Dirty Little Secret (36 page)

The metal door banged behind him, reverberating through the hangar. Spiro flicked on a row of switches, and the hangar lit up quarter by quarter. The last switch bathed Myers in a pool of harsh white light. His naked body was hanging from a rope tied to his wrists, and there was something awkward about his shoulders and arms. Spiro could see what had happened. Denton had hanged him in reverse – some people called it a Palestinian hanging. He thought of Linda, tried to imagine her on the West Bank, waving placards, naïvely hoping for a more peaceful world.

He walked over to the body, a handkerchief to his nose. He couldn’t see Myers’s face, as his head had rolled forward, but he glanced at his injured groin. Dry blood was smeared around his stomach and thighs. Spiro thought he was inured to such scenes – he had seen far worse in Guantánamo and Bagram – but this time he felt repulsed.

Perhaps it was the excrement on the concrete floor. It was the one smell he couldn’t abide, the only thing that had made his stomach turn when he was in India. Usually he got his subordinates to clean up a detainee before he set to work on them. And it was why he always insisted on diapers.

Spiro glanced again at the concrete floor and realised that Myers’s feet were just touching it, enough to take the weight off his arms. Before he had left, Denton must have lowered him, which meant there was a chance he was still alive. Spiro moved forward, watching where he trod, and put a hand to Myers’s neck. It was warm.

For the next five minutes he worked quickly. After cutting Myers down, he washed his face with water and sat him against the hangar wall. He was still unconscious, but there were signs that he was coming round – the odd grunt, his lips beginning to move. Both his shoulders were dislocated, and Denton had been busy with a knife below the waistline. Myers, though, had refused to talk. Perhaps he hadn’t known of Dhar’s imminent escape from Bagram. Perhaps Marchant was blameless.

‘You’re OK, buddy,’ Spiro said when Myers eventually opened his swollen eyes. ‘We’re going to get you patched up at the medical unit here, then send you home.’

He hoped Linda would forgive him.

‘We cannot be complacent, but it does seem that the cell arrested in Greenwich yesterday was responsible for coordinating the recent spate of attacks, and had others planned.’

The Prime Minister was in an uncharacteristically good mood, Fielding thought, as he listened to him address COBRA. It was a top-table meeting today, heads of houses rather than prefects. Only one seat was empty: Spiro’s. He had attended the last COBRA meeting, despite it being for UK personnel only, but after Denton’s departure and Fielding’s return, his days in London were at an end.

‘We all owe a great debt of gratitude to Harriet and her team,’ the PM continued. ‘They have worked around the clock to track down the perpetrators.’

The quiet noise of Whitehall approval spread through the room. Earlier that afternoon, the UK threat level had been lowered from ‘severe’ to ‘critical’. Armstrong glanced across at Fielding. No one present would have read anything into the look, but he saw gratitude in her tired eyes. He would let her enjoy her moment, even though they both knew it wasn’t deserved.

‘I also want to take this opportunity to welcome back Marcus Fielding. As you know, he was’ – the briefest of pauses – ‘taken ill a few weeks ago, and then, regrettably, a warrant was erroneously issued for his arrest. I’m pleased to report that Marcus is no longer ill, and no longer wanted by Interpol.’

The PM tried to make light of the last remark, but no one was laughing.

‘As for our colleague Ian Denton, he is now on extended sick leave. Stress is a debilitating illness, too often ignored in today’s pressurised workplace.’

Fielding couldn’t believe the government was trying to brazen out the Denton affair, hiding behind the farcical cover of sick leave, but that was the agreed line. Everyone around the table knew the truth, but the PM was having none of it, at least for the time being. According to Armstrong, the Americans were as keen as the British for Denton’s treachery to be covered up for as long as possible, given he was their appointment.

Those who had witnessed Denton’s unmasking at the earlier COBRA meeting had been reminded of their responsibilities under the Official Secrets Act. The PM must have known it was a temporary measure, Fielding thought. Sooner or later the government would be forced to come clean, admit that MI6 had been penetrated at the highest levels by Moscow.

