‘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
