Dirty Little Secret (39 page)

Marchant waited in the humid foyer of an office overlooking the port of Karachi, flicking through a copy of
Containerisation International
. Outside it was dark and overcast, another monsoon downpour imminent. His Iranian minder was still with him, and still not smiling. He had accompanied Marchant on the supply vessel from the oil platform back to Bandar-Abbas and on the flight to Karachi, via Dubai, sticking to him like gum on a shoe. Once again, there had been no opportunity to make a call to Fielding, but this time the frustration had been greater, given what he had to share with London.

It had been a massive gamble to assist with Dhar’s escape from Bagram, but the stakes were far higher for Marchant now. He was helping the Revolutionary Guard to acquire a high-performance powerboat that could alter the balance of power in the Gulf. This went well beyond the terms of his original deal with Dhar, but he had no choice. If he didn’t deliver the boat, Dhar wouldn’t give him the address of a second cell that was planning to kill hundreds, possibly thousands, of innocent people. And protecting Britain from terrorist attacks was why he and Fielding had agreed to run Dhar in the first place.

He had no choice, he told himself again, as he stood up and walked around the foyer. There was a damp, musty smell that reminded him of Delhi in the monsoon. He had smelt it somewhere else, too – on the curtains of the hotel in Madurai where he had stayed with Lakshmi. He thought of her again, beside him as he had driven to the hospital in Caen.
It’s blackmail
, she had said of his deal with Dhar.
We’ve both been blackmailed.

He tried to focus on what lay ahead. The Americans would do all they could to stop him. As far as he could establish, they had already tried hard to prevent the
Bradstone Challenger
from reaching Bandar-Abbas, using sanctions drawn up to prevent Iran from obtaining military-use technology.

When it had first arrived in Durban from Antwerp, the powerboat was on a merchant vessel called the
Iran Mufateh
, which was registered to the Islamic Republic of Iran Shipping Lines. Both were on a US watchlist. The
Iran Mufateh
subsequently changed its name to the
Diplomat
, and then to the
Amplify
, re-registering to a front shipping company called Starry Shine and flying under a Hong Kong flag. By the time the US Department of Commerce’s Office of Export Enforcement realised what had happened, it had already left for Bandar-Abbas.

The US considered intercepting it at sea, but feared a diplomatic incident. Instead, it turned to Pakistan for help. The PNS
Zulfiquar
, a Pakistan Navy frigate, intercepted the
Amplify
and escorted it into Karachi, where the
Bradstone Challenger
was removed from the hold for inspection. Relations between Washington and Islamabad had since deteriorated, following a drone strike that had killed civilians inside the Pakistan border, and the boat was languishing in a dry dock.

Marchant’s brief was to ensure
Bradstone Challenger
completed its journey. To that end he was playing the role of ‘Jez Giddings’, a wealthy Western playboy who wanted his toy back. He had been dressed in a sharp suit by Ali Mousavi and given a Rolex Yacht-Master (fake) and a British passport (also fake), along with an impressively thorough cover story, which he had memorised on the flight. If the Pakistanis could be persuaded that the end user was a private individual based in the Gulf, and not the Revolutionary Guard, they might release the boat. To help them in their decision, Marchant’s minder was carrying a briefcase packed with $100 bills.

A buzzer disturbed the heavy afternoon atmosphere. Marchant glanced up at two small lightbulbs on the wall of the port office foyer. One was green, the other red. The green one was lit. From nowhere, a sleepy
peon
in a faded khaki uniform appeared and showed them both into the main office.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ a beaming official said, shaking their hands. He was short, but exuded power, or at least wealth. Marchant noticed the Cartier watch and a well-fed stomach bulging beneath his Ralph Lauren shirt. His office was less affluent. A calendar on the wall displayed a photo of a high-stacked container ship, and a large ceiling fan stirred the air. The walls were painted a municipal cream colour.

‘How are you finding our weather?’ the official asked, as he settled down behind his desk.

Remembering the subcontinent’s preoccupation with the monsoon, Marchant had checked the reports in the
Dawn
newspaper on the flight from Dubai.

‘Eighty-five per cent humidity today,’ he offered.

