kell had stopped eating. He knew what Mowbray was going to tell him, a giddy premonition of something so improbable that he dismissed it out of hand.
Anyway, Karen had finished her orange juice. Wanted to get another one. Shed hurt her foot on the coral so I offered to go instead. Theres an egg station at the buffet and I waited there while the chef made me an omelette. Got the wifes orange juice, got some yogurt, then started to walk back towards our table. That was when I saw his face. That was when I recognized him.
Who? said Kell. Who was it?
The boyfriend was Alexander Minasian.
5
Kell stared at Mowbray in disbelief.
Dont fuck around, he said, because the chance sighting was so sensational that Kell had to reckon that Mowbray was making a joke.
As clear as Im sitting here facing you, he said. No way it was anybody else.
Alexander Minasian was the SVR officer responsible for the recruitment of Ryan Kleckner, a high-level CIA mole in the Middle East who had funnelled Western secrets to Moscow for more than two years. In an operation instigated by Amelia Levene, Kell had identified Kleckner, run him to ground in Odessa and handed him over to Langley. In response to the loss of Kleckner, Moscow had given the order to kill Rachel. Kell held Minasian personally responsible. He wanted his head on a plate.
Minasian has a wife, Kell said quietly. The heat of the kiln was burning into his back. At least thats what we thought. It never entered the equation that he was gay. Its not SVR house style. They wouldnt countenance it. Theyre not big on homosexuality in Putins Russia. You probably noticed.
Mowbrays reaction a slow shake of the head, mouth pursed so that minute traces of food were visible on the inside of his lips told Kell that he was convinced by what he had seen. He picked up his glass and turned it in his hand, a man waiting to be believed. Kell began to work from memory, his knowledge of Minasian still as insubstantial as the official SIS file. Nobody knew where Minasian had come from, where he was currently stationed, how he had recruited Kleckner.
Minasians wife is the daughter of a St Petersburg oligarch. Andrei Eremenko. Draws a lot of water in Moscow. Close to the Kremlin. Kell had spent long hours looking into Eremenkos business affairs, searching for any overlap with Minasian, any clue as to his whereabouts or personality. If he finds out his son-in-law is gay
Hes not going to be very happy about it. Mowbray finished Kells sentence and set his glass back on the table. Nor is Mrs Minasian, for that matter. Wives can be sensitive about that sort of thing.
Perhaps she already knows, Kell suggested. In his experience, wives often knew far more of their husbands misdemeanours than they ever publicly acknowledged. Many of them preferred to exist in a state of denial. Let the man philander, let him play his vain and tawdry games. Just keep it in-house. At all costs, protect the nest.
Thats what I wondered.
Kell was silent as he continued to analyse what he had been told. It was unthinkable that the SVR would have a gay officer on its books, married or otherwise. SIS had only begun recruiting openly homosexual employees in the previous ten or fifteen years; modern Russia was antediluvian by comparison. If Minasians secret were exposed, his career would end overnight.
Who else have you spoken to about this?
Kell dreaded the simple reply: C because it would instantly shrink his options. The wheels of his imagination had begun to turn, a dormant ruthlessness circling Minasians vulnerability like a bird of prey. If his nemesis was hiding a secret of this magnitude, he was vulnerable to an extent that was almost beyond belief. But if Amelia knew about it, she would sideline Kell on any subsequent operation, doubtless citing personal issues and clouded judgment.
I havent told a soul, Mowbray replied, though his eyes slid to one side and he tapped his mouth with a napkin as he spoke. Kell studied the face and could not be certain that Mowbray was telling the truth. A tiny section of sunburned skin around his nose looked as if it was about to flake off.
Not even Karen? he asked. Spousal pillow talk was an occupational hazard among veteran spies; the habit of secrecy became harder and harder to sustain as the years went by.
Never discuss work with the wife, Mowbray replied quickly. Never. Something we agreed on from day one. Last time she asked me was ninety-one or ninety-two, when they arrested a bunch of IRA in London. She was watching John Simpson on the Nine OClock News, said: Did you have something to do with this? I told her to mind her own business.
But she saw Minasian?
Oh yeah. All the time.
What does that mean? She met him?
No. Neither of us did. But we were staying at the same hotel. Caught the whole show.
Kell saw the glint in Mowbrays eye, the suggestion of an even greater prize.
Call it trouble in paradise, he explained with a predictable grin. Our man from Moscow wasnt getting on very well with his boyfriend. They kept fighting. Arguing.
All of this played out in public? Kell was beginning to wonder if Harold had stumbled on a set-up, Minasian role-playing the moody boyfriend for the purpose of an undisclosed SVR operation at the hotel. Perhaps the relationship had even been staged for Mowbrays benefit, or Harold himself had been turned by the Russians.
Not exactly. Mowbray was leaning forward again, still grinning. You see, I made a point of watching them whenever I could. Surreptitious photos, eavesdropping in the bar.
Jesus. Kell had an image of Mowbray prowling around a sun-blasted Egyptian tourist resort with a long-lens camera and a boom microphone. Any chance I could see those photos?