perfect. It’s your way of saying it.’
It was good to hear the music of her voice again, the mischief in it. ‘OK. So I take a look at this man’s computers, take the phones and maybe the drives back to Rome for analysis.’
‘The phones?’ Kell followed her into the office and watched as Elsa powered up Wallinger’s desktop.
‘Sure. He had two cell phones in Ankara. One of the SIM cards from his personal phone was recovered from the aeroplane.’
Kell did not disguise his astonishment. ‘What?’
‘You did not know this?’
‘I’m playing catch-up.’ Elsa squinted, either because she did not understand the expression, or because she was surprised that Kell appeared so far off his game. ‘Amelia only brought me in a few days ago.’
During the operation in which they had first worked together, Kell had spoken to Elsa about his role in the interrogation of Yassin Gharani. She knew that he had been sidelined by SIS, but made it clear that she believed in Kell’s innocence. For this, she occupied a special place in his affections, not least because her trust had been more than Claire had ever been able to afford him.
‘You’re going to Istanbul?’ she asked.
‘As soon as I’m done with the Americans. You?’
‘I think so, yes. Maybe. There is Wallinger’s house there? And of course a Station.’
Kell nodded. ‘And where there is a Station, there are computers for Elsa Cassani.’
The booting desktop played an accompaniment to Kell’s remark, a rising scale of digitized notes issuing from two speakers on Wallinger’s desk. Elsa tapped something into the keyboard. It was only then that Kell saw the ring on her finger.
‘You got engaged?’ he said, and experienced a sense of dismay that surprised him.
‘Married!’ she replied, and held up the ring as though she expected Kell to be as pleased as she was. Why was he not glad for her? Had he become so cynical about marriage that the prospect of a woman as lively, as full of promise as Elsa Cassani walking up the aisle filled him with dread? If so, these were cynical, almost nihilistic thoughts of which he was not proud. There was every chance that she would find great happiness. Plenty did. ‘Who’s the lucky man?’
‘He is German,’ she said. ‘A musician.’
‘Rock band?’
‘No, classical.’ She was about to show Kell a photograph from her wallet when his phone began to ring.
It was Tamas Metka.
‘Can you speak?’ The Hungarian explained that he was calling from a phone box across the street from the bar in Szolnok. Kell gave him the number of the secure telephone in Wallinger’s bedroom and walked upstairs. Two minutes later, Metka rang back.
‘So,’ he said, a strain of irony in his voice. ‘Turns out you may have met this Miss Sandor.’
‘Really?’
‘She used to be one of us.’
Why wasn’t Kell surprised? Wallinger was most likely having yet another affair with yet another female colleague.
‘A spook?’
‘A spook,’ Metka confirmed. ‘I took a look at the files. She worked several times alongside SIS, Five. She was with us until three years ago.’
‘Us meaning she’s Hungarian?’
‘Yes.’
‘Private sector now?’
‘No.’ There was a smothering roar on the line, the sound of a truck or bus driving past the phone booth. Metka waited until it had passed. ‘Nowadays she owns a restaurant on Lopud.’
‘Lopud?’
‘Croatia. One of the islands off Dubrovnik.’
Kell was sitting on Wallinger’s bed. He picked up the biography of LBJ, turned it over in his hand, skimmed the quotes on the back.
‘Is she married?’ he asked.
‘Divorced.’
‘Kids?’
‘None.’
Metka emitted a gusty laugh. ‘Why do you want to know about her, anyway? You fallen in love with a beautiful Magyar poet, Tom?’
So Cecilia was beautiful, too. Of course she was.
‘Not me. Somebody else.’ Kell had replied as though Wallinger was still alive, still involved with Sandor. ‘Why did she leave the NSA?’
A phone rang on the ground floor of the villa. Kell heard Elsa’s voice as she answered – ‘Pronto!’ Maybe it was her husband calling. Putting the book back on the bedside table, it fell open to a page that had been marked by what looked like a photograph. Kell picked it up.
‘I’m not certain why,’ Metka replied. Kell, now only half-listening, turned the photograph around. He was astonished to see that it was a picture of Amelia.
‘Say that again,’ he said, buying time as he came to terms with what he was looking at.
‘I said I don’t know why she left us. What I saw of her file showed that it was in ’09. Voluntary.’
In the photograph, which had been taken perhaps ten or fifteen years earlier, in the full flush of Amelia’s affair with Wallinger, she was sitting in a crowded restaurant. There was a glass of white wine in front of her, a blurred waiter in a white jacket passing to the left of her chair. She was tanned and wearing a strapless cream dress with a gold necklace that Kell had seen only once before: it was identical to the one Amelia had worn at Wallinger’s funeral. She was perhaps forty in the picture and looked extraordinarily beautiful, but also profoundly content, as though she had at last attained a kind of inner peace. Kell could not remember ever having seen Amelia so at ease.
‘She still had security clearance,’ Metka was saying. ‘There was nothing negative recorded against her.’
Kell put the photograph back in the book and tried to think of something to say. ‘The restaurant?’ he asked.
‘What about it?’
‘You got a name? An address on Lopud?’
He knew that he was going to have to find Cecilia Sandor, to talk to her. She was the key to everything now.
‘Oh sure,’ said Metka. ‘I’ve got the address.’
The
