Dirty Little Secret (17 page)

‘Let’s see who it was,’ Jean-Baptiste said, looking through a crack in the gate. They both stood there like naughty kids, listening as the vehicle approached. It was a black people-carrier. The windows were dark but partially lowered in the front. As it passed, Marchant caught a glimpse of the driver, who was looking straight ahead.

‘Friend of yours?’

Marchant closed his eyes. ‘No.’ He couldn’t be certain, but the figure at the wheel looked like an SVR officer called Valentin. If the Russians knew he was in France, he had a problem.

Harriet Armstrong looked around the COBRA table and wished Marcus Fielding was there. She had not always seen eye to eye with him, but his erudite presence was comforting in times of emergency. She didn’t want to dwell on where he was. It made no sense for Fielding to have gone to Russia. All she knew was that he hadn’t fled as a traitor. It wasn’t possible, not Fielding. She put the thought out of her mind as she turned to the assembled politicians, military chiefs and intelligence officers. There was only one other woman in the room, the Home Secretary, but they had yet to bond. Perhaps the crisis now engulfing Britain would bring them closer.

‘According to the latest intel, terrorist strikes have been confirmed at the following targets,’ she began. ‘Satellite teleport comms hubs at Goonhilly, Cornwall; Madley in Herefordshire; and Martlesham in Ipswich. They have also taken out submarine cable termination stations at Skewjack and Bude, disabling the FA-1, Apollo, TAT-14 and AC-2 fibre-optic cables, as well as the Tyco transatlantic cable that comes ashore at Highbridge in Somerset. And the US Murco terminal at Milford Haven has been destroyed. Casualties have – thankfully – been minimal, but I hardly need point out the strategic nature of these targets. They are all central to our relationship with America.’

‘And we’re absolutely certain that this is a response to the capture of Salim Dhar?’ the Prime Minister asked.

‘I would say they’re more a response to his being handed over to the US.’ Fielding would have said the same if he had been here, Armstrong thought. She owed it to him. Like him, she had long argued that Britain’s support for America, most notably during the Gulf War, was a significant factor in the rise of homegrown terrorism.

‘Either way, these are not impulsive attacks,’ the PM continued, ignoring her jibe. ‘They must have been months in the planning.’

‘Without a doubt,’ Armstrong replied. ‘And they all bear the hallmarks of Dhar. It’s as if his arrest was a trigger for his followers to carry out a series of pre-planned attacks.’

The director of GCHQ took up her point. ‘Dhar certainly has a considerable following in the UK. We can see that from the online chatroom activity. And they know what he likes: surgical strikes against US military and political targets. What we can’t be sure about is whether Dhar authorised them.’

‘Right now, I just need to know if this is the beginning,’ the PM said. ‘The markets are in turmoil, the recession’s deepening. The British public doesn’t have the stomach for a summer of terror.’

‘We’re assuming this is phase one,’ Armstrong said.

‘Are the Americans sharing intel?’ the PM asked. His face had the look of a man who already knew the answer.

‘Not with us,’ Armstrong said. ‘They’re following “their own lines of inquiry”.’

The PM turned towards the director of GCHQ.

‘Cooperation is not a word I’d use to describe the present situation,’ he said. ‘The NSA isn’t pooling anything.’

‘We’ve increased security at all critical national infrastructure targets,’ Armstrong said, hoping to lift the mood.

‘What about Daniel Marchant?’ the PM asked, turning to Ian Denton. ‘Is there any news on him?’

‘None, I’m afraid.’ Denton was in quiet mode, Armstrong thought. The restrained tones of newly acquired power.

‘Washington might start talking to us again if we could hand him over too,’ the Foreign Secretary said.

‘I’m aware of that,’ Denton said. ‘And we’re doing all we can to find him. Jim Spiro is at least still on speaking terms, and I’m working closely with him to locate Marchant.’

Of course he was, Armstrong thought. Denton owed his promotion to Spiro. She was not surprised by his sudden change of attitude towards Washington. She had always thought of him as a chameleon. Now he found himself the sole beneficiary of a rapidly deteriorating relationship with America, much to the chagrin of everyone else. The Foreign Secretary and the PM had both had their arms twisted over the promotion of Denton. At least they had stood up to the bullying sufficiently to insist he was made only acting Chief.

