Dirty Little Secret

If this was to be his final COBRA, he wouldn’t miss the dimly lit Cabinet Office room with its low ceiling and brown curtains along one wall. It was past 1 a.m., but time was meaningless here. Night didn’t follow day. Instead, the room was trapped in a penumbral stasis. The air conditioning was too warm, the coffee cold. As for the meetings, they had become increasingly ineffective, a forum for political posturing rather than swift operational responses. That was why he liked to meet privately beforehand with the heads of MI5, the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre and the Defence Intelligence Staff, away from ambitious ministers with their own agendas. Only this time, they had quietly demurred.

Fielding took his seat, nodding at the Director of GCHQ. It wasn’t reciprocated. Dhar’s bomb might not have been dirty, but it had still knocked some sugar off ‘the doughnut’, as GCHQ’s Cheltenham premises were known. Fielding felt a knot begin to tighten in his lower lumbar. Tonight wasn’t the moment for lying supine on the floor, as he was prone to do when his back played up. He was prepared for the meeting to be tense. For many of those gathered around the table, MI6 was in the dock. He also knew that he could never reveal the one piece of intelligence that might save his career.

‘Welcome, everyone,’ the Prime Minister began, looking down the room. His jacket was off, his tone businesslike. No small talk. ‘Marcus, I think it’s best if we start with you?’ In other words, Fielding thought, you got us into this Christawful mess, you can get us out of it.

‘The UK threat level remains at critical,’ Fielding began, glancing at Armstrong, who cast her eyes down at the printed agenda. ‘And in our opinion it should remain so. As we know, yesterday’s attacks on the Royal International Air Tattoo at Fairford, where an F-22 Raptor was destroyed, and on GCHQ at Cheltenham, were carried out by Salim Dhar in a Russian SU-25 fighter jet. Although we think it was partly an act of proxy terrorism on behalf of the Russians, Dhar was essentially operating on his own.’

A dissenting shuffle of papers. ‘And with more than a little help from one of your officers,’ the director of GCHQ said. ‘Daniel Marchant was in the cockpit with Dhar?’

The gloves were coming off quicker than Fielding had expected.

‘As I outlined to the Americans in our earlier JIC meeting,’ he replied, trying to ignore the knots tightening like serpents, ‘Daniel Marchant succeeded in talking Dhar out of a far worse attack. Two points I’d like noted, please.’ A glance at the COBRA secretary. God help him, he thought: he was starting to sound like a politician, covering his arse at every opportunity. ‘First, the Russians wanted Dhar to wipe out a delegation of Georgian generals who were at the air show to sign a deal with the US. Dhar pulled out of the attack at the last moment – thanks to Marchant. It should also be noted that the attack would have killed the US Defense Secretary, a point that seems to have been overlooked in Washington.

‘Secondly, Dhar’s plane was armed with a thousand-pound radioactive dirty bomb. Caesium-137 – nasty stuff, particularly in a conurbation the size of Cheltenham. It was always his intention to fly on to GCHQ, twenty miles to the north-west, and drop this bomb on the building. In the event, he pulled out of that plan too, again thanks to the bravery of my officer, Daniel Marchant. Instead, Dhar opted for a conventional explosive that I gather caused only minor structural damage.’

‘And killed one of my colleagues,’ the Director of GCHQ added.

A pause. Fielding thought about offering his condolences, but it seemed trite in the circumstances.

‘Thank you, Marcus,’ the Prime Minister said, after waiting in vain for Fielding to commiserate. ‘I think it would be fair to say that while those gathered here understand the role of MI6 in all this’ – a dry cough from the sidelines. Was it really Denton, Fielding wondered – ‘the Americans don’t. I’ve just come off the phone to the President, who is demanding to know why an MI6 agent was in a plane that destroyed $155 million-worth of USAF aircraft.’

‘It’s no exaggeration to say that our relationship with Washington is in tatters,’ the Foreign Secretary said. ‘Trade meetings cancelled, diplomatic initiatives dropped.’

‘I’ve just been informed that the proposed new Joint National Security Board has been put on ice,’ added the government’s National Security Adviser, glancing up at Fielding.

‘And the NSA’s Echelon cooperation thresholds on SIGINT have significantly risen across the grid in the past few hours,’ the director of GCHQ said. ‘It’s as if the UKUSA Agreement didn’t exist.’

