Dirty Little Secret (13 page)

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Authors: Jon Stock

Tags: #Action, #Adventure, #Mystery, #Suspense, #USA, #Thriller, #Spy, #Politics, #Terrorism, #(Retail)

BOOK: Dirty Little Secret
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‘Damage limitation. Let’s leave it at that.’

‘Do you know how many calls are made on UK mobile networks each day? Two hundred million. Not even Echelon can listen to them all. The only way people like me are going to be alerted to a keyword or recognise a voiceprint is if we’re already monitoring the number you’re dialling from or the number you’re calling. Having said that, your best bet is talking over the internet using VOIP. Put your call through an anonymous routing network and a proxy server, throw in a botnet for luck, and you’re safe.’

‘What happens if I don’t have internet access?’

‘Buy a bunch of unlocked pay-as-you-go phones. They’re ten quid at Tesco. Use each one once, then chuck it away. And vary the network operators. One call on Orange, the next on Vodafone. That’s what the drug dealers do. Keep a phone just for incoming calls and give me the number. If you need to call me, I’ve got a pay-as-you-go that I haven’t used.’

‘And if I want to contact someone whose line is monitored?’

Myers didn’t answer. In keeping with his dysfunctional manner, he stood up without explanation and started to rummage through the pile of electronic detritus on his bed.

‘Try this,’ he said, holding up what looked like a regular pair of bud headphones and a mike. ‘It’s a hands-free unit – with a difference. When you talk into the mike, it modulates your voice.’

‘And makes me sound like Darth Vader?’

‘Same principle, but no. It just plays around with your vocal cavities and articulator patterns. Enough to confuse the NSA’s voiceprint-recognition software. What sort of updates are you after from the grid?’

‘Anything to do with Dhar.’

‘That’s a big ask.’ Myers bent over one of the computers and scrolled down a list of websites. ‘The traffic’s gone haywire since news of his capture broke earlier. Literally hundreds of
jihadi
chatrooms. The guy’s got a following bigger than bin Laden.’

‘What about Iran?’

Myers cast his eyes downwards. ‘I’ve only just been put back on the desk. I asked for a transfer after, you know, all that business with Leila. It was too painful.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ Leila had been half-Iranian, and Marchant wasn’t the only one to fall for the MI6 officer’s exotic charms. Myers had been obsessed with her.

‘My line manager kept me away from the region for a while, then said she couldn’t do without me.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

Myers was GCHQ’s leading Iranian intel analyst, fluent in Farsi and, crucially, the complex ways of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.

‘Could you listen out for any mention of Dhar? Particularly along the Iranian border with Afghanistan?’

‘I thought he’d been dumped by Tehran?’

‘Seems they’re interested in him again.’

‘There’s been a lot of IRGC activity along Iran’s eastern borders recently. They’re trying to counter what they think are proxy terrorist attacks by the CIA. Jundola, Mojahedin-e Khalq, the usual suspects.’

Marchant was glad Myers was working for the West. His knowledge was forensic. ‘If Dhar’s sent to Bagram, which seems likely, the Iranians will definitely try to spring him.’

‘And?’ Myers asked.

‘I just need to know, that’s all.’

‘Don’t you think the whole world might know if Salim Dhar escapes from Bagram?’

‘I want to know before it happens.’

41

Fielding looked around his office, knowing it was for the last time. Most of the pictures were from the government’s private collection, except for the two Turners, which he had borrowed from Tate Britain. They would be returned across the water by his successor, who was more into Lowry, but he was damned if the Matt cartoon would stay. It showed a man in a trenchcoat and dark glasses on top of a Christmas tree, where the fairy should be. He had commissioned it for the Service’s centenary year Christmas card, and knew exactly where it would hang in Dolphin Square.

Anne Norman, his principal PA, had provided him with a clear plastic box for his personal possessions. He felt like a prisoner checking into jail. It hadn’t taken long to fill the box: desk photos of his twelve godchildren, his Montblanc pen and a bottle of green ink (a present from Hugo Prentice when he became Chief), the ten-volume
Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night
(Sir Richard Francis Burton’s 1885 limited edition) and a photograph, kept in his top drawer, of Kadia, the woman he might have married if his career hadn’t intervened.

