A Colder War (5 page)

“I’ll tell Ankara you’re coming. Red carpet, access all areas. Istanbul ditto. If it’s coming from me, they’ll open up all the relevant files.”

It was like getting a clean bill of health after a medical scare. Kell had been waiting for such a moment for months.

“I could do that,” he said.

“You’re on full pay, yes? We put you on that after France?” The question was plainly rhetorical. “You’ll have a driver, whatever else you need. I’ll make arrangements for you to have a cover identity while you’re there, should you need it.”

“
Will
I need it?”

It was as if Amelia was holding back a vital piece of information. Kell wondered what he was signing up for.

“Not necessarily,” she said, though her next remark only confirmed his suspicion that there was something else in play. “Just tread carefully around the Yanks.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll see. Tricky out there at the moment.”

He was struck by the intensity with which Amelia was speaking.

“What are you not telling me?” he asked.

“Just find out what happened,” she replied quickly, and took his wrist in a gloved hand, squeezing hard at the bone as though to stem the flow of blood from a wound. Amelia’s steady eyes held Kell’s, then flicked back in the direction of the wake, at the mourners in black filing out of the barn. “Why was Paul on Chios?” she said, and there was agony in the question, a powerful woman’s despair that she had been unable to protect a man whom perhaps she still loved. “Why did he die?”

For a moment Kell thought that her composure was going to crack. He took Amelia’s arm and squeezed back, the reassurance of a friend. But her strength returned, as quickly as the sudden gust of wind that blew across the farm, and whatever Kell was about to say was cut short.

“It’s simple,” she said, with the trace of a resigned smile. “Just find out why the hell we’re all
here
.”

7

Kell had packed his bags, cleared out of his room, and canceled his reservation at L’Enclume within the hour. By seven o’clock he was back in Preston station, changing platforms for an evening train to Euston. Amelia had driven to London with Simon Haynes, having called Athens and Ankara with instructions for Kell’s trip. He bought a tuna sandwich and a packet of crisps on the station concourse, washed them down with two cans of Stella Artois purchased from a catering trolley on the train, and finished
The Sense of an Ending
. No colleague, no friend from SIS had elected to join him on the journey home. There were spies from five continents scattered throughout the train, buried in books or wives or laptops, but none of them would run the risk of publicly consorting with Witness X.

Kell was home by eleven. He knew why Amelia had chosen him for such an important assignment. After all, there were dozens of capable officers pacing the corridors of Vauxhall Cross, all of whom would have jumped at the chance to get to the bottom of the Wallinger mystery. Yet Kell was one of only two or three trusted lieutenants who knew of Amelia’s long affair with Paul. It was rumored throughout the Service that “C” had never been faithful to Giles; that she had perhaps been involved in a relationship with an American businessman. But, for most, her links to Wallinger would have been solely professional. Any thorough investigation into his private life would inevitably turn up hard evidence of their relationship. Amelia could not afford to have talk of an affair on the record; she was relying on Kell to be discreet with whatever he found.

Before going to bed he repacked his bags, dug out his Kell passport, and e-mailed the photograph of the Hungarian inscription to an old contact in the National Security Authority, Tamas Metka, who had retired to run a bar in Szolnok. By seven the next morning Kell was in a cab to Gatwick and back in the dreary routine of twenty-first-century flying: the long, agitated queues; the liquids farcically bagged; the shoes and belts pointlessly removed.

Five hours later he was touching down in Athens, cradle of civilization, epicenter of global debt. Kell’s contact was waiting for him in a café inside the departures hall, a first-posting SIS officer instructed by Amelia to provide a cover identity for Chios. The young man—who introduced himself as “Adam”—had evidently been working on the legend throughout the night: his eyes were stiff with sleeplessness and he had a rash, red as an allergy, beneath the stubble on his lower jaw. There was a mug of black coffee on the table in front of him, an open sandwich of indeterminate contents, and a padded envelope with the single letter
H
scribbled on the front. He was wearing a Greenpeace sweatshirt and a black Nike baseball cap so that Kell could more easily identify him.

“Good flight?”

