A Divided Spy (Thomas Kell Spy Thriller, Book 3) (13 page)

Bernhard Riedle woke in the dead of night, then again at dawn and, finally, at eight o’clock, thanks to an alarm call from the hotel. He knew that he had barely slept and yet he felt vital and well rested. The two days in London had allowed him to complete some essential paperwork but, more importantly, to settle much of his anxiety and heartbreak. He knew that Dmitri would not have arranged to meet him at the flat had he not been experiencing second thoughts about their separation. By agreeing to see him, he was effectively contradicting much of what he had said in Egypt, not least that he saw ‘no chance or possibility’ that they would ever be reunited, and that the relationship between them had ‘never worked’. Both of these statements Bernhard could now happily consign to the scrapheap. Dmitri had come to his senses.

Nevertheless, Bernhard still felt a sense of injustice and anger. He knew that he must find the strength to confront Dmitri about his cruel behaviour, and to extract an apology for the way that he had conducted himself. This would be difficult. When they were together, Dmitri had an extraordinary effect on him; all Bernhard wanted was to hold him and to be close to him. He would find it very difficult to be strong and to maintain his dignity. Nevertheless, at the very least he required an acknowledgement of wrongdoing; without it, how could he trust Dmitri not to behave in a similar fashion again? Did he have the strength to ask for such a thing and to risk losing him for ever? Was personal pride more important than personal happiness? These were the questions that troubled Bernhard as he made his way to the lobby for breakfast.

He checked out of the hotel just before ten o’clock. It was a fiercely hot morning. Piccadilly was thick with tourists and he had to stand in the full glare of the sun for more than five minutes while waiting for a taxi. Bernhard instructed the driver to take him to the Westfield shopping centre in White City and asked for directions to Waitrose. He wanted to buy some basic provisions for the apartment and to stock up on some of Dmitri’s favourite things.

More crowds, more heat, at Westfield. Bernhard found a shaded colonnade leading to the supermarket and gratefully hid from the sun. He wished that he could at least text Dmitri to find out at exactly what time he planned to arrive. His last email had said three o’clock, but on many occasions in the past he had been an hour early, or several hours late to their meetings. Bernhard hated sitting around and waiting. There was something humiliating about it. It seemed so ridiculous not at least to be able to contact Dmitri now that they were both in London. What was he so afraid of? Could he not escape Vera’s attention even for five minutes? Did she check his cellphone every time it rang?

Waitrose was air-conditioned and blessedly free of crowds. Bernhard took a trolley and went directly to the alcohol section, picking up a bottle of chilled Laurent-Perrier champagne and one of Quincy, which was the closest wine on display to Sancerre, Dmitri’s favourite from the Loire. He suspected that they would remain in the flat that evening – London was too populous and full of Russians to risk being seen together in a restaurant – but knew that neither of them would feel like cooking. There were plenty of delivery companies in West London; they could choose whatever they felt like eating when the time was right. But Bernhard knew how much Dmitri enjoyed breakfast and was determined to spoil him. There were organic eggs on sale, as well as packets of
jamon iberico
, sourdough bread and orange juice. He also bought coffee and soy milk. With his trolley almost full, Bernhard walked to the checkout, paid for two long-life carrier bags, then made his way back along the colonnade to the taxi rank.

Kell read the surveillance report from Waitrose. Champagne, orange juice, eggs, condoms. Any fears he might have had that Riedle was planning to hurt or injure Minasian immediately subsided. He was obviously planning for a romantic evening and hoping that Minasian would stay overnight.

Vauxhall Cross had ascertained that the one-bedroom property on Sterndale Road had indeed been rented out on Airbnb. Tech-Ops had entered the flat at two o’clock in the morning and rigged it for Riedle’s visit. Cameras and microphones had been placed in the living room, the bathroom, the bedroom and kitchen. At the same time, a member of the surveillance team had taken a room at the back of a hotel on Shepherd’s Bush Road with line of sight to the entrance, albeit one that was partially obscured by the branch of a tree. A team on the street had kept a lookout for Minasian while the flat was being prepared. He had never showed.

Riedle had rented the top-floor apartment, one of three in the building. The ground-floor flat was occupied by an Australian single mother and her nine-year-old son, both of whom would be at home during Riedle’s visit. The first-floor property was empty. The owner of Riedle’s flat had told Airbnb that he would be home on 2 July by 6 p.m. For this reason, Riedle had been asked to vacate the premises by two o’clock.

Minasian, Svetlana and Andrei Eremenko spent almost two hours at the fertility clinic. When they emerged into the fierce midday sunshine, Eremenko’s driver was waiting for them. They drove south to Piccadilly. As they were entering The Wolseley for a lunch reservation at 12.30, Kell received confirmation that Riedle had been housed to Sterndale Road. Simon, the surveillance officer in the hotel across the street, had watched Riedle entering the property and could see him changing the bed sheets in the bedroom on the south side of the building. Surveillance footage from the flat was now transmitted live to Kell’s laptops and he was able to watch Riedle unpacking groceries in the kitchen just a few moments later.