‘Which only leaves us with the problem of Daniel Marchant,’ the PM continued. ‘As you are aware, the Americans are keen for him to be questioned about his role in the attack on one of their military jets at Fairford. The British government would like to talk to him about the bombing of GCHQ, too. It seems he fled these shores and was last seen in France. But I’ll let Marcus fill us in.’

Fielding had run his strategy past Armstrong before the meeting. He glanced in her direction now, just before he looked up at the table of faces. He hadn’t planned to be entirely honest, but those assembled in the room were due an explanation of sorts.

‘It’s no secret that the Americans have long wanted to remove Daniel Marchant from the field,’ he began. ‘They suspected his father of treachery, and believed he himself was a renegade and a liability. His presence in the cockpit with Salim Dhar certainly seemed to confirm their case against him. There are others, too, who feel strongly that Marchant should be removed.’ A glance across at the Director of GCHQ. ‘After downing an American F-22, Dhar went on to attack Cheltenham, causing structural damage to GCHQ and killing one member of staff. Marchant, of course, was still on board, making him effectively party to an act of war against his own country.

‘I realise this deserves a more thorough explanation than I’ve given in the past, but you’ll understand if I still can’t go into operational details. What I can tell you is this: Marchant is as committed as we all are to finding Dhar and bringing him to justice, despite their family tie.’ Was there a quiet intake of breath? ‘As I have said before, his options in the cockpit were severely limited. He did, however, succeed in talking Dhar out of far worse attacks on Fairford and GCHQ, a point that Washington continues to overlook. He also played a central role in drawing attention to Ian Denton’s … illness.’

Fielding glanced across at the PM, as if to emphasise the folly of his attempted cover-up, but the PM’s head was down.

‘Marchant’s current whereabouts are classified, but I can tell you that he is doing all he can to locate Dhar. And as his half-brother, he may well succeed where others fail. To this end, I have asked MI6 station heads around the world to offer him assistance. Unfortunately, the Americans remain committed to detaining him, which makes his search for Dhar even harder. I’m confident, however, that he’ll succeed. We’ve handed Dhar over once already, and we shall endeavour to do so again.’

‘Thank you, Marcus,’ the PM said, trying to sound breezy. ‘Rebuilding our relationship with Washington remains a priority, and nothing would help us more than recapturing Salim Dhar. If it takes a maverick and a liability, someone who has brought MI6 and his country into disrepute, so be it.’

It was clear to Fielding that the PM didn’t approve of MI6’s continued support for Marchant, a view he suspected was shared by everyone in the room except Armstrong. They would rather the Americans took him away to be waterboarded again. Anything to appease Washington.

Fielding sat back, wondering if he had said enough. All he needed now was time while he worked out how Marchant was going to run Dhar. So far the product – a single address in Greenwich – had been copper-bottomed, but he needed more. Dhar was a high-risk asset. He could change his mind or be killed at any time. Speed was of the essence, but there was still no contact from Marchant. It would only be so long before the CIA caught up with him.

The last time Marchant had passed through Dubai airport, he had been on his way back from India. A few hours earlier, he had cradled the dead Leila in his arms, the back of her head removed by a sniper shot from Salim Dhar. The bullet had been intended for the US President, who was visiting the Lotus Temple in Delhi at the time, but Leila had stepped in the way – intentionally or by mistake, he still wasn’t sure. His own head had been a mess too, confused by his love for a woman who had betrayed him.

His thoughts were clearer now as he walked across the smooth marble floor of the airport’s main atrium, past the yellow Lamborghini Gallardo that was being raffled, and under the fake palm trees that reached up to the glass roof. He was on the way to see Dhar in Bandar-Abbas, where the Iranians were looking after him.

They were looking after Marchant too. A lanky, unsmiling agent had met him in Paris and flown with him to Dubai, steering him through a channel where passports were not examined. He had been given a new one for each sector, well-crafted forgeries that he hoped one day to show the cobblers in Legoland. In five minutes he would be boarding a fifty-minute flight across the Persian Gulf to Bandar-Abbas.

His only concern was how to let London know what he was doing. There had been no opportunity in Morocco to call or to buy a phone. Dhar’s men had driven him straight from Diabat to Essaouira airport. One of them had then flown with him to Paris, where he was handed over to the Iranians, who had made it clear that he wasn’t to contact anyone.