‘I thought Fort Monckton was a secure site,’ the PM said tersely. He was not good at disguising his feelings, Armstrong thought. MI6 had already caused him enough trouble, what with Fielding’s apparent defection and Marchant on the run. But Denton, America’s anointed one, had suddenly become one of the most powerful people in the room.

‘It is,’ Denton said. ‘But it was designed to stop people getting in, not escaping.’

‘Can we rule him out?’

‘In what sense?’

‘Can we be certain that Daniel Marchant played no part in these bombings? I mean, given he was in the SU-25 with Dhar.’

Denton hesitated for a moment, knowing that all eyes were on him. He’s enjoying this, Armstrong thought.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Fielding that. But as he’s in Russia, we can only guess.’ He paused again. Fielding’s apparent defection was next on COBRA’s crisis agenda, but it seemed that Denton wished to bury him now. ‘If you want my honest answer, I think Marchant’s involved in some way with these attacks. And if Marchant is involved, we must assume Fielding is too.’

Marcus Fielding wasn’t initially aware that Denton had placed him in Moscow, but he knew his deputy would make the most of his disappearance. As it happened, Denton wasn’t far wrong. Fielding had left the country, but he wasn’t in Russia. He was in Warsaw, sitting in the office of Brigadier Borowski, head of Agencja Wywiadu, Poland’s foreign intelligence agency. Both men were drinking whisky.

After leaving Legoland for what he believed was the last time, Fielding had taken a taxi to Victoria Station, where he kept a passport, money and a suitcase with two changes of clothes in a left-luggage locker. To return to his flat in Dolphin Square would have been too risky. He knew his number would be up the moment Denton opened the safe and saw the handwritten report by Stephen Marchant. Denton would go straight to the Americans, who would take the letter as evidence of what they had always suspected: MI6 was a hotbed of traitors. Stephen Marchant would be found guilty posthumously and Fielding branded a traitor by association.

So he had embarked on an emergency cover that he had never dreamed would be necessary. Placing his plastic box of office possessions in the station locker, he had taken the suitcase down to the men’s cloakrooms beside Platform 1, where he changed into different clothes: affluent New England slacks, open-necked shirt. His spare passport was American, drawn up for him by Langley in happier times, in the name of a tourist from Boston who was visiting Europe in his early retirement. The cover story had been compiled a while ago, and Fielding reread the two-sheet legend before emerging from the cloakrooms as Ted Soderling.

After doubling back a couple of times on his way out of the station, he was satisfied that no one was following him. He bought a ticket for the Gatwick Express, then purchased a cheap pay-as-you-go phone with cash, using the transaction to polish up his New England accent. Although the circumstances were depressing, it felt good to be in the field again, and he had boarded his train with a copy of the
International Herald Tribune
under one arm and a spring in his step.

‘We are still very sorry about what happened,’ Borowski said, splashing more whisky into their glasses. It was unlike Fielding to drink, but these were unusual times. ‘All of us.’

‘Of course.’ Fielding knew the air would have to be cleared before he could start asking favours. His oldest friend and colleague, Hugo Prentice, had been killed in London on the orders of one of Brigadier Borowski’s agents, Monika, because it was believed that Prentice was a Russian asset. A ring of Polish AW officers had been blown, including Monika’s brother. All of them were shot dead by the FSB, Russia’s domestic intelligence agency, having apparently been tipped off by Prentice.

‘Monika was acting alone,’ Borowski continued. ‘She was very close to her brother. It clouded her judgement.’

‘I just want to assure myself that it really was Prentice,’ Fielding said. ‘He was a good friend. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Officially?’ Borowski asked, trying to be delicate. It didn’t suit him. He was a big walrus of a man, who reminded Fielding of Lech Wal
̦
sa, the former Polish president.

‘I don’t know how much you’ve heard, but officially I’m on sick leave. My deputy, Ian Denton, is currently acting Chief.’

‘And he’s just issued a warrant for your arrest,’ Borowski said, indicating a sheet of paper on his desk. ‘Which I’m ignoring, of course.’

‘Thank you.’ Denton was more of a bastard than he thought. Now he must prove that he was a traitor too. ‘I need to talk to Monika.’

‘She’s not well.’

Fielding had allowed Monika to return to Poland, despite the ongoing police investigation into Prentice’s death. He was aware that she had hired a Turkish gang in north London to kill Prentice, but she had covered her tracks well. Nobody would ever be allowed to link Prentice’s death with a Polish intelligence officer, something for which Borowski was particularly grateful.

