Dirty Little Secret (4 page)

‘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.’

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.

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.

‘I helped you in the restaurant because I believe we won’t win by force alone,’ she eventually said, for her own benefit as much as his. She turned towards him, resting her broken wrist on his chest. The cast trembled against his skin. ‘There are other ways of winning the war on terror. I despise Spiro, his brutal approach to intelligence-gathering.’ She paused. ‘And I did it because I wanted to be with you. You do know that?’

Marchant turned towards her. ‘I’m very grateful.’

‘What’s going to happen to us? To you?’

‘It doesn’t look good. An MI6 officer apparently defects to Moscow only to show up in a hostile Russian plane with Salim Dhar. Without Fielding to protect me, I’m buggered.’

She thought again of Spiro, his instructions to find out more, and swallowed hard.

‘Why didn’t you kill him?’ she asked, as if it was the most natural question in the world. But she knew it sounded forced. She was no good at this any more, not with someone she loved.

‘Dhar? You haven’t asked me that before.’

‘I know you can’t tell me everything, Dan, but you never talk about him, the whole half-brother thing. Is that why you wanted the Russians to take you? And why you didn’t kill him?’

But Marchant didn’t answer.

Dhar knew it was a risk taking the pilot with him, but he might be useful in the hours ahead. For a few brief seconds, watching the blades spin down in a remote corner of Cotswold Airport in Kemble, he had considered shooting him, but again a calm voice in his head had urged restraint. Instead he had bound his wrists with a bandage, taped his mouth with a roll of plaster and told him he was dead if he tried anything.

They were now walking in the darkness towards the perimeter fence in the north-east corner of the airfield, the pilot leading, Dhar limping behind. In his left hand he held a set of bolt cutters he had found on the helicopter, stored with other safety equipment. He had ordered the pilot to head for Kemble because it was less than two miles from Tarlton. When he was being trained to fly in Russia, he had often studied this area on a map, wondering if, one day, he would ever get to see the home where his father had lived. That moment was now approaching.

Dhar glanced at his watch as they reached the fence. Time was not on his side. Air Traffic Control had twice tried in vain to contact their helicopter during their approach to Kemble. A wider alarm might not have been raised by their failure to respond, but it was a risk. A more worrying call had come in from Search and Rescue’s regional headquarters at RAF Valley in Anglesey, which they had also ignored. The only good news was that the control tower at Kemble was deserted, just as Dhar had hoped. Kemble had no licence for night use.

Dhar told the pilot to stand with his face to the fence. Again, he wondered if it would be easier to shoot him. He pulled out his gun and pressed it against the back of the man’s head, suddenly impatient. What was he doing, dragging this
kafir
with him? For a few long seconds he thought about squeezing the trigger. The pilot looked down, preparing himself for death. He was composed, Dhar had to hand it to him. He hadn’t panicked when Dhar had first appeared behind him in the cockpit, hadn’t flinched with a gun to his head, unlike his craven co-pilot. Dhar loosened the bandage around his wrists and handed him the bolt cutters.

The pilot knelt in the wet grass and cut away at the bottom of the wire mesh, watched by Dhar. Once he had finished, Dhar tossed the cutters into the undergrowth and pushed the pilot through the gap with his gun, following after him. For a while the vodka had numbed the pain, but it was excruciating as he crouched down. When the pilot was a few feet ahead of him, Dhar took a swig from the Stolichnaya and slid the bottle back into his jacket. It was medicinal, he told himself, but he knew it was more than that. His life, so ordered up until now, was slipping out of control.

Two minutes later they were standing beside a main road, hidden in the shadows of a dirty lay-by. The road was empty, but Dhar could hear the distant sound of a car. If the pilot was going to try anything, now was the time. Dhar pressed the gun into his back and waited as the vehicle’s headlights swept round the corner. It was a solitary police car, driving fast, blue light flashing, but no siren. Instinctively he grabbed the pilot’s arm and pressed the gun harder into his back as it drove past them. He told himself to relax.

Once the road had cleared and the night was quiet again, Dhar pushed the pilot forward. Somewhere in the dark woods up ahead, an owl hooted. It was only one mile to Tarlton.

‘I need to know why Marchant was in the cockpit with Dhar,’ Ian Denton said, sitting back in Marcus Fielding’s official Range Rover. ‘At least, I need to know what I can tell the Americans.’

Although Fielding lived in Dolphin Square, he had offered to give his deputy a lift to his home in Battersea after the COBRA meeting. It was out of his way, but he owed him an explanation, and this was their first proper opportunity to talk. There was no anger in Denton’s voice – quiet, with a drop of Hull – no indication of any resentment at having been excluded. As far as Fielding knew, Denton had never objected to MI6’s tradition of need-to-know, its culture of compartmentalised knowledge. Even as deputy, he wouldn’t expect to be informed of every operational detail. But there was a new-found confidence in his manner, a lack of deference that made Fielding wonder if the Foreign Secretary had already offered him his job.

‘We knew the Russians were shielding Dhar,’ Fielding said as his Special Branch driver, separated from them by a soundproof glass divide, turned right onto the Embankment. ‘The only way to get to him – and to stop whatever atrocity he was planning – was to persuade the Russians that Marchant wanted to defect. You’ll understand why I could tell no one at the time. Nikolai Primakov, Moscow’s cultural attaché in London, had agreed to work for us again. He had access to Dhar, and acted as our middle man.’

‘Just like old times, then.’

‘Quite. Primakov likes working with Marchants.’

For the first time, Fielding detected a trace of bitterness in his deputy, the Hull accent less suppressed. Marchant’s father, Stephen, had recruited Primakov in Delhi in the 1980s. It had been a game-changing signing in the Cold War, as good as Oleg Gordievsky, and had fast-tracked Stephen to the top of MI6. Denton, then a young officer in the SovBloc Controllerate, was the contact man, clearing the dead-letter drops and trying – in vain – to keep Primakov sweet. The two men had not warmed to each other.

‘As far as I can recall, we never got round to telling the Americans about Primakov,’ Denton said.