‘I’m not interested in giving you streams of reporting about investment goals, energy budgets, crystal ball stuff. That’s what’s going to get me caught. What I choose to give you, when I choose to give you it, will be hard, actionable intelligence, usually with very high clearance.’
There were two dead-letter boxes in Istanbul. One in the men’s bathroom of a tourist restaurant in Sultanahamet owned by a former KGB officer, long since retired and now married to a Turkish woman who had borne him two sons. A dry cistern in the second of two recently modernized cubicles, detached from all plumbing, was ideal for the purposes of leaving memory sticks, hard drives and documents – whatever KODAK wished to pass on.
The second site was located among the ruins of an old house – said once to have belonged to Leon Trotsky – on the northern shore of Büyükada, an island in the Sea of Marmara. This was KODAK’s preferred location, because the asset was friendly with a journalist on Büyükada who lived adjacent to the site, so that any journeys made to the island could pass as social visits. KODAK had recently expressed his distaste for the cistern – though of course it had been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected during the bathroom renovations – complaining to Minasian that he felt ‘like Michael Corleone going to shoot somebody’ whenever he lifted the lid to make a drop. Minasian had promised to find a third site, although KODAK seemed increasingly fond of the box on Büyükada, concealed as it was among the ruins, and protected from rains and vermin.
It was towards this box that Minasian was headed, though his journey, as always, was to be a six-hour masterpiece of counter-surveillance, involving two changes of clothing, five different taxis, two ferries (one north to Istinye, the other south to Bostanci), as well as three miles on foot in Beşiktaş and Beyoğlu. Only when Minasian was certain that he had picked up no surveillance did he board the private vessel at Marinturk Marina and make the short crossing to Büyükada.
While on the island he still exercised caution. It was possible that MIT or the Americans could have advanced surveillance on Büyükada and pick Minasian up on foot (no vehicles were allowed on the island, only bicycles and horse-drawn carts). For this reason he effected his second change of appearance in a restaurant near the ferry terminal, leaving by a rear exit. Having completed a circuit of the island by cart, Minasian instructed the driver to take him within three hundred metres of the Trotsky house, completing the last section of his journey on foot.
He was carrying a leather shoulder bag, in which he had placed his changes of clothing, as well as a pair of swimming trunks and a towel. During the warmer months, Minasian would often take a swim before collecting the product. Anything to add to a sense of blameless leisure. Today, however, he was keen to return to Kadiköy on the ferry so that he could dine with a male friend in Bebek. For this reason, he went directly to the location, discerned that he was alone, and removed the contents left for him the previous day.
The paper was folded and protected from the elements by a transparent plastic folder that had been bound with a rubber band. This was usual. Minasian opened it and immediately photographed the contents. To his surprise, he saw that there was only one piece of information.
LVa/UKSIS Tehran (nuclear) Massoud Moghaddam
Cryptonym: EINSTEIN
The offices of Villas Angelis were located above a small, family-run restaurant on the harbour in Chios Town. Kell reached the first floor by an external staircase at the side of the building, knocking on a part-frosted glass door through which he could see a small, strip-lit office occupied by a woman in her late thirties. The woman looked up, turned an inquisitive squint into a welcoming smile, then crossed the room and invited Kell to enter with a flourish of bosom and bonhomie.
‘Hello, sir, hello, hello,’ she said, on the correct assumption that Kell was a visitor to the island and spoke no Greek. She was wearing a floral-print summer dress and blue espadrilles that were squashed by her swollen feet. ‘Come and sit down. How can we help you?’
Kell shook the woman’s hand and settled into a small wooden chair facing her desk. Her name was Marianna and she was no taller than the water cooler beside which she was standing. The screensaver on her computer showed a photograph of an elderly Greek couple, whom Kell took to be her parents. There were no photographs on the desk of a husband or boyfriend, only a framed formal portrait of a child in knickerbockers – her nephew? – flanked on either side by his parents. Marianna was not wearing a wedding ring.
‘My name is Chris Hardwick,’ Kell said, handing over his card. ‘I’m an insurance investigator with Scottish Widows.’
Marianna’s English was good, but not good enough to untangle what Mr Hardwick had told her. She asked Kell to repeat what he had said, while studying the card closely for further clues.
‘I’m investigating the death of a British diplomat. Paul Wallinger. Does that name mean anything to you?’
Marianna looked very much as though she wanted the name to mean something to her. Her eyes softened, so that she was looking at Kell with something like yearning, and her head tilted to one side in an effort to accommodate the question. In the end, however, she was obliged to admit defeat, responding in an apologetic tone that suggested frustration with her own ignorance.
‘No, I’m sorry that it does not. Who was this man? I am sorry that I cannot help you.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ Kell replied, smiling as warmly as he could. To the left, a poster of the Acropolis was peeling off the wall. Beside it, three digital clocks in pale grey cases displayed the time in Athens, Paris and New York. Kell heard the sound of footsteps on the external staircase and turned to see a man of similar age and build to Andonis Makris pushing through the door of the office. He had thick eyebrows and a heavy black moustache, with two different shades of dye battling for prominence in his hair. Seeing Kell in the chair, the man grumbled something in Greek and moved towards the furthest window in the room, throwing open a set of shutters so that the office was suddenly flooded with morning sunlight and the noise of gunning mopeds. It was clear to Kell that the man was Marianna’s boss and that his words had been some sort of reprimand to her for a sin as yet undetected.
‘Nico, this is Mr Hardwick.’ Marianna offered Kell a conciliatory smile, which he interpreted as an apology in advance for her boss’s erratic temperament. She then began tapping something into her computer as Nicolas Delfas crossed the room and invited Kell to move to a seat beside his own desk. The body language was page one machismo: I’m in charge now. Men should deal with men.
‘You’re looking to rent a place?’ he asked, offering up a dry, bulky handshake.
‘No. I’m actually an insurance investigator.’ Delfas had braced his arms across his desk and was busily searching for something among a pile of papers. ‘I was just asking your colleague if your office had had any dealings with a British diplomat named Paul Wallinger?’
The word ‘diplomat’ was barely out of Kell’s mouth before Delfas looked up and began shaking his head.
‘Who?’
‘Wallinger. Paul Wallinger.’
‘No. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t know him. I did not know him.’
Delfas met Kell’s eye, but his gaze quickly slid back to the desk.
‘You don’t want to talk about him or you don’t know who he was?’
The