He understood their suspicion – Iran only had Dhar’s word that he could be trusted – but it was still a problem. Fielding would be back as Chief, and expecting him to be in touch. At least he would know by now that their deniable operation to run Dhar as an agent was up and running again, and yielding results. Marchant had caught a news bulletin on the plane about four arrests in Greenwich.

He tried to slow down as they passed the duty-free counters selling mobile phones, but his minder dropped his pace too. He was good at his job, Marchant thought. Nobody watching would suspect that he was effectively the Iranian’s prisoner. He would try a blunter approach.

‘I need to buy a new phone,’ he said, stopping in front of one of the counters. ‘Mine was destroyed in Morocco. Salt water ruins the circuits, you know.’

‘You can buy one in Bandar,’ the Iranian said, walking on. If he was irritated by his charge’s request, he didn’t show it.

‘They’re cheaper in duty-free,’ Marchant replied. He felt like a teenager pestering his parents. The Iranian came back to where Marchant was standing. The man behind the phone counter began to think he had a customer.

‘We currently have a promotion on all BlackBerry products,’ he said hopefully, looking first at Marchant and then at his minder.

Marchant was considering whether to continue the charade when his eye caught someone looking at phones at the next-door counter. He recognised him at once as Felix Duffy, a fellow recruit on his IONEC course at Fort Monckton. The last Marchant had heard, Duffy was rising fast up the Gulf Controllerate. Was it chance – it was a standing joke that there were more intelligence officers at Dubai airport than passengers – or had Fielding sent him?

‘OK,’ Marchant said. ‘I’ll wait till we reach Bandar-Abbas.’ The Iranian was not going to let him buy a phone. Marchant’s main priority now was getting a message to Duffy. ‘But I do need a slash.’

Two minutes later, he was washing his hands in a bright and airy cloakroom, watched by a young Malayali who was employed to keep the place clean. (Marchant reckoned there were almost as many South Indian workers at Dubai airport as there were spies.) His Iranian minder had stayed by the entrance after first checking the cloakroom, but Duffy was too experienced to enter while Marchant was still inside. It would only have aroused suspicion.

Marchant looked around him. If Duffy had been sent by Fielding, he would expect a message, word from Marchant on what he was doing, why he was going to Bandar-Abbas. The walls of the cubicle had been too clean to leave graffiti. The South Indian smiled as he passed him a paper towel. Then Marchant noticed a plastic-framed panel on the wall behind him. A list of columns informed customers when the cloakroom had last been cleaned: time, name of cleaner, supervisor’s signature.

‘Pen?’ Marchant asked, spotting one in the attendant’s top pocket.

The man wobbled his head from side to side as he retrieved a felt-tip. Marchant pulled out his passport and found a ten-dollar bill left over from Morocco. After swapping the bill for the pen, he glanced around the empty cloakroom, smiled at the cleaner and signed in the supervisor’s column.

SINBAD, he wrote, copying the staccato uppercase of the previous signature.

The Iranian was waiting for Marchant when he came back out onto the concourse. As Marchant suspected, he told him to wait while he went to check the cloakroom. A few seconds later he returned, and informed him they were late for their flight to Bandar-Abbas.

‘What makes you so certain there’s a second cell?’ Fielding asked as he poured Armstrong a large glass of Talisker in his office. It was late in the day, the western sky smudged red by the setting summer sun. She had declined his offer of Moroccan tea.

‘Forensics have found something on a hard drive retrieved from the house in Greenwich,’ Armstrong said. ‘Another wave of attacks is planned. It seems there’s a completely different network of cells out there, with different targets. This time they’re not interested in infrastructure, they want civilian casualties – as many as possible.’

‘And there was nothing more specific?’

Armstrong looked a wreck, Fielding thought. If you chose to dress formally, as she did, the cracks were more obvious when things went wrong.

‘The two networks were operating in isolation from each other. The Americans aren’t pooling anything. They’re doing their own thing and shoring up security on all US assets in the UK. We’ve asked about making Dhar’s escape from Bagram public – the attacks might stop if his supporters knew he was free – but Washington won’t hear of it.’ Fielding knew where the conversation was leading. ‘Has Marchant been in contact again?’ she asked, as if it wasn’t a non sequitur.