Dirty Little Secret (11 page)

‘Bagram isn’t exactly an open prison,’ Marchant said. ‘I can’t see a way to help if they take you there.’

‘The West’s senses have been sharpened by technology. Maybe all I’m asking for is a blind eye, a deaf ear.’

Marchant watched Dhar as he became lost in thought, studying the Binekhi label on the vodka bottle. Did he mean GCHQ?

‘When you first told me our father was not working for Moscow, I was shocked, angry,’ Dhar continued. ‘I had wanted to believe he was a Russian agent.’

Marchant thought back to the terrifying moment when he had broken the news to Dhar in the Russian SU-25 jet. Up until that point, Dhar had believed – hoped – that both Daniel and their father were Russian moles, all three of them united in their fight against America. But it hadn’t been as simple as that.

‘Our father didn’t like America,’ Marchant said. ‘But he never betrayed Britain.’

Dhar nodded, a distant smile in his eyes. ‘And I don’t expect you to betray your country either. My war is not with Britain, despite its weak attitude to America. This is the land of my father, and you have promised that my mother is safe here. But if you will not help with my escape, I cannot guarantee Britain’s safety. There are many brothers who wish to destroy this country. I can only do so much to stop them. They will be angry when I am taken – the talk is of a nuclear hellstorm – and only my freedom will bring you peace. Now you must go. The clumsy
kuffar
are waiting outside for the moment to strike. I saw them just now from the window, moving about like elephants in the orchard. But first we have a toast – to our joint
jihad
against America.’

The Increment had been briefed that Dhar had landed at Kemble earlier in the evening and it didn’t take long for the first team to find a bolt-cuttered hole in the airport perimeter fence. They made a bigger incision of their own and moved through in single file, the whites of their eyes bright against their blackened faces. There were several fields nearer the target where they could have landed, but the stakes were too high. Dhar was a professional, and Kemble airport gave them cover. No one would question a helicopter coming in to land there, even out of hours.

It was almost light by the time they reached Tarlton. They had kept to the edges of fields, moving quickly and silently in the morning mist. After splitting into two, one group approached the house across a field at the back, spreading out behind a dry-stone wall that marked the perimeter of the garden. The other moved down the single-lane track that led to the house and beyond to the chapel. When they reached the drive, they dispersed into the orchard and checked in with their forward reconnaissance colleagues, who confirmed Dhar’s presence in the house. They waited for the sound of a helicopter.

Fielding managed to slip back into Dolphin Square without his Special Branch protection officer spotting either him or Oleg. Two–nil to MI6. He carried the dog in his arms as he stepped through the tradesmen’s entrance of Nelson House, putting him down again once they were safely inside. Turner Munroe had taken them along the Embankment, up to Sloane Square and then back to Pimlico, promising to find out more about Russia’s penetration of MI6.

As Fielding let himself into his flat, he tried to think of a time when the Americans hadn’t accused Britain of harbouring a Moscow mole. For as long as he could remember, the CIA had been suspicious of Stephen Marchant. Their wariness had become part of the culture of MI6. And who could blame them, after the débâcle of Philby, who had been destined to become Chief after a stint in Washington? Spies had long memories.

He still couldn’t dismiss the possibility that the latest American intel was referring posthumously to Hugo Prentice. The Polish case against him had been strong. It was a tragedy that Prentice had been killed before he could be questioned. Fielding still struggled to accept that one of his oldest friends in the Service could have betrayed a network of Western agents in Poland.

If the Americans were convinced that he himself was the mole, as Munroe had suggested, he would have to deal with those allegations as and when they arose. His closeness to Stephen Marchant had never endeared him to Washington, but that would not be sufficiently damaging, given that the case against Marchant had never been proven. Unless the real mole had managed to frame him.

Fielding poured himself a small glass of malt, slid a Telemann cantata into the CD player and went over to his desktop Mac in the corner of the room. It was no longer possible to dismiss Ian Denton, who was now the obvious candidate to replace him as Chief. Fielding had been wrongfooted by his deputy’s ambition in recent days. Up until now Denton had seemed a born number two, happy to troubleshoot for his Chief, to complement his skills rather than challenge them. That was partly why Fielding had chosen him as his deputy.