Wary of spooking Minasian at the last minute, Kell called off the black cab that had tailed Eremenko’s limousine to The Wolseley.

‘Let them eat lunch in peace,’ he told Vauxhall Cross. ‘The mountain will come to Mohammed.’

Forty minutes later there was a ring at the front door. Kell had been expecting Harold Mowbray since one. He walked barefoot to the intercom and buzzed him inside.

‘Beers,’ he said, plonking a four-pack of Stella Artois on the kitchen counter. Mowbray’s short-sleeved shirt was soaked with sweat. ‘Fuck me it’s hot outside and fuck me this flat stinks of cigarettes.’

‘ATLANTIC is in the building.’

Riedle had been given the codename by Kell, a nod to the well-known hotel in Hamburg.

‘I just walked two blocks from his front door on the way back from Tesco.’ Mowbray put two pepperoni pizzas in the freezer. ‘How long ’til lift-off?’

Kell knew the time without needing to consult his watch. Every minute was ticking past in slow motion. It was twelve minutes past one.

‘Minasian said he’d be there by three. That could mean two, that could mean four, that could mean five, that could mean ten.’

‘Could mean he doesn’t show up at all.’

Kell conceded the point with a nod and lit yet another cigarette. ‘It’s always like this,’ he said.

Mowbray was leaving the kitchen. ‘Yeah. What’s that line you’re fond of quoting? “Spying is waiting.”’

‘Spying is waiting,’ Kell concurred.

As he walked into the living room, briefly consulting the live feeds from Sterndale Road, Kell told Mowbray that Minasian, Svetlana and Eremenko were eating lunch at The Wolseley and that he had dropped all surveillance on GAGARIN.

‘Place on Green Park, right?’

‘That’s the one.’ Kell sat down, switched on the television and watched a rally at Wimbledon on mute. ‘We just have to wait,’ he said, knowing that he wouldn’t tell Mowbray about the fertility clinic, about the plan to squeeze Minasian on Svetlana’s passport. That was operational information, not idle chit-chat. He took a drag on the cigarette and wondered what the doctors had told her. ‘You want to work in shifts?’ he said. ‘You watch the laptops, I’ll watch the phones?’

‘Deal,’ Mowbray replied.

Mowbray sat at the large table in the centre of the living room. Kell had put all his books and papers in piles in the corner of the room. He had cleared his desk of detritus and removed a photograph of Rachel from the wall. Mowbray swivelled the three laptops towards him, then stood up, crossed the room and opened the window. Birdsong and the chatter of children. All of London life going on around them. He had pressed the kettle in the kitchen. Kell could hear it crackle and hiss to the boil.

‘Looks like Bernie’s all settled in.’ Mowbray was back in front of the screens.

‘He had a shower about twenty minutes ago,’ Kell replied.

‘Not surprised. Fucking hot out …’

One of the mobiles rang. The link to Simon in the hotel. Kell answered it.

‘Boss?’

‘Yup.’

‘Vehicle outside. Could be an Uber.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Lexus. Guy just got out of the back.’

Let it be him
, thought Kell.
Let it be Minasian
.

‘What’s he wearing?’

‘Don’t know if he’s going to ninety-eight. He’s talking to the driver.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Tree in the way, guv. Those fucking leaves. Could be GAGARIN, could not be GAGARIN …’

‘What’s he wearing?’ Kell heard the attack in his own voice, the anxiety, and backed off. ‘What can you see?’

‘Black shoes. Black trousers.’

It had been reported that Minasian was wearing black shoes and dark blue trousers. It could be a match.

‘Hair? Give me something else.’

‘Dark. Cut short. Balding at the back. Early thirties. Short, squat. Maybe Greek or Turkish? Mediterranean. I can’t see his face. Red shirt, black blazer.’

Balding didn’t sound right. Minasian had a full head of hair. And the colouring and height were wrong. Furthermore, the Russian had been wearing a white shirt and grey sports jacket. It was possible that he had changed after leaving the Wolseley, but it was unlikely that he had yet finished lunch.

‘It’s not him,’ he said, looking across the room. Mowbray was staring at Kell. ‘It’s not GAGARIN.’

There was a momentary silence. Kell put the phone on speaker and Simon’s voice filled the room.

‘Vehicle staying where it is. Hazard lights. He’s walking up to the door, guv. Walking up to ninety-eight.’

‘Could be for the neighbour,’ Kell suggested flatly. ‘Father of the nine-year-old boy.’

‘Who the fuck
is
it?’ said Mowbray.

‘Not clear on that,’ said Simon. ‘Hold please. Hazards still flashing. Engine on the Lexus running.’