“Fine, thanks,” Kell replied, shaking his hand and sitting down. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes before Kell took possession of the envelope. He had already passed through Greek customs, so there was now less danger of being caught with dual identities.

“It’s a commercial cover. You’re an insurance investigator with Scottish Widows writing up a preliminary report on the Wallinger crash. Chris Hardwick.” Adam’s voice was quiet, methodical, well rehearsed. “I’ve got you a room at the Golden Sands hotel in Karfas, about ten minutes south of Chios Town. The Chandris was full.”

“The Chandris?”

“It’s where everybody stays if they come to the island on business. Best hotel in town.”

“You think Wallinger may have stayed there under a pseudonym?”

“It’s possible, sir.”

Kell hadn’t been called “sir” by a colleague in over a year. He had lost sight of his own status, allowed himself to forget the considerable achievements of his long career. Adam was probably no older than twenty-six or twenty-seven. Meeting an officer of Kell’s pedigree was most likely a significant moment to him. He would have wanted to make a good impression, particularly given Kell’s links to “C.”

“I’ve arranged for you to pick up a car at the airport. It’s booked for three days. The Europcar desk is just outside the terminal. There’s a couple of credit cards in Hardwick’s name, the usual PIN number, a passport of course, driver’s license, some business cards. I’m afraid the only photograph we had of you on file looks a bit out of date, sir.”

Kell didn’t take offense. He knew the picture. Taken in a windowless room at Vauxhall Cross on September 9, 2001. His hair cut shorter, his temples less grayed, his life about to change. Every spy on the planet had aged at least twenty years since then.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said.

Adam looked up at the ceiling and blinked hard, as though trying to remember the last in a sequence of points from a mental checklist.

“The air traffic control officer who was on duty the afternoon of Mr. Wallinger’s flight can meet you tonight at your hotel.”

“Time?”

“I said seven.”

“That’s good. I want to move quickly on this. Thank you.”

Kell watched as Adam absorbed his gratitude with a wordless nod.
I remember being you,
Kell thought.
I remember what it was like at the beginning
. With a pang of nostalgia, he pictured Adam’s life in Athens: the vast Foreign Office apartment, the nightclub memberships, the beautiful local girls in thrall to the glamour and expense accounts of the diplomatic life. A young man with a whole career ahead of him, in one of the great cities of the world. Kell put the envelope in his carry-on bag and stood up from the table. Adam accompanied him as far as a nearby duty-free shop, where they parted company. Kell bought a bottle of Macallan and a carton of Winston Lights for Chios and was soon airborne again above the shimmering Mediterranean, checking through the e-mails and texts that had collected on his iPhone before takeoff.

Metka had already sent through a translation of the message seen by Rachel.

My dear Tom,

It is always good to hear from you and I am of course happy to help.

So what happened to you? You took up poetry? Writing Magyar love sonnets? Maybe Claire finally had the sense to leave you and you fell in love with a girl from Budapest?

Here is what the poem says—please excuse me if my translation is not as “pretty” as your original:

My darling. I cannot be with you today, of all days, and so my heart is broken. Silence has never been this desperate. You are asleep, but I can still hear you breathing.

It is really very moving. Very sad. I wonder who wrote it? I would like to meet them.

Of course if you are ever here, Tom, we must meet. I hope you are satisfied in your life. You are always welcome in Szolnok. These days I very rarely come to London.

With kind regards,

Tamas

Kell powered down the phone and looked out of the window at the wisps of motionless cloud. What Rachel had reacted to so strongly was obvious enough: a message from one of Wallinger’s grieving lovers. But had Rachel understood the Hungarian or recognized the woman’s handwriting? He could not know.

*   *   *

The plane landed at a small, functional, single-runway airport on the eastern shore of Chios. Kell identified the air traffic control tower, saw a bearded engineer on the tarmac tending to a punctured Land Cruiser, and took photographs of a helicopter and a corporate jet parked on either side of an Olympic Air Q400. Wallinger would have taken off only a few hundred meters away, then banked east toward Izmir. The Cessna had entered Turkish airspace in less than five minutes, crashing into the mountains southwest of Kütahya perhaps an hour later.

