A Colder War (41 page)

“Don’t worry, Ryan,” he said, “you’ll have every chance to explain yourself.”

Kell stood up and made his way down the cabin. Danny was snoozing beside a window at the rear of the aircraft. Kell checked his watch. It was just after five Ukraine time, three in London. He was concerned about Rachel. He wondered why Amelia hadn’t contacted the plane and tried to speak to him. Perhaps no news was good news: Rachel was probably already back in London.

Kell was pouring himself a glass of water in the galley half an hour later when he felt the plane begin to descend. At first, he thought nothing of it. It was only when he glanced out of the window that he saw city lights less than two thousand feet below and realized that the Gulfstream was landing. He put the drink to one side and walked down the aircraft, past Danny, past Kleckner. The cockpit door was open. He closed it behind him and spoke to the pilots.

“Where are we? Why are we so low? Refueling?”

The sun was no longer visible ahead of them. The plane had changed direction.

“New flight plan, sir,” Phil replied.

“Says who?”

“They’ve told us to land in Kiev.”

68

“They’ve told us
what
? Who did the instruction come from?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say, sir.”

Kell braced himself in the narrow confines of the cockpit as the Gulfstream hit a river of turbulence. He wondered if the SVR had got to the pilots. Phil offered enough cash to land the plane in Kiev, nobody any the wiser.

“I’m going to ask you again,” Kell said. “Who is telling you to do this?”

He could already see the glow of an airport, a column of landing lights shimmering in the distance. The plane would be down in less than five minutes, an SVR team swarming all over the Gulfstream within ten.

Phil pulled back a set of headphones, looped them around his neck.

“Best thing I can do is ask you to sit down, sir.”

The request contained an edge of patronizing threat, the captain pulling rank on a passenger. Kell’s lifelong irritation with bureaucratic arrogance kicked in like the jolt of turbulence.

“What airport is this?” he said.

“Boryspil. Kiev.”

“International?”

“That’s the one,” Bob replied.

Phil was muttering into a mike, presumably to air traffic control. Kell looked at the banks of lights and switches above the pilots’ heads, as mysterious to him as circuit boards. He had no choice but to return to his seat. They were moments away from landing. As he opened the cockpit door, Kell saw Kleckner looking directly at him.

“Trouble, Tom?” he said, with a wildcat grin.

“What makes you think that?” Kell replied, and buckled himself in for landing.

69

The Gulfstream soared down in the black night, kissed the runway, and taxied to an isolated corner of the airport. Once the plane had come to a halt, Phil emerged from the cockpit, walked halfway down the aisle, and announced that a vehicle was en route to the aircraft and that “all passengers have been asked to remain on board.”

“That include me?” Kleckner asked.

There was a look of weary triumph on his face, as though he knew that his safe passage to Moscow was now assured.

“Yes,” Kell told him. “That includes you.”

Kell unbuckled his seat belt and approached the American. He took a knife from his back pocket and moved it in front of Kleckner’s face.

“Wait a minute…,” said Phil.

Kell reached behind Kleckner’s back, cutting the plastic cuffs around his wrists. Danny was smiling. As soon as his hands were free, Kleckner popped the catch on his seat belt and stood up. He was stiff and in pain, reaching for the area on his thigh where Jez had injected the ketamine.

“What did you guys use on me?” he asked.

Kell ignored him.

Phil returned to the cockpit as the engines on the Gulfstream powered down. Orange lights were strobing beyond the fuselage, the aircraft encased by the night. As the noise of the jets diminished, Kell looked out of the starboard window to see a second plane parked alongside. The registration mark began with the letter
N
. An American flight. Kell felt the dark echo of extraordinary rendition. Kleckner had begun to walk around the aircraft, stretching his legs, rubbing his wrists. The strength returning to him, the lean, exercised cunning. Kell watched him for a while, trying to glimpse the traitor within, trying to get some sense of the motive that had driven Kleckner to deceive. But he looked just as he had looked on that first night in Bar Bleu: tanned, worked-out, good-looking. Throw stones on a beach in California and you would hit fifty men just like him. Most likely there had been nothing more than money and a malign pleasure in deceit: no ideological conviction, merely betrayal for its own sake.

“You look tired, Tom,” Kleckner said, turning toward Kell.