Bernhard Riedle heard the sudden burst on the doorbell and felt his heart surge. Dmitri was early. He checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror then picked up the intercom.

‘Hello?’

‘Delivery for Flat 3.’

Riedle felt a slump of disappointment. He pressed the button for entry.

‘Are you inside?’ he asked as the lock buzzed and the door clicked open. ‘Do you require a signature?’

‘Please,’ said the delivery man. Riedle hung up, picked up the keys to the apartment and prepared to walk downstairs. He decided against putting on any socks or shoes and headed for the front door. It was cool in the narrow corridor outside the flat. The walls were dirty, the paint chipped along the skirting board.

‘Just coming,’ Riedle called out as he reached the turn at the top of the stairs.

‘Down here,’ said the man and Riedle could now see him.

He did not look like a delivery man. He was wearing no uniform and did not appear to be carrying any identification. He was in his early thirties, smartly dressed, and seemed at first glance to be a neighbour or perhaps a friend visiting the occupants of the ground-floor flat. As Riedle reached the bottom of the stairs, he noticed that the man was not carrying a parcel or envelope of any kind. There was no box on the ground, though the front door was ajar. Perhaps the items for delivery were outside in a van.

‘Mr Riedle? Bernhard Riedle?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and stopped: ‘But how did you know I was here?’

The man fired once, blowing out the back of Riedle’s head with a silenced handgun. His body was thrust backwards towards the door of the ground-floor apartment. The man then fired a second shot into Reidle’s chest, holstered the weapon, turned around and walked out on to the street.

‘Subject just got back in the Lexus. Front seat. Vehicle has moved away.’

‘Where’s ATLANTIC?’ Mowbray muttered, staring at the live feeds. There were no cameras rigged in the stairwell or hall of the apartment. When Riedle had answered the intercom and walked downstairs, they had lost audio-visual.

‘Did you get a number plate?’ Kell asked. He sensed that something was badly wrong.

‘Partial,’ Simon replied. His voice sounded hesitant, uncertain.

‘Where the fuck’s he gone?’ Mowbray stood back to allow Kell to look at the screens. Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen. Sitting room. No movement inside the apartment.

‘What can you see from the hotel?’

A slice of feedback on the speaker, then:

‘Could be he met the neighbour. She’s downstairs with the kid.’

‘That wasn’t my question,’ Kell replied. ‘What can you
see
?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

Kell turned to Mowbray. A lawnmower had started up in a neighbouring garden, forcing him to raise his voice.

‘The screens. Are they accurate? Can they be refreshed? Have we got some kind of glitch?’

Mowbray shook his head. ‘They’re fine, boss. Doesn’t work like that. They don’t all go down at the same time. Different circuits.’ Mowbray could sense that Kell was already working off the worst-case scenario. ‘Simon’s probably right,’ he said, in an effort to console him. ‘Bernie’s just having a chat to the neighbour, killing time. He’ll be back any moment.’

‘No.’ Kell was shaking his head. He had understood what had happened, all of the ways in which he had failed to see how easily Riedle had been tricked. ‘He won’t be coming back.’

Mowbray looked at Kell. Their worst fears were confirmed by Simon’s voice on the speaker, low and disbelieving.

‘Jesus.’

‘What is it?’ Kell asked quietly.

‘We’ve got movement. Mother and son. They just came out the front door. She’s shielding him.’

‘Why?’ Kell asked, but he knew the answer to his own question.

Simon’s voice was quick and shocked, sentences folding into sentences as he described the scene in front of him.

‘She’s distraught. They’re crying. We’ve got a crowd gathering. I’ve got people standing back. The kid’s in tears. Something’s happened, boss. I think there’s been a shooting.’

Mowbray’s mouth hung open, frozen in mid-breath. Kell looked at him and placed a hand on his back, as if to take on the full burden of responsibility for what had happened. He understood everything now, in the way that ideas materialize in an instant and order themselves out of nothing. Minasian had sent a private team to erase his little problem. He had lured Riedle to London, then had him taken out, on the assumption that Scotland Yard would never be able to join the dots.

‘Stay where you are,’ he told Simon. It was the first law of surveillance. Never leave your post, no matter what you see, no matter what you feel you can do to intervene.

‘I’m staying,’ came the reply. ‘I count two bystanders on phones, boss. Looks like emergency calls. They’re calling it in. The neighbour is being comforted. She’s got the kid in her arms. He’s still crying. They’re both still crying.’

Kell heard the ping of a message on Amelia’s dedicated mobile. He picked it up. The screen said: ‘News?’

‘Problem,’ he typed back.

‘Again?!’ Amelia replied.

How strange it was to think that she might have smiled as she typed that. Kell put the phone in his back pocket and picked up his private mobile. He told Mowbray to stay in front of the screens, instructed Simon to text him with updates. Then he grabbed his jacket and keys and ran outside to the street.