‘I also understand France has now been asked to head up NATO’s joint sea exercise off Cape Wrath next week,’ said the Joint Chief of Staff. ‘It’s normally our shout.’

Things must be serious if the Americans were cosying up to the French. For the first time, Fielding wondered if he would be forced to reveal his ace in the hole, but he knew he couldn’t. It was a secret that only he and Marchant were privy to.

‘It’s with all this in mind,’ the Prime Minister continued, ‘that I’ve asked the Foreign Secretary to head up a Cabinet working group that will focus solely on rebuilding all aspects of our relationship with America. Ian Denton will oversee intelligence sharing, which of course lies at the heart of the partnership.’

Credit where credit was due, thought Fielding. Denton had played a blinder, distancing himself from a discredited Chief of MI6, and climbing into bed with the Foreign Secretary. Another knot tightened.

‘At the heart of our strategy is doing all we can to help the US find Salim Dhar,’ the Foreign Secretary said. ‘It’s the only thing that will pacify Washington, and it’s the least we can do, given Dhar’s unfortunate connection with Britain.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘As of thirty minutes ago, when Fox News broke the story against our wishes, I’m afraid it’s now common knowledge that Salim Dhar’s father was Stephen Marchant, the late Chief of MI6, and his half-brother is Daniel Marchant, a serving MI6 officer. Ian here will be working closely with JTAC, GCHQ, Five and of course Six over the coming weeks.’

‘And we still don’t know any more about Dhar’s last movements in UK waters?’ the PM asked.

‘We’ve got Sentinel and Sentry cover, they’re combing the entire area,’ said the Joint Chief of Staff. ‘So far, just the one abandoned trawler and three dead crew. A few minutes ago we picked up the acoustic profile of a Russian Akula-class submarine off the coast of Ireland, south-east of Cork, heading out to sea. It might have been part of Dhar’s original exit strategy, but I’m not sure how keen the Russians would be to help him, given he failed to attack the Georgian generals. I’m afraid Salim Dhar seems to have vanished into thin air.’

4

Dhar sat against the rocks, watching through narrowed eyes as the man descended towards him. The noise of the yellow Sea King helicopter was deafening, the downcurrent from its blades instilling a sudden panic in him. It took all of his self-control to stay where he was, pinned to the ground like quarry beneath a hovering hawk. His instinct was to run, along the foreshore, into the sea, anywhere. The helicopter brought back too many memories: his hasty departure from the Atlas Mountains, the unnecessary killing of the Berber messenger.

The winch man was almost with him now, spinning on the rope like a dangling spider. He had a luminous orange stretcher under one arm and his feet were out to the side, to protect himself from the cliff face. Dhar checked for the handgun in his pocket. Earlier, he had dragged the Russian back to the boat and ordered him to remove his outer clothing. Then he had shot him, a double tap to the forehead and a prayer for the thousands of Muslim brothers slain by the SVR in the Caucasus. Struggling with his injured leg, he had climbed out of his flying suit and put on the Russian’s jacket and bloodied trousers, watched by his hollow stare.

If the dead Russian had seemed to disapprove of Dhar’s new outfit, his distorted features had formed a smirk when he had reached for the vodka bottle and, for the first time in his life, tasted alcohol. He had closed his eyes as the liquid burnt against the back of his throat. You who believe, intoxicants and games of chance are repugnant acts – Satan’s doing. Allah would forgive him, would understand how important it was that his rescuers thought he was drunk. It was only drinking from the grape that was haraam, wasn’t it? And hadn’t the caliph Haroun Al-Rashid occasionally indulged?

Dhar sat perfectly still now as the winch man touched down beside him, unhooked the stretcher and leant in close to his face. The alcohol’s alien effects made Dhar’s head spin when he closed his eyes. He hoped that his breath carried its sinful traces. Why hadn’t he thrown the half-empty bottle away, instead of slipping it into his inside pocket?

‘Can you hear me?’ the winch man asked, checking for vital signs. Dhar had decided that unconsciousness was the most credible state after a drunken cliff fall. The winch man had seen the bloodstains on his leg, the ripped trousers and the dark bruising below, and was now checking the wound. Tentatively he pulled back the material and spoke into his helmet mike.

