‘Mum, it’s fine. I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried,’ she replied tersely. ‘I just need you to take care of things. Do you think you can do that? Do you know what needs to be done?’
‘Like I said, I’ll handle it. How long do you think you’re going to be?’
‘How should I know? They’re both a pair of wet blankets. If I don’t at least make sure they see a doctor, God knows what will happen to them.’
‘Maybe check them in, then get a taxi back to your car?’ Kite suggested.
‘Yes, that’s a good idea. Could you ring one for me?’
She gave him the address of the medical centre. Kite immediately rang the local taxi service in Stranraer, wondering why his mother couldn’t have done it herself. Inevitably, there was no answer. He tried again three minutes later and was told that all of the firm’s drivers would be busy until at least half-past eight. Listening in, Strawson considered this to be a slice of good fortune: it would give him an extra hour to observe how Kite coped in his mother’s absence. He needed to see how the young man reacted to adverse circumstances, to setbacks and confrontations. If he could run the hotel solo, and deal with whatever variables Strawson and his team chose to throw at him, BOX 88 would be given a good indication of his ability to cope with the inevitable operational pressures of France.
Strawson threw everything at him. The dining room was full so he sent his lemon sole back (twice) and claimed that a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet 1982 was corked when it wasn’t. He complained about the volume at which the Richard Clayderman album was playing in the bar, saying that he had already heard it three times over the night before and couldn’t Kite find something else which was less ‘predictable’. Before dinner he had asked Kite, who was trying to make a brace of gin and tonics in the bar, to write down the addresses and phone numbers of the best five golf courses on the Stranraer peninsula. Could Kite call each of them in turn and ask if it was necessary to reserve a tee-off time for the following afternoon? With Cheryl Kite still fifteen miles away in a Stranraer hospital, detained by two role-playing Irishmen, Strawson then demanded to have cheese and biscuits and a glass of red wine sent to Churchill after dinner, despite knowing that the hotel did not offer room service. Kite took the tray up himself, only to be told that Strawson was ‘allergic to Stilton’ and that there was not enough hot water to fill the room’s enormous, free-standing bath. Kite apologised for the numerous inconveniences Strawson had suffered and promised to knock the price of dinner off his bill. He then rushed to the attic to turn on the thermostat, switched the Stilton for a slice of Caboc, told Wilma to take orders in the restaurant and quickly took a round of orders in the bar. The crowning moment came when Rita Ayinde organised a power cut which left the hotel in almost complete darkness for fifteen minutes. With the guests grumbling that they were unable to see the food on their plates, Kite found a torch and a box of candles in the office and had almost illuminated every room on the ground floor when the lights suddenly came back on, to widespread relief and applause. Throughout all this, at no point did Kite display any signs of panic or irritation. When his mother returned, and failed to acknowledge the extraordinary lengths to which her son had gone to keep the show on the road, he did not lose his temper nor storm out into the night. Only once, when the elderly couple – to Strawson’s delight – whispered something about ‘Fawlty Towers’ within Kite’s earshot, did the young man look as though he might be on the verge of losing his cool. But he maintained his composure, pushed through the swing doors connecting the restaurant to the staff area, and doubtless vented his spleen on whichever unfortunate member of staff happened to get in his way.
The following day, having attended a chilly Easter Sunday service at Portpatrick parish church, eaten a decent lunch at the Crown Hotel and played nine holes of links golf at Dunskey, Michael Strawson took out a sheet of writing paper in Churchill and composed a letter to Billy Peele while gazing out at the misty cliffs of Killantringan.
Dear Billy
You were right. He’s worth pursuing. Smart, charming, quick on his feet, doesn’t panic when the shit hits the fan, which it surely will because it always does.
We tested him as best we could. He got the light-switch riddle inside two minutes – which is more than you ever did. A lot of these privately educated types are good in front of a book or at a cocktail party but have as much practical common sense as a rooster wandering around in a swamp full of alligators. He’ll be an asset to us. Let’s take the chance.
