profoundly content, as though she had at last attained a kind of inner peace. Kell could not remember ever having seen Amelia so at ease.
“She still had security clearance,” Metka was saying. “There was nothing negative recorded against her.”
Kell put the photograph back in the book and tried to think of something to say. “The restaurant?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“You got a name? An address on Lopud?”
He knew that he was going to have to find Cecilia Sandor, to talk to her. She was the key to everything now.
“Oh, sure,” said Metka. “I’ve got the address.”
16
The embassy of the United States of America was a low-roofed complex of buildings in the heart of the city, flat as the Pentagon and defended by black metal fencing ten feet high. The contrast with the British embassy, a lavish imperial throwback in an upmarket residential neighborhood overlooking downtown Ankara, could not have been starker. While the Brits employed a single uniformed Turk to run routine security checks on vehicles approaching the building, the Americans deployed a small platoon of buzz-cut, flak-jacketed Marine Corps, most of them hidden behind tungsten-strengthened security gates designed to withstand the impact of a two-ton bomb. You couldn’t blame the Yanks for laying things on a bit thick; every wannabe jihadi from Grosvenor Square to Manila wanted to take a pop at Uncle Sam. Nevertheless, the atmosphere around the embassy was so tense that, as he pulled up in a rattling Ankaran taxi, Kell felt as though he were back in the Green Zone in Baghdad.
After fifteen minutes of checks, questions, and pat-downs, he was shown into a small office on the first floor with a view onto a garden in which somebody had erected a small wooden climbing frame. There were various certificates on the walls, two watercolors, a photograph of Barack Obama, and a shelf of paperback books. This, Kell was told, was where Jim Chater would meet him. The choice of venue immediately raised Kell’s suspicions. Any discussion between a cadre CIA officer and a colleague from SIS should, as a matter of course, take place inside the CIA’s Station. Was Chater planning a blatant snub, or would they move to a secure speech room once he arrived?
The meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock. Twelve minutes had passed before there was a light knock on the door and a blond woman in her late twenties entered wearing a suit and a clip-on smile.
“Mr. Kell?”
Kell stood up and shook the woman’s hand. She introduced herself as Kathryn Moses and explained that she was an FP-04 State Department official, which Kell dimly recalled as an entry-level ranking. More likely she was CIA, an errand girl for Chater.
“I’m afraid Jim’s running late,” she said. “He’s asked me to step in. Can I get you a coffee, tea, or something?”
Kell didn’t want to lose another five minutes of the hour-long meeting in beverage preparation. He said no.
“Any idea what time he’ll be here?”
It was then that he realized Ms. Moses had been sent deliberately to stall him. Settling into a rolling chair behind the desk, she gave Kell a brief, appraising glance, adjusted the sleeves of her jacket, then spoke to him as though he were a Liberal Democrat minister visiting Turkey on a two-day fact-finding tour.
“Jim has asked me to give you an overview of how we see things right now developing locally and in the Syrian-Iranian theater, particularly with reference to the regime in Damascus.”
“Okay.” It turned out to be a mistake to imply consent, because Moses now cleared her throat and didn’t draw breath until the clock on the office wall had moved to within a few second-hand clicks of half past ten. There was background on the State Department decisions to move the Istanbul consulate out of town and to share an airbase with the Turks at Incirlik. Moses had views on the “contradictory” relationship with Prime Minister Tayyip Erdogan and
“She still had security clearance,” Metka was saying. “There was nothing negative recorded against her.”
Kell put the photograph back in the book and tried to think of something to say. “The restaurant?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“You got a name? An address on Lopud?”
He knew that he was going to have to find Cecilia Sandor, to talk to her. She was the key to everything now.
“Oh, sure,” said Metka. “I’ve got the address.”
16
The embassy of the United States of America was a low-roofed complex of buildings in the heart of the city, flat as the Pentagon and defended by black metal fencing ten feet high. The contrast with the British embassy, a lavish imperial throwback in an upmarket residential neighborhood overlooking downtown Ankara, could not have been starker. While the Brits employed a single uniformed Turk to run routine security checks on vehicles approaching the building, the Americans deployed a small platoon of buzz-cut, flak-jacketed Marine Corps, most of them hidden behind tungsten-strengthened security gates designed to withstand the impact of a two-ton bomb. You couldn’t blame the Yanks for laying things on a bit thick; every wannabe jihadi from Grosvenor Square to Manila wanted to take a pop at Uncle Sam. Nevertheless, the atmosphere around the embassy was so tense that, as he pulled up in a rattling Ankaran taxi, Kell felt as though he were back in the Green Zone in Baghdad.
After fifteen minutes of checks, questions, and pat-downs, he was shown into a small office on the first floor with a view onto a garden in which somebody had erected a small wooden climbing frame. There were various certificates on the walls, two watercolors, a photograph of Barack Obama, and a shelf of paperback books. This, Kell was told, was where Jim Chater would meet him. The choice of venue immediately raised Kell’s suspicions. Any discussion between a cadre CIA officer and a colleague from SIS should, as a matter of course, take place inside the CIA’s Station. Was Chater planning a blatant snub, or would they move to a secure speech room once he arrived?
The meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock. Twelve minutes had passed before there was a light knock on the door and a blond woman in her late twenties entered wearing a suit and a clip-on smile.
“Mr. Kell?”
Kell stood up and shook the woman’s hand. She introduced herself as Kathryn Moses and explained that she was an FP-04 State Department official, which Kell dimly recalled as an entry-level ranking. More likely she was CIA, an errand girl for Chater.
“I’m afraid Jim’s running late,” she said. “He’s asked me to step in. Can I get you a coffee, tea, or something?”
Kell didn’t want to lose another five minutes of the hour-long meeting in beverage preparation. He said no.
“Any idea what time he’ll be here?”
It was then that he realized Ms. Moses had been sent deliberately to stall him. Settling into a rolling chair behind the desk, she gave Kell a brief, appraising glance, adjusted the sleeves of her jacket, then spoke to him as though he were a Liberal Democrat minister visiting Turkey on a two-day fact-finding tour.
“Jim has asked me to give you an overview of how we see things right now developing locally and in the Syrian-Iranian theater, particularly with reference to the regime in Damascus.”
“Okay.” It turned out to be a mistake to imply consent, because Moses now cleared her throat and didn’t draw breath until the clock on the office wall had moved to within a few second-hand clicks of half past ten. There was background on the State Department decisions to move the Istanbul consulate out of town and to share an airbase with the Turks at Incirlik. Moses had views on the “contradictory” relationship with Prime Minister Tayyip Erdogan and
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