A Divided Spy: A gripping espionage thriller from the master of the modern spy novel. Charles Cumming
gratitude, thanking the Englishman as effusively as he could manage. So great was his relief that he felt he might be on the verge of laughter.
‘Did they attack you?’ the man asked. ‘Did they take anything?’
‘No,’ Bernhard replied. ‘You were extraordinary. I do not know what happened. Thank you.’
‘Stay here,’ said the neighbour and re-opened the door. He walked back along the passageway until he was standing outside on the street. The Somali had disappeared. The neighbour then took a tissue from his pocket, bent down and mopped up the blood that had spilled on the ground. At that moment, Bernhard heard the motorbike catch and roar, buzzing past the Englishman, who swore loudly – ‘Fuck you!’ – as the Eastern European made his escape.
‘Did you get the licence plate?’ Bernhard asked, when the man had come back into the foyer.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he replied.
‘Never mind. Probably it was a stolen bike.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Probably it was.’
The two men stood face to face in the lobby. One of them was in a state of advanced shock. The other was pleased that the plan he had so meticulously prepared had come off without a hitch.
Thomas Kell, the brave, resourceful English neighbour who had come to the aid of Bernhard Riedle, placed a comforting hand on the German’s back and felt the quick surge and drop of his chest as he struggled to control his breathing. Riedle put out a hand to steady himself against the wall of the lobby and looked across at Kell.
‘I cannot thank you enough,’ he said. ‘Without your help …’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Kell replied. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
Riedle had a kind, friendly face, solid and bespectacled. It was a face Kell warmed to immediately. Riedle took a moment to gather himself, then quite literally dusted himself down, running his hands along his sleeves and down his thighs as though trying to drive away all evidence of contact with his attackers.
‘You said you didn’t lose anything?’ Kell asked. ‘They didn’t take any of your money?’
‘You didn’t give them a chance,’ Riedle’s face broke into a relieved smile. ‘They took nothing.’
Kell introduced himself as ‘Peter’ and explained that he had been coming back from eating dinner at a local restaurant. Riedle – to Kell’s surprise – introduced himself as ‘Bernie’, a nickname that had not come up in any of the surveillance of his email traffic. Taking advantage of the German’s mood of heartfelt gratitude, Kell suggested that he accompany him to his apartment and sit with him until he had completely recovered from the shock of the attack. To Kell’s relief, Bernhard happily agreed to the idea, adding that he was mesmerized by the skill and professionalism with which his neighbour had disarmed and chased off his assailants.
‘Were you once a soldier?’ he asked as they walked side by side up the stairs.
‘Not as such,’ Kell replied. ‘In a former life I worked as a diplomat, often in some fairly hairy places. Kenya. Iraq. Afghanistan. I was taught a bit of self-defence, you know? Luckily I very rarely get a chance to use it.’
‘Well, I am extremely grateful to you.’ They had reached the door. Riedle took out a set of keys. He was several inches shorter than Kell, who could see a small summer insect trapped in the light white hairs on the crown of his head. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if you had not appeared,’ he said, turning the key and ushering his guest inside. Kell walked into the hall and heard the thunk and click of a sliding bolt as Riedle closed the door behind them. ‘He had a knife. You cut him.’
‘He cut himself.’ Kell noted the same off-the-peg watercolours, candlesticks and soft furnishings that adorned his own apartment, two floors above. Clearly the developers had bought dozens of the same items in a job lot, distributing them evenly throughout the building. The layout of the rooms was also identical. A kitchen off the hall, a bedroom and bathroom to the rear of the apartment. ‘But not seriously,’ he said. ‘The blade must have touched his wrist as I went to disarm him.’
Riedle listened intently, though Kell was spinning a further deceit. The man who had been holding the knife was a former Polish intelligence officer named Rafal Suda whom Kell had met many years earlier while working on an SIS operation in Gdansk. Rafal had snapped open a small vial of theatrical blood that had dripped, effectively enough, on to the cobbles. His accomplice, Xavier Baeyens, a retired Belgian Customs official, had acquired the motorbike on which Suda had made his escape. He had stripped the plates, fudged the insurance, and put enough petrol in the tank to get to Bruges.
‘Should I call the police?’ Riedle asked.
It was a question Kell had been expecting and one for which he had prepared a suitably tortured answer.
‘It’s difficult,’ he said. ‘The same thing happened to a friend of mine in London recently. Broad daylight, cameras everywhere, two witnesses to a mugging at knifepoint. She lost her bag, her wedding ring, a cellphone, about three hundred pounds in cash. The police did nothing. They tried, of course, but it was impossible to track down the men who had attacked her. She got lost in weeks of bureaucracy and eventually nothing came of it.’
Riedle was momentarily frustrated. He wanted justice. Kell could see it in his face.
‘But they looked like drug dealers and local criminals,’ he said. ‘There might be photographs on file at the … the …’ He struggled for the correct English term. ‘Commissariat? Precinct?’
‘Police station,’ said Kell.
‘Yes. We could identify them.’
The brave English neighbour managed to look suitably dismayed by this idea.
‘If you need to do that, Bernie, of course I’d be happy to help. But I’m very busy with work and, being one hundred per cent honest, slightly reluctant to get dragged into a court case. I live in London, I’d have to keep coming back and forth to Brussels. You seem unharmed. Nothing was stolen, so you have no need to file an insurance claim. But of course if you want to …’
Riedle nodded. He could hardly ask Peter to waste time speaking to the police, to assist in pressing charges or to travel regularly from London to Brussels to stand as a witness in any ensuing trial. It was just a street mugging, after all. He had lost nothing but his dignity. It would be best for Riedle to comply with the wishes of the man who had so uncomplainingly come to his rescue.
‘Of course, of course,’ he said, turning towards the kitchen. He gestured at Kell to sit down. ‘Better to have a drink and forget all about it. These scum will never be found.’
As Kell muttered ‘Yes’, the mobile phone in his jacket buzzed with an incoming text. He assumed it was Harold, sitting upstairs in the rented apartment on the fourth floor, doubtless helping himself to a large tumbler of Kell’s single malt. Mowbray had been waiting in the lobby as Kell approached the passageway on Rue des Chartreux, ready to intercept any neighbour who threatened to leave the building while the mugging was taking place.
Kell checked the phone. It was a text from Rafal. He had met up with Xavier. They had abandoned the motorbike. Kell gave them the all-clear and thanked them for a job well done. Suda was due to return to Poland the next day, Xavier to take a ten-day holiday in Accra. Kell was putting the phone back in his pocket when Riedle appeared from the kitchen.
‘Can I make you a drink?’
Kell asked for whisky. His commitment to remaining on the wagon had lasted only until his first night in Brussels, when he had succumbed to the temptation of a glass of Talisker. He was not yet back on the cigarettes, but reckoned the Minasian operation would have him on twenty