Again, Kell did not respond. Instead he crossed to the opposite side of the cabin. A vehicle was making its way across the concrete apron. Yellow headlights moving at speed. Bob emerged from the cockpit and opened the main door on the plane. The wind and the jet scream of Boryspil punched into the cabin. Kleckner reacted by blocking his ears. Danny winced and sat down. Kell walked toward the door and looked out over the airport.

“Who is in the car?” he shouted.

“You tell me,” Bob shouted back.

*   *   *

There were three of them. Kell stood at the open door and watched as a black Mercedes-Benz came to a halt a few meters from the Gulfstream. A powerful wind was blowing across the apron, two passenger aircraft taxiing on the runway three hundred meters to the south. The driver snuffed out the headlights, switched off the engine, and opened the rear left door.

Amelia Levene stepped out into the night. Kell looked across to the opposite side of the vehicle, where the passenger door had opened. As a plane screamed overhead, a spotlight swept across the runway, and the short, stocky figure of Jim Chater emerged beneath the starboard wing. He was wearing a suit. He turned and looked up at the Gulfstream. With an almost imperceptible dip of the head, he acknowledged Kell. Kell did not move. Chater leaned back into the car, retrieved what appeared to be a cell phone, and slammed the door.

Kell turned to Danny and to the two pilots, who had gathered at the front of the plane.

“You’d better give us some time,” he said. “Wait in the car.”

“Sure,” Danny replied, and followed Bob and Phil down the steps. They stopped on the tarmac and shook Amelia’s hand, like visiting dignitaries. Chater ignored them. Kell turned back into the plane and called out to Kleckner.

“Ryan! Your friends have come to see you.”

Kell saw the look of hope in Kleckner’s eyes, his delight at the prospect of Moscow rushing to his aid. Yet his expression barely changed when he saw Jim Chater at the top of the steps. Kell had expected Kleckner to look stunned, the victory slumping out of him. If anything, he looked relieved.

Chater brushed past Kell and stared at Kleckner. Eye contact. Kleckner turned and looked out through a portside window. Kell felt the sudden, pure fear that SIS had been duped. ABACUS a triple, played against Minasian for a purpose so obscure, so brilliant, that Langley had been prepared to give up HITCHCOCK and EINSTEIN just to sustain the deceit.

Amelia was at the top of the steps. She walked into the cabin, nodded at Kell, playing a hand of cards to which he was not yet privy. Chater raised the steps on the Gulfstream and sealed the door. It was suddenly very quiet.

“So we’re all here,” Amelia said.

Kell could feel his heart quickening. He knew that if Kleckner spoke next, if he stood up and went to Chater, the game was up. A handshake between trusted colleagues, an operation blown, and two high-ranking Brits to shoulder the blame. Kell could tell nothing from Amelia’s expression. Chater simply looked angry and tired. Kell had to keep reminding himself that the notion of Kleckner’s innocence was absurd.

“Ryan,” said Amelia, narrowing her eyes as though she was having difficulty bringing Kleckner into focus. It seemed enormously significant to Kell that Amelia, rather than Chater, had opted to speak first. “Jim has kindly agreed that Tom and I should be allowed a few moments with you before you are taken into American custody.”

Kell felt a surge of relief, even as he absorbed what Amelia was saying. SIS was to be given no opportunity to interview Kleckner, to measure the extent of his treachery. ABACUS was Kell’s catch, the Service’s triumph, but Langley was taking him home.

“Ryan?” Amelia said again. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” Kleckner muttered.

He was going to play a long game. Acting cool, trying to stay calm. Kleckner had been cornered but would not allow his captors the satisfaction of seeing him fold.

“My Service has some questions regarding an asset in—”

“I’m sure you do…”

“Don’t interrupt, Ryan.”

They were the first words Chater had spoken. Kell found something touching in the use of Kleckner’s Christian name. How many times would Chater have sat with Kleckner in meetings, secure speech rooms, in restaurants and bars, assessing him, teaching him, trusting him?

“Thank you, Jim,” Amelia replied, with regal precision.

Kleckner stood up. He began to move toward them, only for Chater to erupt in sudden fury.

“Sit the fuck down.”