Dhar couldn’t catch the exact words, but he heard something about an incoming tide. Five minutes later his head was whirling like a dervish as the stretcher lifted into the sky. It was a relief when he was finally eased in through the side door of the Sea King. Then, after slipping his arms free of the stretcher straps, he was on his feet and pointing the gun at the winch man and his colleague.

‘Remove your helmets,’ Dhar said, glancing up towards the cockpit. He had intended to shoot them both, but something made him change his mind. He hoped it wasn’t the vodka. The two men exchanged nervous glances and looked back at Dhar. Did they doubt him? Dhar felt another wave of panic, and raised the gun to their heads.

‘Remove your helmets!’ he barked.

It would be so much easier if they were dead, he thought. Without hesitating, the men unfastened their helmets and dropped them to the deck. Dhar motioned at the open door and they edged towards it. Had they realised who he was?

He watched as the winch man stood with his legs bent, head down, like a nervous child on a high diving board. The helicopter had arced out across the sea after picking up Dhar, and was heading towards the shore again. They would be over land in a few minutes. The winch man held onto the side, bent his legs further, and this time he was gone, dropping away in the darkness with a fading scream. The second man glanced at Dhar, at his gun, then he jumped too.

5

Lakshmi stood in the window, looking out across the Solent. It was well past midnight, and Marchant was still on his phone, pacing about at the far end of the beach, close to where a line of perimeter fenceposts waded into the water like determined bathers. A solitary yacht was heading into Portsmouth under engine, sails down, navigation lights on. Her body was beginning to ache, a cramplike pain tightening her limbs. She told herself it was her wrist, but she knew it wasn’t.

Her imminent departure from the CIA was timely. She and Marchant would have more chance of making a go of things if one of them was in the real world, where people were straightforward and honest, and used the regular mail rather than brush passes to communicate. A year earlier, they had circled each other like wild animals in Rabat, where she had been sent to keep an eye on him. Everyone had thought Marchant was crazy to believe that Dhar would show up in Morocco, but the renegade MI6 officer had been proved right.

She still didn’t fully understand why he had ended up in a Russian fighter jet with Dhar, but she believed him when he said a far worse disaster had been averted. And she had assisted him, in her own small way. She was glad she had done that, even if it had triggered something she hoped was behind her.

She went over to the bed and wrapped herself in a blanket, trying to stop the shiver that had set in. She thought again about the Soho restaurant where she had helped the Russians lift Marchant in a firefight. One of them, dead eyes beneath a black balaclava, had raised a machine gun to her head. She would have been killed if it hadn’t been for Marchant, who had screamed at him not to shoot. A stray bullet had already shattered her wrist.

She closed her eyes, trying to put out of her mind the paramedic who had turned up within minutes of the shooting. He had just been doing his job, a routine medical injection for trauma as she had slumped on the floor of the restaurant in agony.

The pain had dissipated within seconds, replaced by a surge of liquid pleasure that had spread out from her body like nectar. Time had begun to slip, too, taking her back three years to when she had been a medical student at Georgetown University. Her life had moved on since then.

She stared at the old wall of the Fort, tracing the lumps and cracks in its whitewashed surface. It would be only a matter of hours before she would be taken from here and flown back to Langley to be dismissed. Spiro would know that she could have done more to stop the Russians, that she had disobeyed orders. Her father would be disappointed, her mother relieved. They had always wanted her to be a doctor, but her father had recently begun to take pride in her work – not that he could boast about it to his Indian friends in Reston. ‘Government business’ was all he was allowed to say.

Wiping her nose, she noticed a voicemail message on her phone. It was Spiro, and he wasn’t ringing to fire her. After the message had finished, she got up from the bed, walked over to the deep-set window and called Spiro back. The blanket was still around her shoulders.

‘Do I have a choice?’ she asked, watching Marchant on the beach below, trying to ignore a rising nausea.

‘You’re an American, of course you have a choice. This isn’t India, for Christ’s sake.’

‘In that case, it’s a no.’

‘Listen, if it’s not you, we’ll get someone else. It’s as simple as that. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about another woman getting up close and personal with Marchant.’

‘What makes you think he’ll drop his guard so easily?’

‘He’s done it before. You never knew Leila, did you?’

Not personally, she thought, but she felt as if she did know her. Marchant had talked often about Leila, the MI6 officer who had betrayed him.