As he put the framed Matt cartoon in the box, face down in a half-hearted attempt to conceal it, he heard Ian Denton outside, talking to Anne. He might have had the decency to wait, Fielding thought. Only a few minutes earlier he had been in a meeting in St James’s with the Foreign Secretary, at which he had offered his resignation. Instead, it had been agreed that he would go on sick leave for the foreseeable future. Denton would step up as acting Chief.

‘We don’t want to make a fuss,’ the Foreign Secretary had said. ‘Not now. The coalition’s in a fragile state. I’m sure you understand. It’s the Cold War all over again, only this time with our closest ally.’

Fielding listened to Denton’s voice outside. Anne was being polite, but she was clearly stalling him, knowing that it would be awkward for him to enter the office before Fielding had left. If she had to, she would physically block Denton’s way. She had done it before, shielding him, in her formidable crimson tights and red shoes, from pushy politicians. Fielding would miss her.

He walked back over to his desk. There was still the safe to check. Unlike others in the building, only the incumbent Chief and the Foreign Secretary knew its combination, which changed twice daily. Traditionally, it contained documents that were for C’s eyes only – ‘God’s access’. Some of them – deniable operations, details of crown jewel assets – were enough to bring down governments if they were ever made public. Fielding had always played by the rules of the Service, but there was one document he didn’t want his successor to see, regardless of whether he was or wasn’t Moscow’s man.

It was a single watermarked sheet of A4 paper, handwritten by Stephen Marchant, and read many times by Fielding over the past few years. Beginning with the thoroughness of a witness statement, the former Chief had outlined his recruitment of Nikolai Primakov in Delhi in the 1980s and how the Russian had, on his return to Moscow, risen to become head of K Branch (counter-intelligence) in the KGB’s First Chief Directorate.

The document went on to describe – in increasingly charged language – how Moscow Centre had, over time, become suspicious of Primakov. In order to protect his source, Marchant had taken the controversial decision to let himself be recruited by Primakov. Operating with the sole knowledge of his then Chief, Giles Cordingley, Marchant had proceeded to hand over high-grade American product to Primakov, none of which compromised Britain, in return for the continued flow of priceless Soviet intelligence.

Denton had been heavily involved with the running of Primakov, but he had not known that Marchant was effectively a Moscow asset. No one had, particularly not the Americans. To this day, Washington had no knowledge of Primakov, let alone the pact that Stephen Marchant had signed with him. Now, with Denton due to become Chief, or at least acting Chief, it would only be a matter of time before the Americans became convinced of what they had long suspected: that Britain could not be trusted as an ally. Denton would be sure to tell them about Primakov and the US intel, given that he owed his promotion to Spiro.

Fielding knew, as he started to spin the numbers on the heavily oiled wheel, that he had to move fast. The Americans wouldn’t just point the finger – once again – at Stephen Marchant. They would accuse him of guilt by association: he should have informed them of what amounted to treachery by proxy when he had first become Chief. Daniel Marchant wouldn’t come out of it well either.

‘I’m afraid the combination’s already been changed.’

Fielding paused for a moment and then stood up. Denton was inside the office, standing by the door. Anne had uncharacteristically failed to keep him at bay. Then another figure appeared beside Denton, and Fielding understood. It was a member of security, thick-necked, no smile. Had it really come to this?

‘No problem,’ Fielding said, clicking shut the plastic lid on the box. ‘The contents of the safe are your responsibility now. To be honest, it’s a relief to be free of the burden that comes with them.’

‘If there’s anything personal in there, I can have it sent round to Dolphin Square, with your other possessions,’ Denton said, nodding at the box on the desk. ‘I’m sure Anne will arrange it. Once it’s been checked.’

For the first time, Fielding tried to look at Denton as a Moscow asset. If he was, he guessed it was a recent development – five years, at most – which made it marginally less unpalatable. If Denton had been working for Moscow during the 1980s and 1990s, Primakov would have been blown, given that Denton had helped to run him. But Primakov wasn’t blown, nor was he used by Moscow to feed false information to London. The intelligence had always checked out.

‘One word of advice, Ian,’ Fielding said, walking to the door. ‘Never ignore a gut feeling. If you find you don’t like working with Spiro, there’s probably a good reason.’

As Fielding passed through the door, Denton called out behind him.