‘Too much,’ the official said, holding one hand up and twisting his fingers as if he were changing a large lightbulb. His forehead glistened with a patina of sweat. ‘This evening will be better, when the south-west wind comes in off the sea. A little drizzle, but very pleasant. Tomorrow will be a total wash-up.’

‘Thank you for agreeing to meet us,’ Marchant said, keen to move things on.

‘Not a problem, not a problem.’ An awkward pause. ‘My difficulty is that the Americans have sent me this,’ he said, picking up a fax from his desk and brandishing it in the air. ‘A “stop order” preventing the export of your beloved
Bradstone Challenger
, isn’t it.’

‘On what grounds?’ Marchant asked. He had agreed with his minder beforehand that he would do all the talking.

‘Shall I read the damn thing to you? “The
Bradstone Challenger
is powered with two US-origin Caterpillar C18 engines and two Arneson surface drives, items subject to the regulations and classified under Export Control Classification Number 8A992.g.” We love bureaucracy in Pakistan – a legacy of your fine country – but even I find this ridiculous. Poppycock. Apparently your boat contains “greater than a 10 per cent
de minimis
of US-origin items”.’

‘Isn’t the real problem the end user? For some reason they think it’s Iran, and not me.’

‘My friend, all our lives would be much easier if you can provide evidence that you are a wealthy private individual, and not on the US Treasury’s list of Specially Designated Nationals.’

It was the verbal cue that Marchant had been waiting for. Fearing it might have been missed, the official glanced at the case resting against the minder’s legs. Up until now, he had studiously avoided looking at it.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ Marchant said.

He nodded at the minder, who picked up the case, walked over to the official and placed it on his desk. The man opened and then closed it, putting it on the floor by his chair. It was all done in reverential silence.

‘I think we can lose this,’ he said, smiling, as he screwed up the fax and dropped it into the steel-mesh bin beside him. ‘These things get mislaid all the time. As our American friends enjoy reminding us, our country’s communications are positively Third World. I will need your passport, though. To make a copy. Forms will need to be filled.’

Of course they would, Marchant thought. Duplicated and rubber-stamped, too. He stood up and handed over his fake passport. Then he shook the official’s hand, eager to wrap things up in case anyone changed their mind. The beaming official pressed a buzzer on his desk. For the first time, Marchant saw a smile on his minder’s face.

‘We will have the boat put back on board MV
Amplify
at once,’ the official said.

Without speaking, he handed Marchant’s passport to the
peon
, who had entered the room in response to the buzzer.

‘I was hoping to deliver it myself,’ Marchant said, watching as the
peon
left the room again.

‘To Bandar? Why not? It’s less than seven hundred nautical miles. That would take no time in such a boat as this.’

‘There’s one other thing,’ Marchant said, glancing at the phone on the desk. ‘Can I make a quick call? My mobile, the battery –’

‘Of course, of course,’ the official said, resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘My office is yours.’

‘Thanks. Actually, it’s a private call – girlfriend trouble.’

Marchant pulled his best three-in-a-bed smirk, then glanced at the minder, checking how he would react. He wouldn’t want to upset the deal, but he also had strict instructions to keep his charge incommunicado. There was a pause while the official turned to the minder and then back to Marchant.

‘Be my guest. Come, let us leave this playboy of the Western world to his women troubles. Your passport will be returned on the way out.’

The minder hesitated, but the official was already ushering him out of the door like a guest who had outstayed his welcome. Marchant waited until the door had closed before he dialled Fielding’s direct line in London.

Fielding took the call moments after he had spoken to Armstrong. He had been surprised to see her from his office window, walking along the north side of the Thames.

‘I haven’t got long,’ Marchant said.

‘Are you on a secure line?’ Fielding asked. His comms console had identified the number as a business line in Karachi, Pakistan.

‘There’s no choice. I’ll have an address later today – for a second cell. They’re targeting civilians.’

‘And what do we give in return for this information?’ Fielding asked.

There was a pause, and for a moment Fielding thought the line had dropped. ‘A boat. Quite a fast one. If I don’t deliver it, there’s no address.’

It was worse than Fielding had feared. The Iranians had been on a shopping trip in recent months, trying to buy up high-performance powerboats from around the world for use in swarm attacks. Their most recent attempt had been thwarted by the Americans in Karachi, where Marchant was calling from.