Denton was the Moscow man to his camel trader. Between them, they made a good pair, had the world covered with their respective areas of expertise: Denton the SovBloc, Fielding the Arab world. But something in Denton had changed. An innate wariness of Washington had been replaced by a desire to please the Americans. And any personal loyalty had vanished too, giving way to a naked determination to succeed Fielding as Chief.

Fielding couldn’t blame Denton if he felt marginalised. He hadn’t been privy to Daniel Marchant’s fake defection or their plan to turn Salim Dhar. But it was still a long walk from disaffected deputy to traitor.

‘What do you reckon, Oleg?’ Fielding asked, logging into the Legoland network. ‘Is this the “unkindest cut of all”?’ Oleg raised his head from his cushion, then went back to sleep.

Fielding called up a secure personnel file on Denton, wanting to know more about his troubled relationship with Primakov, the man who had accused him of being a traitor. According to his Developed Vetting profile, a complaint had been made against Denton shortly after he had started working for the SovBloc Controllerate, while he was helping Stephen Marchant to run Nikolai Primakov. Both men had recently returned from Delhi, Marchant settling into a short London stint, Primakov rising up the KGB’s ranks in Moscow.

Primakov was constantly asking Denton when he could defect, something that was not in the young field officer’s gift. There was little love lost between them, and Primakov eventually requested for Denton to be replaced. His next batch of CX included information that suggested Denton was working for Moscow. The matter was discreetly investigated by MI6’s Director of Counter-Intelligence and Security, who dismissed the allegations out of hand. On this occasion, Primakov was judged to have been an unreliable source. As a precaution, though, Denton was transferred to another job. Had Primakov remained unreliable? Had Denton been falsely accused for a second time?

Fielding’s thoughts were interrupted by his landline ringing. It was the secure link to COBRA.

‘I thought you should know that we’ve found Salim Dhar,’ Denton said.

‘Congratulations. How did he find the Cotswolds?’

There was a pause on the line before Denton spoke quietly. ‘It would have been helpful if you’d told us.’

‘I think you mean it would have saved arses. It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?’

‘Nothing’s changed, Marcus. They just want me to oversee the search for Dhar.’

‘“They”?’

‘The Prime Minister’s office.’

At the request of the President, Fielding thought. ‘Will Spiro let everyone get back to work now? You’ve seen the scenes at Vauxhall, I presume.’

‘He’s promised to pull his men out once we’ve handed Dhar over. He thinks Marchant’s with him.’

‘So you haven’t actually got Dhar yet.’

‘Within the hour. Marchant too. Spiro wants a chat with them both.’

‘You remember what happened the last time they took Daniel?’ Marchant had been waterboarded at a black site in Poland, and might well have died if it hadn’t been for the intervention of Hugo Prentice.

‘That was before he helped to shoot down a US jet. I’m not sure we’ve got a choice. Besides, what the hell’s Marchant doing with Dhar anyway?’

Fielding understood his deputy’s frustration. It went to the heart of their differences: the continual denial of information about Daniel Marchant and Salim Dhar. Fielding was unable to answer him; more so now than ever.

After too many toasts to their shared
jihad
against America, Marchant changed into some of his old clothes. They were too small, but at least they were dry. He left Dhar sitting cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom and crept back down the stairs, keeping away from the windows. He knew he had to move fast. If Dhar was right, the ‘elephants’ would be storming the house within minutes. He didn’t want to be around when they arrived, although he would like to know if it was American or British special forces that Dhar had spotted in the garden.

He stopped in front of the fireplace in the hall and listened, holding the handgun that Dhar had insisted on giving him. Silence, only memories. It was more than twenty years since he and Sebbie had played together in the house. They used to spend hours honing a variation of hide and seek with the local farmers’ children. After being given two minutes to hide, the twins’ challenge was to get out of the house and into the garden without being seen. Every time they would emerge at the far end of the lawn, running back across the grass shrieking and laughing.