‘That Matt cartoon. I was looking forward to seeing more of it. I’ll tell security it was yours, shall I?’

Fielding didn’t answer. Anne had her eyes cast down as he passed. He wasn’t sure if there weren’t tears welling, too.

‘Perhaps you could bring the box yourself,’ he said quietly, pausing by her desk. ‘Then we could say goodbye properly. Maybe share a pot of fresh mint tea, extra sweet, just how you like it.’

Before she could reply, he was gone, watched by cameras into the lift, and again as he crossed the foyer towards the row of security pods by the main entrance. He walked through one of them, conscious that the guards were keeping a closer eye on him than usual, and collected his company mobile phone on the other side. He was surprised that it hadn’t been withheld. They would send for it shortly, like an ex asking for her CDs. But there was no official car to take him home. Instead, he turned right and headed over Vauxhall Bridge, knowing that he would have to move fast if he was to leave the country.

42

It was 10 a.m. by the time Marchant arrived back at Gosport Marina. He had hoped to be there earlier, but it had taken longer to buy the five pay-as-you-go phones, each one from a different shop so as to avoid suspicion. He had borrowed £500 from his old friend and received an assurance that Myers would keep him updated about any intel relating to Dhar and Iran’s Revolutionary Guard. There was no one at GCHQ who knew the region better.

After leaving the Traveller parked on the road outside the marina, Marchant walked towards the grid of floating jetties, keeping an eye out for police. The older man had talked about having a lie-in after their long Channel crossing, but Marchant assumed that they would have raised the alarm about their missing car by now. As he approached the boat he spotted him in the cockpit, drinking from a Scottish mug. There was no sign of the younger man. Their bags were stacked up on the stern. It was clear that they hadn’t been to their car or spotted Marchant.

Five minutes later, Marchant was back on the jetty, having returned the car to its original slot in the car park. The small brass ignition key was in his hand as he approached the boat for the second time.

‘Just thought I’d come and say thanks for picking me up last night,’ he said. ‘And apologise for delaying you after such a long journey.’

‘Not at all,’ the older man said. ‘Nice of you to come back. I would have been too embarrassed.’

‘Can I help with your bags?’ Marchant asked.

‘You could if we knew where our car key was. We’ve looked everywhere for the damn thing, but it seems to have vanished. My son-in-law’s walked into town to find a garage.’

‘Let me have a look. I’m good at finding things.’

Marchant climbed aboard and went below decks. He soon found the key he was looking for, hanging from a hook by the ship-to-shore radio. But it wasn’t for the Traveller, it was for the boat’s diesel engine. He had remembered seeing it hanging from the fob when it was in the ignition the night before. Checking that the man wasn’t looking, he slid it off and put it in his pocket, then pushed the car key down a slot beside the steps, where it could have fallen from the hook above.

‘I think I’ve got it!’ Marchant called up to the man.

‘Have you really?’

‘It’s just a matter of retrieving it.’

The old man proved adept with a carving knife, and soon managed to slide the key out from the slot.

‘I think we’re quits now, don’t you?’ he said, a hand on Marchant’s shoulder as they climbed back up into the cockpit.

‘Are you off, then?’ Marchant asked, trying not to sound as if he was hurrying him along.

‘We’ve just got to take down the ensign, lock up and we’re done. I’ll call my son-in-law now. Tell him the good news.’

Marchant left him to it and retreated to the shower block, where he washed. He was confident that no one had followed him from Kemble to Cheltenham, or from Cheltenham to Portsmouth. As he splashed water on his unshaven face, he thought how tired he looked. It was twenty-four hours since he had slept. He would try to get some rest once he was on their boat and heading across the English Channel on autopilot.

First, though, he needed to find Lakshmi.

43

The two brothers didn’t speak as they drove through the Pembrokeshire countryside. There was nothing more to say. They had sat together to watch the BBC news about Salim Dhar’s capture, and before the bulletin had ended they were halfway to the lock-up where they kept the truck. It was also where they kept two hundred kilos of carefully dried ammonium nitrate, made from fertiliser bought at separate locations; one forty-litre barrel of liquid nitromethane, sourced from a drag-racing track; and ten kilos of Tovex Blastrite gel sausages used for avalanche clearing. To ensure a stronger blast, they had also stolen ten kilos of zinc dust.

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