‘Our cousins might not be pleased.’

‘It’s your call. If you want that address, you’re going to have to keep them off my back during transit. I’ll do all I can to disable the boat once I’ve got the information.’

Fielding was about to ask for a stronger guarantee when the line went dead.

‘At least we were right about there being a mole in MI6,’ Spiro said, watching the Director of the CIA pace around his airy office in Langley. Spiro was sitting on a bisque sofa in the window. It was a good sign. The last time he was in trouble, he had been shown to the hard-backed chair opposite the DCIA’s desk. Today was a sofa meeting. It was also ‘with coffee’, another good omen. The coffee had yet to arrive, but at least it had been ordered. No one was ever dismissed with coffee.

‘We just backed the wrong guy,’ the DCIA said. ‘Jesus, what is it with the Brits? The sooner we’re out of there, the better.’

‘I shouldn’t have supported Denton,’ Spiro said. He had already decided that contrition was his best option, even if it didn’t come naturally.

‘I’m more concerned about finding Salim Dhar.’

‘So am I.’ On his way up to the DCIA’s office, Spiro had walked past the new operations room dedicated to Dhar’s recapture – a sprawling web of maps, computer terminals and flow charts on the second floor.

‘You still have a big role to play here, Jim,’ the DCIA said. ‘I know Dhar was lost on your watch, but you found him once, and you more than anyone know how to find him again.’

Spiro looked up, sensing he was about to discover why he hadn’t lost his job.

‘I’m giving you one last chance,’ the DCIA continued. ‘I can’t protect you any more if you screw up again.’

‘How can I help?’

‘I read your report about Daniel Marchant’s role in Dhar’s escape from Bagram, how you think Dhar’s been turned by the British. I’m beginning to believe it. We think Dhar’s in Iran, but we can’t be certain. We do know where Marchant is. He showed up on the grid in Karachi a couple of hours ago, flew in from Dubai.

‘If you’re right, Fielding’s behind all this, using Marchant to run Dhar. Not that it’s helped Britain so far. You know this guy better than most. Find out where he’s going, and if we need to cut him some slack, so be it. Dhar is the priority here, and Marchant may be the only one who can lead us to him.’

Much to Spiro’s surprise, the DCIA walked him down to the operations room, where he was introduced to the hand-picked staff charged with finding Dhar. There was no need. Spiro knew them all, too well.

‘Jim will be heading up the hunt now,’ the DCIA told everyone. ‘I’m sure you’ll give him all the help he needs.’

Spiro wasn’t so sure, but this was a welcome show of support, a public message to rival colleagues. He hadn’t been brought back to Langley to be dismissed, as he knew everyone had hoped – he was here to kick Salim Dhar’s butt.

Just as Spiro was feeling better about life, the DCIA turned on his way to the door.

‘Jim, I nearly forgot to ask. How’s the wife? I heard she’d been away.’

The entire operations room fell silent. How much did the DCIA know? Had he brought him down here to humiliate him in front of Langley’s finest? To tell them all that Linda Spiro had been throwing stones at Israelis in Ramallah?

‘She’s back, thanks,’ Spiro said.

‘Glad to hear it.’

The wheel of the
Bradstone Challenger
was made of black leather and steel, and was smaller than Marchant had expected, the size of a dinner plate. For some reason he had imagined a large wooden helm. His Iranian minder was behind him, lounging on a padded leather banquette at the stern. It was curved and looked like a Jacuzzi. Marchant had been at the wheel for ten minutes, following a brief lesson on the various navigation screens in front of him.

‘Are you in the navy?’ he called out above the roar of the Caterpillar engines. Earlier, the Iranian had manouevred the vessel out of the busy docks at Karachi with knowing ease.

There was no answer. Marchant glanced around. The minder had fallen asleep, his head resting on a round cocktail table. The cabin was dark except for the navigation screens and a line of blue floor-lighting under a shallow step. The décor was gunmetal grey, broken up by coral-red cushions on a leather sofa that ran down one side of the cabin. The whole scene reminded Marchant of the back of a limousine, or a sleazy room at a nightclub. Jez Giddings, his cover, would have loved it.