microphones would pick up.
You coldly announce that you are still in love with Vera, that you are now disgusted by your true sexuality, by what passed between us. How do you think that makes me feel? You tell me that you still love her, that you now find Vera attractive, when we both know this is a lie. You have never wanted to be with her in that way. Why now? Why the change? Then you told me on the telephone that you feel more relaxed in her company than you ever did with me. What kind of a person says those things?
A sociopath says those things, thought Kell. Someone incapable of compassion, of feeling anything but contempt for those who might ask something of them.
I always admired your commitment to the ‘truth’. There had been so many lies in my own life when we met that I found your determination to act honestly in all things captivating. But I realize now that you are a hypocrite. Your ‘truth’ is just what suits you at the time. It disguises your ruthlessness, because you are indeed ruthless and unkind. You lie to Vera, you lie to me, you lie to your unborn children. You lie to yourself.
Kell no longer knew if he was reading the email for operational reasons or purely out of human fascination. He worried that Riedle’s anger and spite, if it continued, would drive Minasian further and further away. At times he sounded like a man who had lost all reason and context.
You have left me, but you have not tried to soften the blow or to use the simple white lies people use in these situations when they care about not hurting a lover. What I hope for, what I need, is a small amount of compassion, of kindness, some sense that what we have been through together over the past three yearsmeanssomething to you. All I am asking for is a sense that you understand and are sensitive to the depth of my love for you. You know, better than anyone has ever known, how I think and how I feel and how difficult my life is now that you are not in it – and yet you treat me as if I was no more important to you than a boy picked up in a sauna.
There was more. Much more. The suggestion that Minasian, a year earlier, had been introduced to one of Riedle’s friends and had slept with him. The accusation that he had taunted Riedle continuously with stories about the men (and women) he met in different European cities while working for the bank. There had clearly been a sado-masochistic element to the relationship which Minasian had encouraged and enjoyed. Added to what Riedle had told Kell at dinner about Minasian’s aggressive, sullen behaviour, the relationship amounted to a catalogue of emotional abuse. Kell wanted to go downstairs, to knock on Riedle’s door, ask him why the hell he had put up with it for so long, and then pour him a large Scotch.
He clicked to the second email. It was, as Kell expected, a brief reply from Minasian, written four days after Riedle’s message, with no Subject line. The language was distant, cold and supremely controlled.
I hoped that you would behave with more dignity, more courage. If you write to me like this again I will have nothing more to do with you. I refuse to engage with your insults and accusations.
Kell noted the absence of any consoling words. Nothing to acknowledge Riedle’s pain or the accusation of infidelity. Nevertheless, Minasian was holding out the possibility of further interaction in the future.
Riedle had replied within twelve hours. Kell clicked to this final email.
I am very sorry. I was angry. Please don’t vanish. I am happy to be friends. I just want to keep you in my life and to try to understand what is happening to us.
You are so strong. I don’t think you have ever known heartbreak. I know that you have felt isolated and alone. I know that you have felt a panic about the structure of your life. But you have never known what it is to feel passed over, exchanged – the madness of loss. You have never lost somebody that you were not ready to lose, a person who felt, as I do, that you were holding his entire happiness in the palm of your hand. It’s like you have closed your hand. Made a fist. I need to be treated with delicacy, with kindness and compassion. Please provide this. I am begging you.
I am very sorry for the things I said. I did not mean them. Please consider what I said about Brussels. I can come and meet you anywhere, even if it’s just for lunch (or a cup of coffee!) In Egypt you said you had a period coming up in Paris. That would be perfect – I can be at the Gare du Nord in less than two hours from Brussels.
Kell drained the whisky, thinking of Paris, of Brasserie Lipp, remembering Amelia’s kidnapped son and the operation three years earlier, in which Kell had played the pivotal role in securing his release. On a pad beside the computer he began to write notes. The first word he wrote, in capitals, was CONTROL, beneath which he began to sketch out his ideas in more detail.
1. Power and control central to M’s personality. Must retain a position of dominance. What is he afraid of if he loses control? What is the vulnerability/insecurity we can exploit? The secret about his sexuality – or something else?
2. For R to be this upset/deranged, there must be huge charisma. Charm, apparent empathy, patience, sensuality. M extremely attractive – to young and old, male and female. He demands adoration. He nurtures it. So this must be partly cultivated, artificial behaviour.
Chameleon. Adapts himself to give people what they need for as long as he needs them.
3. According to R, M is highly judgmental/opinionated. Does he also react badly to criticism? Gloating self-image? Ask R in more detail.
4. What does M want? What can we give him? Do we flatter, or squeeze?
‘What are you writing?’
Mowbray had appeared beside him. Kell covered up part of the notes with his elbow, like a card player wary of revealing his hand.
‘Just some initial thoughts on Minasian.’
‘Yeah? Sounds like a nice fella, doesn’t he?’ Mowbray’s shirt smelled of cigarette smoke. ‘Real piece of work. Chewed up our Bernie and spat him out.’
‘Yes,’ Kell agreed. ‘He was out of his depth. Can’t have had any idea what he was getting into.’
Mowbray leaned over, his breath stale with whisky.
‘Flatter or squeeze. What does that mean?’
‘Exactly what it says.’ Kell was annoyed that Mowbray was being intrusive. ‘Either I make Minasian feel like top dog, tell him how great he is, feed his ego and his self-image, or I find out what it is that he’s hiding – and squeeze him.’
‘Hiding? You mean above and beyond the fact that he’s married to the daughter of a Russian oligarch but secretly likes taking it up the jacksie?’
Kell couldn’t contain a burst of laughter. ‘That may be all there is to it,’ he said. ‘Just that secret. Just Riedle. But I was interested by something Bernie said at dinner, very early on. That he thinks of Russians as corrupt, greedy. Wouldn’t surprise me if Minasian is involved in something illegal. Something financial, possibly linked to Svetlana’s father.’
‘You think he would have told Bernie about that?’
‘Who knows?’ Kell closed the laptop. ‘The system out there would certainly present a man in Minasian’s position with myriad opportunities to squirrel away some cash for a rainy day. He’s a vain man. A controlling man. A narcissist, for want of a better word. If he’s threatened by his father-in-law’s wealth, if Svetlana’s lifestyle is an affront to his masculinity and his sense of his own
