‘When you say that I’m a spy and I’ve somehow been trained for this eventuality, that I get kidnapped in broad daylight all the time and this is somehow a normal day for me, the only truthful thing I can tell you is that you really do have the wrong person.’
Torabi sighed heavily and looked along the couch, as though a third party in the otherwise empty room might have heard what Kite had said and been similarly disappointed.
‘You see, buddy, this is what I didn’t want us to go through. Next thing you’ll be telling me you need urgent medication for Type 2 diabetes or high blood pressure or whatever they teach you to say to buy yourself time—’
‘If I could just finish—’
‘Sure. Go ahead.’
Kite moved towards a more detailed denial using what he knew about Xavier’s personality.
‘I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘I don’t have diabetes. I don’t have high blood pressure. You mentioned Martha in the car.’ Torabi looked up expectantly. ‘You mentioned Ali Eskandarian. You were with Xavier in Paris and clearly asked him what happened when we first left school a very long time ago in the summer of 1989. Is that right?’
‘The summer in France. Yes.’
Kite knew that he was on the right track. He took a deep breath.
‘Because I’ve spent so much time in the last thirty years travelling overseas, Xavier always believed that I worked for MI6. He wasn’t alone. A lot of people have come to that conclusion. In fact there was even a guy I spoke to at the funeral who told me he thought I was a spook. I’m not, Ramin. Never have been. You’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘So where did you learn to fight like that?’
It was the obvious flaw in Kite’s strategy. He had reacted quickly and violently to the Iranians in a way that was highly unusual for an ordinary citizen. An instinctive lie jumped to his rescue.
‘I didn’t say I couldn’t defend myself,’ he said. ‘I was mugged when I was thirty and I’ve been doing martial arts ever since. You obviously weren’t who you said you were. I recognised the word “jakesh” and was pretty sure your driver was calling me a “pimp”. You weren’t familiar with Alford, despite claiming you’d been there as a boy. You were driving away from the restaurant and taking me into a car park with a bunch of heavies in black suits waiting on the road. I got scared. As you no doubt know, I’m a rich man. I travel in South America and the Middle East. My company takes out substantial kidnap and ransom insurance for its employees. I thought you were after my money.’
Torabi appeared to have stopped listening. He turned towards the door and shouted: ‘Kamran!’
The chauffeur walked in. This time he was wearing sunglasses to cover the black eye. Kite would have found it funny had Torabi not stood up, walked behind his chair and put his hands on Kite’s shoulders.
‘Ask the prisoner if he works for MI6,’ he said. ‘If he denies it again, break one of the fingers on his right hand.’
7
Five hundred miles away, Xavier Bonnard’s good friend Jahan Fariba woke up in a Frankfurt hotel room with no idea of the time and no memory of having gone to bed. He felt exceptionally well rested, but anxious and uncertain. Bright sunlight was visible around the edges of the curtains. There was a light on beside the television, another in the bathroom.
He looked towards the bedside table but could not see his phone, which he usually left charging overnight. It was only then that he discovered he was still partially dressed. Pressing his feet together under the duvet, Jahan realised that he was wearing a pair of socks. Pushing back the duvet, he saw that he was wearing the same shirt he had worn on the previous day for the meeting with the Iranians. He always took his watch off last thing at night, but it was still on his wrist.
He looked at the time. It was just after three o’clock. At first Jahan assumed that it was three o’clock in the morning, but the sunlight outside contradicted this. Perhaps his watch had stopped? But the second hand was moving as normal and the date had moved forward. It was the day of Xavier’s funeral. Jahan had been due to catch a 7 a.m. flight to London. With a mixture of bewilderment and intense frustration, he realised that he had overslept.
How was it possible? He sat up in bed and looked around for something to drink. Padding into the bathroom, he drank several mouthfuls of lukewarm water, scooping it into his mouth from the tap. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, trying to remember what had happened the night before. He had met the Iranians in the lobby. Early evening drinks had turned into dinner, dinner had turned into … what? He had no recollection of anything that had taken place after they had sat down in the restaurant. There had been beers during the meeting, then probably some wine with the meal. Jahan was not a heavy drinker but he could usually hold his liquor. Certainly he had no memory of the night descending into cocktails and digestifs. Christ. Had he collapsed and been dragged to the room by the Iranians? Had they quietly called the front desk and arranged for Mr Fariba to be escorted back to his room? If that was the case, it was probably the end of the business deal.
Jahan found his suit jacket in a heap on the floor. He picked it up and went through the pockets, looking for his phone. There were four messages from his wife in Rome, half a dozen from various friends, as well as a text from the airline noting that he had failed to make his flight. A couple of old Alfordians who had been expecting to see him
