Dirty Little Secret (31 page)

Harriet Armstrong looked at her watch as the PM welcomed everyone. Marchant was due to ring in two minutes’ time, at 9 a.m. She glanced up at the screen at the end of the room, top right of a grid of eight. It was here that Marchant would appear if he called. Before the meeting had started, she had spoken to the member of staff who looked after COBRA’s communications, explaining that she was expecting an important call from an officer in the field. The young woman had agreed to patch it through on the speakers and up on screen four.

The PM had eyes only for Armstrong as he talked. Responsibility for Britain’s safety seemed to rest on her shoulders alone. She didn’t think her job could get any worse, but the bomb in Edinburgh had proved her wrong. It was a miracle that nobody had been killed. She felt an acute sense of personal failure – she always did whenever a terrorist managed to get through. The PM had remained civil when she had briefed him, but it was clear that he felt she was failing too.

The phone call from Marchant yesterday had only added to her problems. She didn’t know whether to trust him, but mention of Fielding had offered some reassurance. She missed the former Chief’s measured authority, his lapidary asides, particularly at COBRA meetings like this one. After listening to Marchant’s allegations about Denton, she had invoked the Regulation of Interceptions Act to retrieve archive CCTV footage from the Clapham Junction branch of Waitrose. Sure enough, the acting Chief of MI6 was there, just before closing time, shopping for one.

It was a faintly tragic scene, one she could relate to. She had been buying single portions ever since her husband had left her. But there was no evidence of any exchange of information using barcode scanners. No Russians, either. But Denton was too experienced to operate within the sightlines of security cameras. She would have to see what Marchant came up with.

The PM had turned to introduce Spiro, who had the haunted look of a prisoner of war, hands bandaged, a face that had not slept. Compared to him, the others around the table appeared strong and healthy, which Armstrong knew was not true. The airless room was like a morgue, staffed by the dead. She hoped to God the bombings would stop soon. Britain and those appointed to protect her couldn’t take much more. But there were few leads, and no sign of respite.

As Spiro began to talk she heard the sound of an internet call. She nodded at the female member of staff, glanced at Denton and took a deep breath.

Spiro knew the voice as soon as he heard it, but it was still a shock when the image of Daniel Marchant flickered into life on one of the screens behind him. He turned his leather-backed chair around to take a proper look, realising he had lost his audience to a bigger act.

‘Sorry to interrupt the war on terror, but there’s something I need to share with you,’ Marchant began. His voice was clear, but the image was buffering.

There was a flurry of activity to Spiro’s left, where the Director of GCHQ was now on his feet. At the other end of the table, an adviser whispered urgently in the Prime Minister’s ear.

‘Who put this through?’ the Director asked. ‘Which address did he dial into? DPI will track it, work out where he’s calling from.’

‘I didn’t quite catch that, but it’s a waste of time if you’re trying to establish my location with Deep Packet Inspection,’ Marchant said. ‘I’m using an anonymous network via a proxy server in Lichtenstein – oh yes, and I accessed it through a botnet.’

The Director hesitated for a moment before sitting down. Like Spiro, he knew there was no chance of getting any authorities in Lichtenstein to help track down the call. Marchant could be anywhere. And even if IT forensics did manage to trace the call back to a computer, which might take days, the botnet meant they would probably kick down the wrong door and arrest a spotty teenager in Poland playing World of Warcraft.

‘It’s been painful viewing to see my country under attack and not be able to do anything about it,’ Marchant continued. His image had now stabilised on the screen and was synced with his voice, which was being relayed through speakers on either side of the bank of screens. ‘But I think the attacks will stop now that Salim Dhar’s out of jail.’

Now that you’ve sprung him, Spiro thought. He considered standing up, telling everyone what Lakshmi had overheard, that Marchant was a fraud, but it wasn’t clear if the microphones on the table were working. Not that anyone would be listening. The room was mesmerised by the sight of Marchant on the screen. He looked like a backpacker who had crashed a dinner party. His straw-blond hair was tousled, his collarless shirt unbuttoned too far.

‘There are those, I know, who think I am in some way responsible for the attacks,’ Marchant said. ‘The Americans, for example.’

‘Too damn right.’ Spiro could contain himself no longer. To his surprise, Marchant appeared to have heard him.

