Free A Colder War by Charles Cumming

atmosphere of broad agreement which had grown up between the two of them, a relaxed complicity.
    “I don’t know,” Marianna replied. “I never saw him again.”
    “Was he as handsome as Mr. Wallinger?”
    Kell put a grin on the question, trawling for a description in a way that he hoped would not raise Marianna’s suspicions.
    “Oh, no!” she said, obliging him. “He was younger, but he had a beard, and I don’t like beards. I think the villa was rented by a woman. In fact, I am sure of that, because I spoke with her on the telephone.”
    This was the name Kell needed. Find the woman and he could find the man. He was sure of it.
    “I don’t want to get you into trouble,” he said, suggesting quite the opposite with his eyes.
    “What do you mean?”
    “All I would need is a copy of the rental agreement. If there’s nothing sinister or illegal going on, it would really save me a lot of…”
    Marianna did not even bother to hear him out. They were friends now—perhaps more than that. Mr. Hardwick had successfully earned her trust. She leaned forward and at last touched the top of his wrist. Kell heard the buzz of a moped as it tore along the port, the crack of seagulls circling above the restaurant.
    “No problem,” she said. “Where are you staying? How would be the best way of sending it? I could fax?”
    *   *   *
    Three hours later, lying on his bed, almost halfway through My Name Is Red, Kell heard a knock at the door of his hotel room. He opened it to find the same receptionist who had assisted him with the recorded message the previous evening. She was holding up a piece of paper.
    “Fax.”
    Kell tipped her five euros and went back into the room. Marianna had sent through the rental agreement, as well as a short handwritten note scribbled at the top of the page: “Great to meet you! Hope to see you again!” The document was dual-language, so Kell was able to see that the villa in question had been rented, at a cost of € 2,500, for the seven days prior to the crash. There was no sign of Wallinger’s name on the document, only the signature and date of birth of a woman who had given a Hungarian passport and cell phone number for ID. Seeing her handwriting, Kell felt the mystery of Rachel’s note opening in front of him like a blooming flower. Checking the camera roll on his iPhone, he saw that there was a clear match with the signature on the rental agreement.
    He was on the phone to Tamas Metka within minutes.
    “Tom!” he exclaimed. “Tell me. Why am I so popular all of a sudden?”
    “I need a profile on somebody. Hungarian passport holder.”
    “Is he the poet?”
    Kell laughed. “Not he. She. Our usual arrangement?”
    “Sure. The name?”
    “Sandor,” Kell replied, reaching for a packet of cigarettes. “Cecilia Sandor.”

 
    11
     
    The force of her grief had astonished Rachel Wallinger. She had spent the greater part of her adult life thinking that her father was a liar, a cheat, a man of no substance, an absence from the heart of his own family. Yet now that he was gone, she missed him as she had never missed anyone or anything before.
    How was it possible to grieve for a man who had betrayed her mother, time and again? Why was she suffering for a father who had shown her so little in the way of attention and love? Rachel had not respected Paul Wallinger, she had not even particularly liked him. When asked by friends to describe their relationship, she had always given a version of the same response—“He’s a diplomat. We grew up all around the world. I hardly ever saw him.” Yet the truth was more complex and one she kept to herself. That her father was a spy. That he had used his family as cover for his clandestine activities. That his secret life on behalf of the state had afforded him an opportunity to enjoy a secret life of the heart as well.
    At fifteen, while the Wallinger family was living in Egypt, Rachel had come home early from school to find her father