Kite tried to imagine circumstances in which he was left alone in the villa while Xavier and the rest of the Bonnard family took off for the day with Eskandarian. He couldn’t think of one, but didn’t envisage that it would be too difficult to plant a bug without being seen by a third party. He could fake an illness, pretend to be suffering from sunstroke or a bad back. The possibilities were limitless.
‘What about photographing stuff?’ he asked. From day one he had hoped that he would be given a miniature camera, like something dreamed up by ‘Q’ Branch. ‘A couple of days ago Billy suggested you might need me to copy documents, that kind of thing.’
Strawson responded with another strong caveat against taking unnecessary chances.
‘Look, Lockie: again, only if the place is empty and you can guarantee being left undisturbed. Even then, is it likely Eskandarian is going to be leaving sensitive documents lying around the house? Maybe, maybe not. You own a camera?’
‘I do,’ Kite replied. ‘Olympus Trip.’
‘That’s a 35 mm, right?’ Strawson looked quickly at Peele. ‘We’ve had a lot of success with those in the past. Modified lens for close-up work. Trips are good because they’re small enough to fit into your pocket. If you do get the chance and the coast is clear, we’d be interested in Iranian and Libyan ministerial papers, documents in Arabic, Russian or Farsi, anything and everything that relates to subways, airlines, technological components, blueprints, diagrams of any kind. Mail is likely to be sent to the house, there may be government communiqués, bank statements and so forth. You see anything from Malta, you holler.’
‘Malta? Why Malta?’
‘Just holler.’ Strawson again caught Peele’s eye but, as ever, it was impossible to decrypt the secret that passed between them. ‘It’s an outside chance Eskandarian will leave anything out, but it’s worth at least giving ourselves that possibility. I’ll make a note to talk to the Falcons, and Billy can give you more detail once the camera is ready.’
By the time July drew to an end, Kite had been given a complete picture of what his work in France would entail. He was under no illusions that his friendship with Xavier, not to mention his reputation as a decent and trustworthy human being, would never recover should he be exposed. Everyone at Alford would know what he had done; the scandal would affect him for the rest of his life. This realisation in itself did not leave Kite feeling particularly anxious; if anything, he was exhilarated by the challenge BOX 88 were setting him and convinced that he could meet it. What concerned him was that Strawson and Peele weren’t being completely candid about the risks he was facing.
It was perhaps for this reason that Kite’s subconscious began to get the better of him. On at least four separate nights in Hampstead he was beset by dreams of inadequacy. In one textbook scenario, he marched out to bat for Alford in a cricket match at Lord’s only to discover that he had failed to put on his pads and gloves; in another, he was trapped in a spotlight on stage in front of an expectant audience of his peers with no clue as to what role he was playing nor what lines he was supposed to have learned. Needless to say, he said nothing about these dreams to Peele, instead consoling himself with Strawson’s views on the chances of being caught.
‘They’re never going to catch you because you’re never going to do anything suspicious. They find a microphone, you didn’t put it there. They search your room, somebody planted whatever they found. Carrying something incriminating? Same deal, you have no idea how it got there. You left your bag unattended, your room unlocked, bad people took advantage of that and tried to frame you. You’re just nice guy Lachlan Kite, son of Cheryl, old Alfordian, friend of Xavier Bonnard. Nobody knows your real mission is preventing the deaths of tens of thousands of people on the New York subway. There are no circumstances in which you can admit to working for BOX 88. Understand? Never confess, never break cover, never admit to being a spy.’
31
Kamran cut the wires behind Kite’s back. Kite had suffered a deep cut on top of the left wrist and had lost all feeling in his right hand. He made a fist with it, clenching and releasing the fingers while massaging the wrist. Torabi handed him a used tissue with which to mop up the blood.
‘I need to use the toilet,’ Kite told him as he was passed a bottle of water.
Torabi said something in Farsi and ordered Kite to stand up. Kite drained