Two things:
1. Keep an eye on his social life. If there’s alcohol in the pipeline, or drugs, I need to know. And sooner rather than later. I don’t want a guy who starts out as Bobby Ewing ending up as Hunter S. Thompson.
2. Is there a soft underbelly? Is he sentimental? I need more on that. The way he interacts with his mother makes me think he’s burying a lot, keeping some kind of rage (or is it compassion?) below the surface. None of us got a chance to talk to him much about his father. Again, I don’t want a bleeding heart as an Achilles heel. God knows this world needs upstanding men of unwavering ethical principle, but not on my team.
Speaking of the mother, you’re right. Attractive – but chilly. A man might want to be her lover but I don’t envy young Lachlan being her son. To be added to the list of famous beauties, which already included Fawn Hall and Pamela Bordes at the last count. No doubt you obtained Miss Hall’s televised testimony. You always had an eye for a pretty girl, Billy. Iran-Contra. What a shitshow.
Have you made it through Satanic Verses? At one point Salman refers to your prime minister as ‘Mrs Torture’ and later as ‘Maggie the Bitch’. Charming from a guy enjoying round-the-clock protection from Special Branch at the expense of the British taxpayer.
Yours aye
M.S.
22
Kite was woken by the sound of pounding on the door of his cabin. The rattle of a key in the lock, a holler of ‘Get up!’ then someone shaking him in the darkness.
‘What’s going on?’ he mumbled.
As soon as Kite had sat up in bed, a light snapped on. Hossein slapped him hard across the face.
Kite swore, disorientated, and clutched his jaw. He climbed to his feet so that he could defend himself against any further attack. Hossein allowed him space in which to stand and Kite took advantage of it, dropping a punch into the Iranian’s stomach which doubled him over. Kamran, the driver, burst into the room behind them and the two men put Kite under control, Kamran seizing his arms from behind, Hossein putting him into a headlock.
‘You come with us,’ Hossein ordered.
‘Fuck you,’ Kite told them. He was enraged by what they had done. He managed to stop the men dragging him from the room by slamming the heel of his right foot into Hossein’s shin. The Iranian yelped in pain. Kamran bent down and gathered Kite’s legs like sections of pipe and together they carried him, raised in the air, to the room at the end of the passage.
Torabi was waiting. He seemed amused that Kite was being carried like a rolled carpet into the room and mumbled an order at his men. They allowed the prisoner to get to his feet.
‘Your goon punched me in the face,’ Kite complained as he was forced into the chair. He was back in the role of the beleaguered oil executive. His hands were pulled behind his back and the wrists bound with wire. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Kamran and Hossein left the room. Kite realised that the wires around his wrists might be loose enough to work free.
‘What’s going on is they don’t like you,’ Torabi replied. ‘I don’t much like you either. What were you expecting? A cup of coffee and a hot shower?’
Kite shook his head, suppressing his anger. He didn’t know how long he had been in the cell but reckoned it couldn’t have been for more than a few hours.
‘Did you send a message to my wife?’ he asked.
There was a gun on the table beside Torabi. The Iranian picked it up and placed it behind
his back in the band of his trousers.
‘Oh sure,’ he said. ‘I did exactly what you asked.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I’m not here to send comforting messages to your friends and family. I’m here to get the truth.’
‘So you keep saying,’ Kite replied. ‘What time is it?’
‘Time to talk.’ Torabi pushed down the sleeve of his shirt so that it covered his wristwatch. As if noticing the toolbox for the first time, he picked it up and set it down on a section of plastic flooring in the corner of the room. ‘Who was with you at the funeral?’ he asked.
‘Nobody,’ Kite replied, watching Torabi sit down. ‘I went alone. My wife was at—’
‘I know where your wife is. Who followed you from the church?’
Kite was unsettled by the reference to Isobel but encouraged by the news that he had been followed. Had ‘Emma’ tailed the Jaguar to Cheshire Street and alerted the authorities? Perhaps MOIS had got wind of the manhunt. That Kite was alive, and still on board the boat, indicated that Torabi was for the moment content that their location was secure.