The island’s taxi drivers were on strike so Kell was glad of the rental car, which he drove a few miles south to Karfas along a quiet road lined with citrus groves and crumbling, walled estates. The Golden Sands was a tourist hotel located in the center of a kilometer-long beach with views across the Chios Strait to Turkey. Kell unpacked, took a shower, then dressed in a fresh set of clothes. As he waited in the bar for his meeting, nursing a bottle of Efes lager and an overwhelming desire to smoke indoors, he reflected on how quickly his personal circumstances had changed. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, he had been eating a tuna sandwich on a crowded train from Preston. Now he was alone on a Greek island, masquerading as an insurance investigator, in the bar of an off-peak tourist hotel.
You’re back in the game,
he told himself.
This is what you wanted
. But the buzz had gone. He remembered the feeling of landing in Nice almost two years earlier, instructed by the high priests at Vauxhall Cross to find Amelia at any cost. On that occasion, the rhythms and tricks of his trade had come back to him like muscle memory. This time, however, all that Kell felt was a sense of dread that he would uncover the truth about his friend’s death. No pilot error. No engine failure. Just conspiracy and cover-up. Just murder.

*   *   *

Mr. Andonis Makris of the Hellenic Civil Aviation Authority was a thickset islander of about fifty who spoke impeccable, if overelaborate English and smelled strongly of eau de cologne. Kell presented him with Chris Hardwick’s business card, agreed that Chios was indeed very beautiful, particularly at this time of year, and thanked Makris for agreeing to meet him on such short notice.

“Your assistant in the Edinburgh office told me that time was a factor,” Makris reassured him. He was wearing a dark blue pin-striped suit and a white shirt without a tie. Self-assured to the point of arrogance, he gave the impression of a man who had, some years earlier, achieved personal satisfaction in almost every area of his life. “I am keen to assist you after such a tragedy. Many people on the island were shocked by the news of Mr. Wallinger’s death. I am sure his family and colleagues are as keen as we are to find out what happened as soon as is possible in human terms.”

It was obvious from his demeanor that Makris bore no sense of personal responsibility for the crash. Kell assumed that he would want to take the opportunity to shift the blame for the British diplomat’s demise onto the shoulders of Turkish air traffic control as quickly as possible.

“Did you meet Mr. Wallinger personally?”

Makris was taking a sip of white wine and was halted by the question. He swallowed in his own good time and dabbed his mouth carefully with a paper napkin before responding.

“No.” The voice was even in tone, a trace of American in the accent. “The flight plan had been filed before I arrived on my shift. I spoke to the pilot—to Mr. Paul Wallinger—on the radio as he checked his instruments, taxied to the runway, and prepared for takeoff.”

“He sounded normal?”

“What does ‘normal’ mean, please?”

“Was he agitated? Drunk? Did he sound tense?”

Makris reacted as though Kell had impugned his integrity.

“Drunk? Of course not. If I sense that a pilot is any of these things, I will prevent him from flying. Of course.”

“Of course.” Kell had never had much time for thin-skinned bureaucrats and couldn’t be bothered to summon an apology for whatever offense his remark might have caused. “You can understand why I have to ask. In order to complete a full report on the accident, Scottish Widows needs to know everything…”

As though he had already grown tired of listening, Makris leaned down, picked up a slim briefcase and set it on the table. Kell was still speaking as two thick thumbs operated the sliding locks. The catches popped, the lid sprang open, and Makris’s face was momentarily obscured from view.

“I have the flight plan here, Mr. Hardwick. I made a copy for you.”

“That was very thoughtful.”

Makris lowered the lid, passing Kell a one-page document covered in hieroglyphs of impenetrable Greek. There were boxes where Wallinger had scrawled his personal details, though no address on the island appeared to have been provided.

“The flight plan was to take the Cessna over Aignoussa, then east into Turkey. It is customary for Cesme or Izmir to take immediate responsibility for aircraft entering Turkish airspace.”

“This is what happened?”

Makris nodded gravely. “This is what happened. The pilot told us he was leaving our circuit and then changed radio frequency. At this point, Mr. Wallinger was no longer our responsibility.”