The sudden outburst caught all of them by surprise. Kell saw the hate coiled in Chater’s face. He thought of Kabul, the cramped room, the sweat and the fear of the Gharani interrogation. Chater feral and raging, spewing venom in the heat. His mood had turned in an instant.

Kleckner sat down. He seemed aware of the wretchedness of his situation, but there was a look of forced pride on his face, as though he was determined to go down fighting. Kell heard the smothered roar of a jet landing on the far side of the airport.

“So,” said Amelia, arranging her handbag on the floor as she took a seat opposite Kleckner. “As I was saying. We have a question about an asset in Iraqi Kurdistan. Somebody that Paul Wallinger was looking at.”

Time was a factor, but Kell instinctively felt that Amelia was moving too quickly into interrogation. It did not surprise him when Kleckner ducked the question.

“You know Tom well, right?”

Amelia turned and smiled at Kell. “For many years, yes.”

“So you know about these two?” Kleckner indicated Chater. “You know their story?” Amelia produced a weary sigh. She had no interest in being drawn into second-rate mind games. “Must be just like old times, huh?” Kleckner said.

“Just like it.”

“Yeah? Wanna throw a punch, Tom? Wanna put a sack over my head? These fingernails sure must look attractive to you.” Kleckner had raised his hands, palms facing toward his face. “I’m sure Jim can find some pliers. Why don’t you guys make yourselves comfortable, start pulling them out? It’s what you’re best at.”

Kell felt nothing. His conscience was clear. Amelia also remained impassive. Both of them were too experienced to react to Kleckner’s simple tactic.

“That what this was about for you?” Chater asked. Kell was disappointed that he was taking the bait. “You had some trouble with our methods, Ryan?” Chater took a step toward him. Kell saw then that Kleckner was physically afraid of him. There was a moment of cowardice in his eyes. “You feel like getting it off your chest?”

“I would certainly like to make a statement,” Kleckner told him.

“Let him talk,” Amelia replied.

Kleckner leaned back in his seat. After a long pause, he said: “I know what you guys did, Jim,” his voice seemingly rich with the moral disappointment of a young man whose innocence had been stripped away by men and women in whom he had once fervently believed.

“Yeah? And what did we do to you?” Chater replied.

“I know that you walked prisoners around on leads. I know that you sanctioned waterboarding. I know that you had OMS check Yassin Gharani to make sure he was healthy enough for you two guys to continue torturing him.”

The OMS was a medical unit within the CIA. Amelia folded her arms and let out another quiet sigh. Kell was waiting, biding his time. He did not want to waste words on Kleckner.

“How do you feel about working for an Agency that kills innocent women and children every day?” It wasn’t immediately clear to whom Kleckner had directed the question.

“We’re gonna do the drone conversation?” Chater replied wearily. “Is that what you want? Really?”

Kleckner turned toward Kell. “What about you, Tom?”

Kell knew that the exchange was pure theater. “We are at war, Ryan,” he replied, and tried to convey, both by his manner and by his tone of voice, that Kleckner’s moral and philosophical musings were as inconsequential to him as they were naïve.

“Really? War? That’s what you call it? Thousands of innocent people living in targeted communities, frightened to come out of their homes, living in fear not just of the
violence
of a drone strike, but the
noise
of a drone strike? Psychological torture. You think that’s part of a
war
?” Kleckner was fueling himself on rhetoric. Amelia stood up and wandered down the aircraft, like someone in a bar waiting for a drunk to sober up. “These communities are now ravaged by psychiatric disorders, kids too afraid to go to school and get the education they need to keep them
away
from extreme Islam”—Chater snorted derisively—“and all the time we’re creating and sowing the idea around the world that my country, the United States of America, thinks it’s okay to participate in extrajudicial killings, targeted assassinations. We are
creating
terrorism. We are
generating
threats.”

“And you thought the way to stop that was to get into bed with the SVR?” Amelia asked the question from the back of the Gulfstream. Nobody did merciless condescension quite like Amelia Levene.

Chater weighed in. “You thought the way to stop that was to give the names of SIS and CIA assets inside the Iranian nuclear program? You thought the way to stop that was to have a truckful of Red Cross volunteers murdered by Bashar Assad? Tell me, Ryan. How does the blowing up of a high-ranking Iranian general, a man who fully intended to cooperate with the West in his determination to
resolve
the conflict between the United States and Iran—”