‘What do you mean, you know where my wife is?’
Torabi produced a supercilious grin. It had become his way of avoiding questions he didn’t want to answer.
‘Tell me who could have followed us from Knightsbridge? Do you have private security? Are you currently involved in an operation?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Torabi’s questions confirmed that ‘Emma’ had indeed been part of a broader surveillance effort targeted against him. He was certain she was MI5. ‘I told you. I haven’t been operational as an intelligence officer for over twenty years. I don’t have private security. I wish I did. I wouldn’t be in this situation. What is it that you expect me to tell you beyond what I’ve already confirmed?’
Kite knew that it was vital to continue to stick to his cover, to play the innocent oil executive for as long as possible, however much it angered and frustrated Torabi. The longer he could spin out his tale, inventing and improvising memories of Eskandarian, the longer he could keep the Iranians on the boat. All MI5 likely needed was a number plate fix on the vehicle they’d used to transport him from the car park. CCTV might give images of the individuals involved in the kidnapping. Those photographs could be cross-checked against known members of MOIS operating in the United Kingdom and beyond. Phone attacks and satellite recognition would do the rest.
‘When we spoke before, you said that you would be prepared to talk about your experiences in France as a teenager,’ said Torabi. ‘Is that still the case?’
‘Of course it’s still the case,’ Kite replied. ‘I’ll tell you whatever I can remember. All I want to do is get this thing over with and go home. It would help if I could have a cigarette. Also some coffee to clear my mind.’
Torabi laughed. ‘You can have a cigarette if you want one. Coffee’s not on the menu.’
‘Fine,’ Kite replied. ‘It’ll just take me longer digging up the memories. You’re asking me to think back to stuff that happened thirty years ago. I can barely remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday, far less what I was doing in 1989.’
‘Is that right?’
Torabi eyed him with suspicion.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
The Iranian was still wearing the same crisp white shirt and designer jeans that he had changed into earlier. His hair was now less carefully tended and he had removed his shoes. He might have been a man relaxing at home in front of the television.
‘I believe I mentioned during our last talk the importance of not wasting my time.’
‘You did,’ Kite replied. ‘What of it?’
‘I told you that it was critical not to lie to me about who you are, about what took place in France.’
‘I haven’t lied to you.’
‘No? I’m not so sure that’s true.’
‘Can we just get on with it? What did you mean when you said you know where my wife is? Have you been in contact with her?’
Torabi nodded his head. ‘How convenient that you should ask these questions.’
Something turned over inside Kite, the dread of what the Iranians might have done to Isobel.
‘What are you talking about?’ he said.
‘Kamran.’
Torabi shouted the name. The chauffeur came through the door like an obedient dog, glancing at Kite as he came to a halt beside his master.
‘Lachlan, it’s a shame that I’m going to have to play this card, but time is precious. I need a guarantee that you won’t lie, that you won’t waste my time. We may have to move from this place and that could mean the possibility that you don’t come with us. Does that make sense? Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
‘Not really.’
‘It means that I need to know what I need to know as soon as possible. If I don’t get what I came for – if you don’t give me the information I want – there will be consequences.’
‘What have I denied you?’ Kite replied. ‘What information do you need? Tell me and I’ll try to help.’
Torabi spoke quietly in Farsi. Kamran handed him a mobile phone. Kite heard the drum beats of a FaceTime call ringing out and the Iranian turned the screen towards him.
‘Speak to her.’
It took Kite a moment to understand what was happening. He tried to make sense of what was on the screen because at first he thought that he was looking at a blank image onto which someone had somehow projected his own reflection. Then Isobel’s confused, anxious face came into focus. Kite lurched forward, stunned.
‘Sweetheart?’ she said to him.
She was seated in a chair, looking down into the lens, flanked by two men whose faces Kite could not see.