It was their first shared secret: the priest hole beside the fireplace, and the passage that led out to the garden. Their father had shown it to them on their sixth birthday, when they were brave enough to crawl down the tunnel with torches, but not old enough to understand why Catholic priests had once needed to hide.

Marchant didn’t have a torch now, and there was no time to look for one. After checking on the pilot, who was still tied to the stool, head bowed, he closed the kitchen door and went back to the fireplace. The pilot wouldn’t have much longer to wait before he was released. The fireplace was surrounded by oak panels, one of which, on the right-hand side, could be opened. He felt along the bevelling. At first he couldn’t find the latch, but then his fingers lifted a small wooden peg and the panel gave way, swinging back into the dark.

His father had always encouraged their games, and was particularly proud of this one. He had even joked once that the priest hole might come in handy when the men in white coats came to take him away. Now it was saving his son’s life. Marchant climbed into the cramped space and pulled the panel closed behind him. It didn’t feel right to be leaving Dhar on his own, but there was no other way. If he came with him, they would survive on the run for a few days at the most. The only chance for him to be free again was to be taken alive.

Marchant stayed still for a few moments, crouching in the confined space as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His sense of balance had gone. One sip of vodka would have been enough to placate Dhar. He should have taken a single slug and passed the bottle back. Instead he had gone down to the cellar for the Bruichladdich.

The oldest parts of the house dated back to the sixteenth century, when it had been built by a wealthy Catholic family that was fearful of being caught at prayer. There used to be a concealed chapel in the loft, linked to the priest hole in the hall by hidden stairs that ran up the outside of the chimney block, but a fire in the early 1900s had destroyed the roof, which had subsequently been rebuilt.

He felt his way forward, crawling over the damp, mud-like floor. He had always gone first, Sebbie following behind, both trying not to be frightened. Their fear was usually outweighed by the thought of running down the lawn towards their startled friends, except for one time, when their torch had died. Sebbie had panicked and started to sob in the darkness. Marchant had kept going, his own fear rising. He should have stopped to comfort his brother, and he felt guilty again now as he moved slowly down the sloping tunnel, wondering what was happening above.

Dhar knew it was a gamble, but he had run out of options. It felt strange being unarmed, but by giving Marchant his gun he hoped he might prolong both their lives. The first few seconds would be crucial. He had to look as passive as possible, hands clear of his body. The cowardly
kuffar
were terrified of suicide belts, so he stood up from the cushions, and almost fell over as his leg collapsed beneath him. He told himself it was the wound, but he knew it was the alcohol. It had tricked the winch man on the cliffs and kept the pain at bay for a time, but opening the whisky had been a mistake. Never would he let such vile liquid cross his lips again.

Leaning against the bed, he unzipped the flying suit and turned it down at the waist, revealing his bare, skinny torso, thin wisps of black hair on his chest. He caught sight of himself in a mirror by the door, and saw that his shoulders were red and bruised. Then he moved closer to the mirror and looked at his eyes, which were tired and bloodshot. Had there really been no other choice but to come here? He cursed himself again for the drink and tried to clear his head, thinking through the choices that had been open to him.

But he knew, as he heard the first sounds of an approaching helicopter, that there had never been any choice. The decision to come here hadn’t been about his future but his past, over which he had no control. His need to see his father’s house, to feel the security of a family home that had been denied to him, had been overwhelming.

He turned and sat down in the middle of the floor, putting a hand out to stop himself from falling. Then, ignoring the pain, he crossed his legs, closed his eyes and rested his hands on his knees, pressing his thumbs and index fingers together, just as his mother had taught him.
Samyama
meditation had helped them both get through the darkest days in Delhi, until he had finally had enough and fled for Kashmir.

This time there would be no running away.

Marchant saw the helicopter before he heard it. He had been scanning the horizon to the west, more out of habit than anything else. It was where he and Sebbie used to look for the Hawker Hunters taking off from Kemble. His instinct was to get as far away from the house as possible, but he knew that ground troops were already in position in the garden and would see him. He was lucky they hadn’t spotted him already.