A Divided Spy (Thomas Kell Spy Thriller, Book 3) by Charles Cumming Page B
Authors: Charles Cumming
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their symbol of hope; he would be their hero. Shahid felt that he was at the centre of a vast crowd, larger than any group or demonstration ever seen in the cities of the West, a crowd visible only to true Muslims and true believers; millions of men and women cheering him on, willing Shahid Khan to fulfil his destiny. He could not see them, but he could feel them. They gave him an insuperable strength.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ he told Farouq. ‘I know what I was sent here to do.’
19
Claridge’s made up Kell’s mind. A hotel of that size meant telling SIS. Without the assistance of his former Service, he would be outgunned on surveillance. Done properly, an operation to recruit Minasian would require undercover officers working as staff in the hotel; rooms rigged for sight and sound; eyes in the lobby and dining rooms. You could do a lot of things off the books at SIS, but you couldn’t get control of Claridge’s with only Elsa and Harold Mowbray for company.
There were several days until the Russian was due in London. Kell doubted that Minasian would risk travelling to the UK with Svetlana, but suspected that oligarch money would be paying for their room. He wondered why Minasian was taking the chance of being collared on British soil. This, after all, was the man who had given the order for the murder of Rachel Wallinger. What was so important to the SVR that it required Minasian’s presence in London? Kell confronted the very real possibility that his nemesis had quit the secret world – or been fired in the wake of the Kleckner operation – and was now working in the private sector. If that was the case, he was effectively useless as an agent. Brussels would have been a waste of time and Kell’s imminent meeting with Amelia a further humiliation.
He texted her from the Customs hall at St Pancras in the late afternoon. To his surprise, Amelia rang back within five minutes.
‘Tom?’
‘Hello,’ he said, as flatly as he could manage.
‘How are you?’ she asked. Her voice was animated and warm. ‘How have you been?’
‘I’ve been fine, thank you.’ Kell experienced the extraordinary sensation of being grateful for all the years that he had known Amelia. In the absence of Claire, she was the closest thing he possessed to family. He knew in that moment that it would be hopeless to try to fight his affection for her. ‘Something’s come up,’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Amelia was too much of an old hand to ask for more detail on an insecure line. Instead, she said: ‘Of course. Tonight? Are you free?’
He had not expected such an immediate opportunity. Kell explained that he was at St Pancras, needed to go home to drop his bags, but would be free by seven.
‘Perfect. I have to go to an event in Knightsbridge. That ghastly hotel where Clive had his fiftieth. Do you remember it?’
‘I remember,’ Kell replied.
‘Good. Then why don’t we meet there at half past six? I’ll put your name down.’
Kell was now on the station concourse, walking through a mall lined on either side by restaurants and shops. He passed an old man playing Chopin on a public piano.
‘What sort of event?’ he asked.
‘Long story,’ Amelia replied. ‘You’ll need to put on a suit.’
Kell was on time. There was no sign of Amelia in the lobby of the hotel, just a handful of businessmen in leather armchairs, hunched over tablets and smartphones. Two clipboard-wielding models wearing plastic smiles were standing beside a bank of lifts.
‘Are you here for the show, sir?’ one of them asked.
‘I am,’ Kell replied, though he had no idea what the ‘show’ would entail.
He was ushered towards the closest of three lifts and instructed to ‘hit B3’. Alone in the cabin, Kell dropped to a subterranean crypt where two more models – prettier and more glamorous than their predecessors – were checking names off a guest list. There was a background thump of state-of-the-art techno
‘I know what I’m doing,’ he told Farouq. ‘I know what I was sent here to do.’
19
Claridge’s made up Kell’s mind. A hotel of that size meant telling SIS. Without the assistance of his former Service, he would be outgunned on surveillance. Done properly, an operation to recruit Minasian would require undercover officers working as staff in the hotel; rooms rigged for sight and sound; eyes in the lobby and dining rooms. You could do a lot of things off the books at SIS, but you couldn’t get control of Claridge’s with only Elsa and Harold Mowbray for company.
There were several days until the Russian was due in London. Kell doubted that Minasian would risk travelling to the UK with Svetlana, but suspected that oligarch money would be paying for their room. He wondered why Minasian was taking the chance of being collared on British soil. This, after all, was the man who had given the order for the murder of Rachel Wallinger. What was so important to the SVR that it required Minasian’s presence in London? Kell confronted the very real possibility that his nemesis had quit the secret world – or been fired in the wake of the Kleckner operation – and was now working in the private sector. If that was the case, he was effectively useless as an agent. Brussels would have been a waste of time and Kell’s imminent meeting with Amelia a further humiliation.
He texted her from the Customs hall at St Pancras in the late afternoon. To his surprise, Amelia rang back within five minutes.
‘Tom?’
‘Hello,’ he said, as flatly as he could manage.
‘How are you?’ she asked. Her voice was animated and warm. ‘How have you been?’
‘I’ve been fine, thank you.’ Kell experienced the extraordinary sensation of being grateful for all the years that he had known Amelia. In the absence of Claire, she was the closest thing he possessed to family. He knew in that moment that it would be hopeless to try to fight his affection for her. ‘Something’s come up,’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Amelia was too much of an old hand to ask for more detail on an insecure line. Instead, she said: ‘Of course. Tonight? Are you free?’
He had not expected such an immediate opportunity. Kell explained that he was at St Pancras, needed to go home to drop his bags, but would be free by seven.
‘Perfect. I have to go to an event in Knightsbridge. That ghastly hotel where Clive had his fiftieth. Do you remember it?’
‘I remember,’ Kell replied.
‘Good. Then why don’t we meet there at half past six? I’ll put your name down.’
Kell was now on the station concourse, walking through a mall lined on either side by restaurants and shops. He passed an old man playing Chopin on a public piano.
‘What sort of event?’ he asked.
‘Long story,’ Amelia replied. ‘You’ll need to put on a suit.’
Kell was on time. There was no sign of Amelia in the lobby of the hotel, just a handful of businessmen in leather armchairs, hunched over tablets and smartphones. Two clipboard-wielding models wearing plastic smiles were standing beside a bank of lifts.
‘Are you here for the show, sir?’ one of them asked.
‘I am,’ Kell replied, though he had no idea what the ‘show’ would entail.
He was ushered towards the closest of three lifts and instructed to ‘hit B3’. Alone in the cabin, Kell dropped to a subterranean crypt where two more models – prettier and more glamorous than their predecessors – were checking names off a guest list. There was a background thump of state-of-the-art techno
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