‘Things are worse than I thought if the CIA is running COBRA,’ he said.

‘Hand yourself in, Marchant,’ Spiro heckled. ‘Myers has told us everything.’

It was a lie, of course. Denton had failed to get a single frickin’ word out of Myers down at Fairford. Marchant continued speaking, unfazed. Perhaps the audio link had dropped.

‘But it’s not just Jim Spiro who’s trying to frame me,’ he said. ‘It’s also Ian Denton, who I hope is present.’

Everyone turned to the acting Chief of MI6, who remained motionless in his seat next to Spiro. The temperature in the airless room was rising. There was no Whitehall protocol for this sort of thing. It had never happened before. Only Harriet Armstrong seemed relaxed, watching the screen with interest rather than alarm. Spiro wondered what she knew.

‘We should patch this call through to Fort Meade,’ he whispered to Denton, loud enough for the Director of GCHQ to hear. ‘Their DPI would track it in seconds.’

Spiro knew this was another lie, but he said it to reassure himself. He didn’t like the way Marchant had rounded on Denton. The Ambassador’s words were still ringing in his ears, along with all the other noises in his ears:
Don’t get too close to Denton.

‘As you all know, my old Chief, Marcus Fielding, had to leave the country in a bit of a hurry,’ Marchant continued. ‘He wasn’t defecting – of course he bloody wasn’t. He was forced out of office by a bitter deputy who saw an opportunity to discredit him – and me.’

Again, all faces swung round to Denton, as if they were watching a tennis match.

‘I know my presence in the cockpit of the Russian SU-25 was unorthodox.’

Unorthodox? Spiro had heard enough. He stood up, gesturing at the screen.

‘This man was party to an act of war against the United States. What are you guys doing just sitting here, letting him run circles around you? He’s gone rogue. His half-brother is Salim Dhar, for Chrissake. He’s as good as a terrorist himself. After shooting down a US Air Force plane, he bombed GCHQ. What more frickin’ evidence do you need?’

‘Jim, we just need to hear what Marchant’s got to say,’ the PM said. ‘Unlike your country, ours is being subjected to a sustained terrorist assault, and so far we don’t have too much to go on.’

‘And you think this guy will help you? I’ll give you a lead. He just sprung Salim Dhar from Bagram jail.’

There was silence for a moment. Marchant appeared to have heard Spiro’s outburst, and had paused, looking down and to the side like a confused interviewee on a live TV programme. Spiro sat down. He hoped Denton might say something to back him up, but he had withdrawn into himself, lowered his lizard eyes, the way he used to do.

‘As I was saying,’ Marchant continued. ‘I’m aware my recent actions have thrown up more questions than answers – about me and Marcus Fielding. One day I hope both of us can explain everything. In the meantime, there’s something you should all know about Ian Denton. His rise to become Chief of MI6 – acting Chief – was not driven by personal ambition, it was the result of blackmail.’

A low murmur travelled around the room like a Mexican wave. Spiro gripped his upper arms, as if he was cold. The noise in his ears grew louder. He didn’t want to dwell on what Marchant was about to say next, but he knew it would be bad. The whole day was shaping up to be a disaster. His wife was in London, and wanted to meet for a chat. He was relieved she was no longer in the West Bank, but he hadn’t liked her tone of voice – he didn’t know the exact word for it, but it was the opposite of conciliatory.

‘For the last fifty years,’ Marchant continued, ‘Moscow Centre has dreamed of having an asset at the top of MI6. Kim Philby almost made it, and they nearly got there with Ian Denton, thanks to the support he received from Washington.’

Where was Marchant going with this? Spiro glanced at Denton, who was staring into the middle distance, teeth gritted, his jaw pulsing. His own stomach had tightened. The Ambassador had been trying to warn him.
Don’t get too close.
Denton had been his appointment.

‘Fortunately, the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary had the good sense not to fully endorse Denton’s appointment, sparing MI6’s blushes,’ Marchant continued. ‘“Acting Chief” won’t look so embarrassing when they come to write the history books. If someone could access the following website – www.dirtylittlesecret.org.uk – there are some photos I’d like to share.’

Without warning, Denton stood up, gathering his papers as if to leave. ‘I haven’t got time to listen to these baseless lies,’ he said.