‘And by all accounts, it’s not just his guard that he’s dropped with you.’

Lakshmi ignored the innuendo. ‘He’s told me nothing. He’s a professional.’

‘All the more reason we need someone like you. Can you believe it? The Brits are defending him. Fielding thinks Marchant’s a frickin’ hero. Try telling that to the head of the USAF. It’s a total clusterfuck. If Marchant’s helped Dhar once, he’ll help him again. It’s in the blood. Only this time we need to stop him. I’m just sorry you got hurt.’

Lakshmi wasn’t falling for Spiro’s sudden concern, not for one minute. She had taken up Fielding’s offer to stay in the sanctuary of the Fort in order to keep away from him.

‘I’m not interested.’

There was a pause, as if Spiro was idly looking around for something, a cigarette perhaps. Her reaction didn’t seem to surprise him.

‘Have you spoken to your folks recently?’

She didn’t like his change of tone: small talk concealing something more sinister. Her arm began to shake. ‘Give them a call some time. They’d appreciate it.’

Before Lakshmi could say anything, Spiro had hung up.

6

‘Primakov wrote me a letter,’ Marchant began, sitting on the rocks. He would return to Lakshmi in a minute. The wind coming in off the Solent was cold, and he was exhausted.

‘Go on.’ Marcus Fielding sounded tired too, more tired than Marchant could ever remember him sounding. Marchant felt guilty about his news.

‘He says that there’s a Russian asset high up in MI6. The letter was written after Hugo died. Primakov thinks the mole framed Hugo to protect himself.’

‘And does he give a name?’ Fielding asked.

Marchant paused. ‘Your deputy.’

There was a long silence. Marchant wondered if the news surprised Fielding, or if it confirmed a previous suspicion. Fielding was inscrutable face to face, even more so at the end of a phone line.

‘You know Primakov never liked Denton,’ Fielding said eventually. ‘There was history between them.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘I’ll look into it.’

‘You think it might be Primakov’s revenge? From beyond the grave?’

‘We owe it to Hugo to find out. I know someone in Warsaw who might be able to help.’

7

Dhar stumbled as he approached the two pilots in the cockpit of the Sea King. He wasn’t sure if it was his leg or the vodka. The noise was deafening, disorientating. The co-pilot clocked him first, his eyes widening in panic. As Dhar raised the gun, a finger to his lips, the pilot turned and saw him too. He seemed calmer, glancing at Dhar and then past him, down the helicopter, to see what had happened to his crew.

Dhar was familiar with the cockpit of an SU-25, but the Sea King’s controls were alien to him. He knew, though, that he would have to move fast to disable its communication systems and prevent the pilots from raising the alarm. It would be equipped with U/VHF and HF radios, as well as intercom, but Dhar didn’t have time to familiarise himself with the panel of dials. Instead he grabbed the flex coming out of the back of the pilot’s helmet and ripped it from its socket. Then he did the same with the co-pilot, jerking his head back as if he had pulled his hair.

‘Take them off!’ Dhar shouted above the noise, waving his gun. After they had removed their helmets, he tossed them into the back of the helicopter, where one clattered and rolled out of the open door. The sight of it plunging into the night like a severed head seemed to shock the co-pilot. One of his knees began to bounce uncontrollably.

The helicopter was approaching land. ‘If you want your frightened friend to live, fly back out to sea,’ Dhar said, leaning in towards the pilot. The pilot hesitated for a moment, as if thinking through his options, and then moved the stick. The Sea King altered course. ‘And if you try anything – calling for help, attempting to land – I will kill you. I know how to fly.’

Dhar couldn’t be sure, but both men seemed to believe him.

‘What do you want from us?’ the co-pilot asked, unable to hide the fear in his voice. ‘We’re just SAR pilots.’

‘I don’t want anything from you,’ Dhar said, pressing the gun against the man’s temple. A few seconds later, the co-pilot was standing at the open door, looking back down the helicopter at Dhar in disbelief, and then he was gone.

‘Now we head for Kemble,’ Dhar said, slumping into the co-pilot’s empty seat and picking up a chart. It was good to be airborne again.

8

Lakshmi lay in the darkness, thinking about Spiro’s offer. Marchant was still outside on the rocks. She had considered joining him again, but the call from her father a few minutes earlier had changed everything.