‘Can we go over the evidence one more time?’ Fielding asked. ‘What made Monika so sure it was Prentice?’

‘Me, unfortunately. I had no idea she would react in the regrettable way she did. Her instructions were to prepare a case. I would then have brought the evidence to you.’

‘So what convinced you?’

Borowski lit a cigarette, tilted his head back and exhaled, the smoke rising to the low ceiling, where it spread out as if in search of something – the truth perhaps.

‘Nine months ago, we lost an asset in Moscow. He was an illegal, had been living there for ten years. One of our best. He was shot – the police blamed local gangs and an argument over money. Then we lost two more in quick succession. Both were illegals and part of the same ring. In Russia, we have always operated better without embassy cover. One was in Moscow, the other in Sochi.

‘The coincidence was too much. We must have had a mole in AW. When we lost the last two in the ring, we feared for our entire illegals programme. We worked all our Russian assets, pumping them for anything they had. One of them, a junior officer with the FSB, came back with a name. He said the FSB was being fed the identities of our illegals in Russia by an MI6 agent based at the British Embassy here in Warsaw.’

‘Hugo Prentice.’

‘Correct. I passed this on to Monika, to help her build the case. Bravely, she’d begun sleeping with Prentice, hoping to find out more. When they were in London together I sent her a message, telling her that a second FSB asset had come forward with Prentice’s name. I wanted her to know she was on the right track. Her cover was not an easy one for a young woman, pretending to love a man who might be responsible for her brother’s death.’

‘But how would Prentice have known the identities of your illegals?’

‘He had been stationed here for two years. MI6 and AW pool a lot of intel, as you know.’

‘But not the names of each other’s illegals.’

‘No. Not officially. Hugo was – how do you say – unorthodox, old school. Played by Moscow rules.’ Brigadier Borowski smiled, as if remembering better days. ‘I would not have put it past him to find these things out. Unfortunately, Monika took the second FSB confirmation the wrong way and, well, you know the rest.’

Prentice had been shot dead in cold blood outside a restaurant near Piccadilly. Fielding thought back to the funeral, at Coombe in West Berkshire. A pitiless sun had shone down on black suits in idyllic countryside. It had been a difficult day.

‘If I told you I didn’t think Prentice was a Russian asset, would you be surprised?’ Fielding asked.

‘I would have been, until a few days ago.’

Fielding sat up, ignoring the smoke, which had started to circulate down towards him.

‘What changed your mind?’

‘The FSB agent who first gave us Prentice’s name? It appears he’s a plant. A
podstava
. We had our doubts about him. Now we know for sure that the information he gives us is being controlled by Moscow Centre.’

‘So the Russians wanted to frame Prentice?’

‘It would seem so. Please don’t ask me why.’

Fielding already knew why. To protect the identity of Ian Denton, the real Russian mole in MI6.

Marchant had been to Jean-Baptiste’s family château a few times, but he had forgotten how grand it was. Jean-Baptiste’s mother, Florianne, had bought it twenty years earlier as a summer retreat. She spent most of the year in Versailles, but liked to have a place for her children and grandchildren to gather in the holidays. It had been a wreck when she took it on, but over the years she had gradually restored the main house and the rambling outbuildings that formed a loose courtyard.

Florianne had greeted Jean-Baptiste and Marchant when they had arrived a few minutes earlier. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a more attractive seventy-year-old. Although she had a cigarette hanging loosely from her mouth, she hadn’t aged the way most smokers do. Her skin was fresh, her face open, reflecting the youth that she liked to surround herself with. She wore white linen trousers and spoke English with a French accent so sexy that Marchant had to stop himself from laughing.

He could hear her now, talking outside with Jean-Baptiste about Lakshmi, while he took in the building in which they were to stay. It had only been half converted, and the main room was still clearly a barn. Old wooden troughs from which cattle had once fed ran along one wall, and a huge oak beam supported the roof. Beyond that was a bedroom, where Lakshmi was sleeping, a small bathroom and a tatty sitting room with old leather sofas and a Mac desktop computer. Marchant guessed it was normally used as a playroom. There were four grandchildren in residence, playing down at the swimming pool, but Jean-Baptiste had explained that their parents (his sister and brother-in-law) were in Paris.