‘Actually, would you mind holding on, Ian?’ Armstrong said, glancing across at the PM. ‘Allegations of this sort, however unfounded, are my department. And I’d like to clear this up now.’

Denton turned to the PM, who was looking at Armstrong.

‘Harriet’s right,’ the PM said. ‘We need to sort this.’

Denton sat down again, his limbs almost seeming to give way beneath him. Spiro noticed Armstrong nod at a female member of COBRA staff. A moment later, the screen next to Marchant displayed a government website. Everyone waited, listening to the sound of a tapping keyboard as the URL address Marchant had given was typed in.

Another murmur, this time louder, mixed with a single female gasp. Spiro traced it to the typist, who had a hand clasped to her mouth. He preferred to look at her than at the image on the screen. It showed a naked Ian Denton bound in chains, clearly in physical pain but sexually aroused nevertheless. Not a pretty site at the best of times, but even more troubling in the cavernous surrounds of COBRA.

Spiro couldn’t bring himself to look at Denton sitting next to him. No one could. People glanced at the shocking image several times, as if to check, and then anywhere except at the man himself. Awkward wasn’t the word for the car-crash atmosphere, Spiro thought: a head-on collision between the English reserve that usually prevailed in this room and the obscenity now depicted on the screen. For the first time he could remember, the sound of Daniel Marchant’s voice came as a relief.

‘This photo – I will spare you the others – was taken three years ago by the SVR, who used it to blackmail Denton. At the time, he was disillusioned with his career at Six – always being overlooked for the top jobs, never quite being given the nod, a bit of an outsider. So why not accept Moscow’s offer? The extra money was handy, and of course the consequences would have been fatal to his career if the photos ever surfaced. And if anyone believes these images are fabricated, Denton communicated with his Russian contact in the Clapham Junction branch of Waitrose last Friday night. I’ve posted photos of that on the website too.’

‘Could we see them, please?’ It was the PM, clearing his throat as he leant forward to talk into his table mike.

‘There’s a link at the bottom of the screen.’

A moment later, Denton was clearly identifiable in a grainy photo, but there was no one else in the frame.

‘He’s leaving a message disguised as a simple retail barcode,’ Marchant said. ‘If you click on the next link …’ He paused. ‘… You’ll see his Russian contact at exactly the same place – the blini counter – reading the message with his barcode scanner.’

‘His real name is Dimitri Khrenkov,’ Armstrong said. ‘A Russian illegal living in the UK under the name of Duncan Spence.’

Since when did she get in on the act, Spiro wondered. The PM was surprised by Armstrong’s comment too.

‘Did you know about this?’ the PM asked, as Armstrong dialled a number on her mobile.

‘Marchant contacted me before this meeting,’ she replied. ‘D4 managed to trace Khrenkov.’

‘What are you planning to do with these images?’ the PM asked, looking up at Marchant.

‘If Denton isn’t removed from his job with immediate effect and Marcus Fielding reinstated as Chief, the website will go live. Search engines won’t have any trouble finding it – I’ve keyworded the images with “Torture” and “MI6”.’

‘Counter-intelligence,’ the PM said, turning to Armstrong. ‘It’s your call.’

Everyone looked up as the door to COBRA opened. Two uniformed Special Branch officers stood there, waiting for instructions.

‘Arrest him,’ Armstrong said, snapping her phone shut.

Salim Dhar made his way out of the medical room and along the corridor, following behind Ali Mousavi and two armed guards. The legs of the oil platform were resting on the seabed, but the superstructure was still prone to swaying. Mousavi refused to confirm their exact location, but it was somewhere in the Strait of Hormuz. The main shipping lanes were clearly visible in the distance, three oil tankers crossing the horizon.

Two minutes later, after making their way down a metal staircase and through a warren of deserted corridors, Mousavi stood at the entrance to a steel, wheel-locked door. Dhar calculated that they were on the lowest level of the platform’s living quarters, the sea not far below them. Ushered in by Mousavi, he stepped through the door and found himself in a small indoor boatyard. Tools were scattered everywhere, as if they had just been put down, but there was nobody about. Dhar had already noted that, apart from Mousavi, only two medical staff and the two guards had seen his face. He guessed that Mousavi had ordered the boatyard and the living quarters to be evacuated before his arrival.