‘What happened?’ he said. Kite pulled at the bonds on his wrists, wanting to attack Torabi, but he was unable to move. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Lockie? What’s going on? Where are you?’
She did not sound as frightened as she looked. There was a calmness in her voice which almost reassured him. He knew that, no matter what was done to her, she would not panic. She had been through a lot in her life and she would survive it.
‘Have they hurt you?’ he said. He was trying to identify where she was being held. ‘Where are you? Is the baby OK?’
‘Enough,’ said Torabi, reaching for the phone.
‘No, wait!’
The Iranian leaned closer towards him and whispered into his ear.
‘Tell her she’ll be fine. Tell her your precious baby won’t be harmed. Why? Because you’re going to cooperate. You’re going to tell the truth.’
‘Sweetheart, don’t worry,’ Kite said, shutting him out, defying him. ‘I’m fine. There’s been a misunderstanding. Are you feeling OK? Is the baby all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ Isobel replied. ‘Why are they holding you? You haven’t done anything. They think you’re a spy—’
Thank God for you, he thought. It was obvious that what was happening to them was linked to Kite’s work. Isobel was unaware of the existence of BOX 88, but knew enough about Kite’s work to protect him.
‘I know they do,’ he said. ‘They’re confused—’
Torabi snatched the phone back, breaking the connection.
‘I see your wife is well trained,’ he said, passing the mobile to the chauffeur. ‘We’re not confused. Perhaps she’s like you and Mr de Paul. Perhaps your wife also works for MI6?’
‘You piece of shit.’ Kite twisted from side to side, pulling at his bonds, but they would not slacken any further. ‘You’re insane. Let her go.’
Even as he confronted Torabi, Kite was working through the implications of the exchange. Why was Torabi again bringing up Cosmo de Paul? Around the edges of the screen he had seen a section of carpet which matched the living-room floor of the Sussex cottage. Why hadn’t the Iranians moved her from the one place where she might be found? And why was Torabi risking a FaceTime call that could be swept by
Cheltenham?’
‘We will let her go as soon as you cooperate.’
Kite shouted at him. ‘I have told you I will cooperate! She’s a pregnant woman, for Christ’s sake.’
He ached for his unborn child. Kamran stepped behind him and pulled down on his arms, the wire cutting into Kite’s wrists. He hissed in pain. His impotence in the face of these men was like the powerlessness he had felt as a child when his father had been drinking. Kite detested the loss of control, the impossibility of fighting back.
‘Lockie,’ said Torabi. ‘Can I call you that?’ He sat back in the sofa with a smug smile and indicated to Kamran that he should leave the room. ‘You can now see, in case you doubted it before, that I am a serious person who means to find out what I need to find out. Before this exchange with your wife, you may have believed that it was more important – more noble – to protect your employers than to save your own skin. The British can be sentimental like that. Maybe you put a low value on your own life. Who knows? But undoubtedly you value the life of Isobel and her unborn child. So perhaps their unfortunate situation will be enough to persuade you to stop wasting any more of my fucking time.’
23
‘Listen, Matt. You could have gone through your whole career without seeing something like that. We’re not dealing with normal people here. I’m sorry you were exposed to it. Not surprised you’re in a mess, not surprised at all. If it’s any consolation, Zoltan wasn’t a family man. No contact with his kids, no wife to leave behind as a widow, not many friends. The sort of person who would sell his soul to MOIS for a few grand and knowingly send a man to his death. I’m not saying he had it coming, but Zoltan Pavkov got in with the wrong crowd and paid the ultimate price.’
Tomkins and Vosse were sitting in the BMW somewhere in Whitechapel. Tomkins wasn’t sure where they had ended up or why Vosse had chosen this place to stop and debrief. He was barely listening to what the boss was saying. All he could think of was Zoltan’s jackknifed head, the bloodied neck slung back and opened up like intestines on a butcher’s slab. He kept picturing the frozen, terrified stare in Zoltan’s eyes, the horror of what had been done to him.
Box 88 : A Novel (2020) Page 18