‘He explained he was from the IRS,’ her father had said, sounding like a broken man. ‘Said the company’s books were not in order, and accused us of all manner of damn things: tax evasion, money laundering.’

‘Slow down, Dad,’ Lakshmi had replied, already detecting Spiro’s hand at work. ‘Did he give you a name, a number?’

The caller had left enough details for Lakshmi to be certain it was a sting. Somewhere on the Langley campus a junior officer would be sitting by a phone in an empty office, ready to field any calls to the Internal Revenue Service.

‘You know it’s all lies,’ her father had continued. ‘I trained as an accountant in Madurai, best results in my year. How dare he accuse me of these things?’

‘I’m sure it’s just a mistake,’ Lakshmi had said. The last time she had heard him this agitated was on the day after 9/11, when he had been stopped by police officers in a shopping mall and detained for eight hours. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll make some enquiries.’

‘I’m sorry to have bothered you with this, Lakshmi,’ he had said, almost in tears. ‘Twenty-five years it’s taken me to build the business, isn’t it. I came to this country with nothing, just –’

‘Dad, leave it with me. Everything will be fine.’

She walked back over to the window. Below her was the man she thought she loved. If she quit the Agency, Spiro would still follow through on his threat. He was that kind of man. The only way she could protect her father was if she agreed to his terms. She had no choice. For a moment, she understood how Leila must have felt when the Iranians threatened to kill her mother if she didn’t spy for them. Whenever Marchant had spoken of Leila, she had hoped she was different, not the sort to betray those closest to her. Now she was about to join the club.

She looked again at Marchant, his tall rower’s frame silhouetted in the moonlight, then dialled Spiro’s number.

‘I’ve made my decision,’ she said.

‘And?’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘You’re smarter than I thought.’

‘I need to know my cover story. Marchant thinks I’m about to quit the Agency.’

‘Actually, we were going to fire you, then put you on trial. Let’s stick with that, shall we? You’re on the run, you got too close to Marchant. Disobeyed orders. Grossly violated your duties. A warrant’s been issued for your arrest – it will give you some credibility. We just won’t bring you in.’

‘What’s Marchant’s current status?’

‘Fielding’s defending him, but he won’t be around for much longer. I’m seeing to it personally. As soon as Fielding’s out of the way, we’ll pick Marchant up from the Fort. Until then, I want you to stay close to him. Find out what the hell he was doing in that plane with Dhar, why he didn’t take the guy down. I won’t expect you to make contact. It’s essential you don’t arouse Marchant’s suspicion – unless you’ve got important intel. Even then, be careful. It pains me to say it, but Marchant’s good.’

‘There’s one thing you should know.’

‘Go on.’

‘Marchant says there’s a Soviet mole, high up in MI6.’

The information was a down payment, something to reassure Spiro that more would follow. He seemed unimpressed.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

Five minutes later, Marchant crept back into the room. Lakshmi was in bed, eyes closed, dreading his return.

‘Are you OK?’ she whispered in the darkness. She had hoped her voice would sound stronger.

‘I’ve just come off the phone to Fielding.’

‘How was he?’

‘Tired, defeated. He’s been in a difficult COBRA meeting.’

‘And?’

‘I’d say his days are numbered.’

Marchant slid off his jeans and climbed into bed. His body was cold. She couldn’t bring herself to hug him.

‘I know how he feels,’ she said.

‘Have you heard from Langley?’

‘Not officially. One of my colleagues rang. A friend.’ She closed her eyes again, bit her lip.

Your legs are sweating. Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘I caught a chill on the beach.’ But she knew she hadn’t.

‘And what did this friend say?’

‘The Agency want to throw the book at me.’

‘For not stopping the Russians?’

Lakshmi hesitated, doubting whether she could go through with this. She wanted to cradle Marchant in her arms, feel his warmth. Then she thought again of her father.

‘Disobeying orders, gross violation of duties,’ she said, repeating Spiro’s words. ‘A warrant’s been issued for my arrest.’

‘They won’t be able to touch you here. That’s why Fielding sent you. He saw this coming.’

They lay in silence, listening to the water lapping at the rocks beneath the window. Already she could feel them drifting apart on the tide of professionalism swelling back into their lives. And she hated herself for it, for the games they were forced to play.