After reaching the bottom of the path, Dhar checked on the Russian. It was important that he was sober enough to speak. He dragged the tender further up into the shadows of the cliff and tore at some long grass to use as crude camouflage. The blades cut into his soft hands and a thin line of blood blossomed across his finger joints. He cursed, sucking at a hand, and went back to the Russian. He couldnt afford to be careless.
Walk, Dhar said. After the captain had risen unsteadily to his feet, Dhar pushed him in the direction of the cliffs. He meandered across the flat, stratified rocks, head bowed like a man approaching the gallows. There was no need for Dhar to threaten him with the gun. He had seen what had happened to his crew.
Dhar looked up at the cliffs ahead: layer upon layer of limestone and shale, crushed over millions of years. The compressed stripes reminded him of the creamy millefeuille his Indian mother used to smuggle out of the French Embassy in Delhi when she was working there as an ayah. She was here somewhere, too, he hoped. In Britain, the land of the man she had once loved. Daniel Marchant had promised he would look after her.
When they reached the foot of the cliff, Dhar signalled for the Russian to sit. He circled like an exhausted dog before slumping onto the rocks, trying in vain to break his fall with his tied hands. Dhar stood over him and pulled out a bottle of Stolichnaya, his actions tracked by the mans aqueous, frightened eyes. Squatting down beside him, he unscrewed the lid and poured vodka into the Russians mouth, watching it trickle in rivulets through the stubble of his unshaven chin. His swollen lips were dry and cracked. Small flecks of white, sea salt perhaps, had collected in the corners of his mouth.
Dhar had thought about what lay ahead many times in the last few hours, trying to banish the notion that he had nothing to lose. He could have stayed on the trawler, made his way south to France and on past Portugal to Africa, Morocco and the Atlas Mountains, where he had hidden once before. But he knew he was deluding himself. Without Russias protection he would have been caught by now, picked up by one of the search planes. So here he was, in Britain, a country he had never quite been able to wage jihad against.
Youve been to the pub, a nice English pub, Dhar said, his face close to the Russians. He could smell the vodka on his breath, mixed with what might have been stale fish. And you fell down the cliffs on your walk home. Too much to drink.
He waved the Stolichnaya in front of the mans eyes like a censorious parent.
Are you going to kill me? the man asked. Dhar had chosen him because his English was good, better than his crews. He had heard him talk to the coastguard on the ship-to-shore radio.
Not if you do as I say, Dhar lied. He was certain that the man was an officer with the SVR, Russias foreign intelligence service. It would make his killing more straightforward, despite the company he had provided during the long row ashore, the talk of his young family, twin sons.
Dhar tucked the bottle in his flying suit and pulled out the sealed bag containing the mobile phone and the gun. Dont rush, he told himself. There was no hurry. According to a map he had found on the trawler, the stretch of shoreline they were on was near a place called East Quantoxhead. The signpost at the top of the cliff, on the West Somerset Coastal Path, had said they were one mile from Kilve, where there was a public house. They would find him easily enough. The Quantocks were not exactly the Waziristan hills.
Taking the phone out of the bag, Dhar dialled 999 and held the receiver up to the Russians mouth. With his other hand, he pressed the barrel of the gun hard against the mans temple. Afterwards, he would drag his body back to the boat and hide it in the shadows.
Talk, he ordered, cocking the gun. Dhars head was clear, purged of twins. Youve had a fall, hurt your left leg. He pointed the gun at the mans thigh and fired. And now you need help.
2
Daniel Marchant sat on the rock, throwing stones into Southampton Water. It was past midnight, and he still didnt have a strategy. Lakshmi Meena was asleep in the room behind him. To his left and right, a high green steel fence, topped with barbed wire, marked the perimeter of Fort Monckton, MI6s training centre at the tip of the Gosport peninsula.
Marchant was on a small private beach in front of the Forts accommodation block. Two old cannon and a row of dark inlets in the sea-facing wall were a reminder of the Forts role in the Napoleonic Wars, while an MoD sign saying NO LANDING ON THE FORESHORE hinted at its current purpose. The accommodation was usually occupied by MI6s most recent recruits, fresh-faced graduates on the Intelligence Officers New Entry Course, but the latest batch had left for a two-week stint in Helmand station, and the rooms were empty.
He glanced up at the row of white sash windows, checking that there wasnt a light on in his room. It was a warm night, and he had tried to sleep with the window open, but sleep had never come. How could it, after what hed just been through? A few hours earlier he had nearly died in a plane with Salim Dhar, and he knew he wouldnt be thanked for it. Never mind that he had thwarted one of the most audacious terrorist attacks ever mounted against mainland Britain.
And now this. He had already woken Lakshmi once to talk to her about the letter in his hands, but he hadnt been able to share its contents. Perhaps it was training. A genuine trust had built up between them over the past few weeks, a rapport that was edging towards something stronger, but she was still a CIA officer, although he suspected not for much longer. She was too honest, too nuanced for Langley. And she had become too closely associated with him.
But he knew it was more than training. As long as the contents of the letter remained known only to him, he could discount them, imagine they werent real. He read them again, holding the paper up in the moonlight.
Moscow Centre has an MI6 asset who helped the SVR expose and eliminate a network of agents in Poland. His codename was Argo, a nostalgic name in the SVR, as it was once used for Ernest Hemingway.
The Polish thought that Argo was Hugo Prentice, a very good friend of your father, and I believe a close confidant of yours. He was shot dead on the orders of the AW, or at least of one of its agents. Hugo Prentice was not Argo.
That mistake was a tragedy, destroying his reputation and damaging your fathers. The real Argo is Ian Denton, deputy Chief of MI6.
An hour earlier, while Lakshmi was sleeping, he had tried to call his Chief, Marcus Fielding, but the line was busy. He never liked leaving messages. He would call again when he had gathered his thoughts. Not for the first time, Marchant was struck by the solitude of his trade. He threw another stone towards the sea, harder this time. It missed the water and ricocheted between rocks like a maverick pinball.
Ian Denton had been good to him over the years, shared his distrust of America. And he was different from the smooth set at MI6, an outsider: a quiet northerner from Hull. But his awkward stabs at camaraderie at the terrace bar, the whispered words of encouragement in the corridor they had all been a pack of lies.
Are you OK down there? It was Lakshmi, who had appeared at the bottom of the stone steps down to the beach, wearing an oversized dressing gown. Her left wrist was in plaster. Marchant knew as soon as he saw her that this time he would reveal what was in the letter. He understood that look in her eyes, the weariness of isolation. The CIA was about to throw the book at her for failing to bring him in. She had crossed the divide, reached out to a fellow traveller. Fielding had promised Marchant that his own job was safe, but the Americans were after Lakshmis head, too. And they would get what they wanted, sooner or later. They always did.
Are you OK down there? It was Lakshmi, who had appeared at the bottom of the stone steps down to the beach, wearing an oversized dressing gown. Her left wrist was in plaster. Marchant knew as soon as he saw her that this time he would reveal what was in the letter. He understood that look in her eyes, the weariness of isolation. The CIA was about to throw the book at her for failing to bring him in. She had crossed the divide, reached out to a fellow traveller. Fielding had promised Marchant that his own job was safe, but the Americans were after Lakshmis head, too. And they would get what they wanted, sooner or later. They always did.
He held Lakshmis gaze and then looked at the stone in his hands, rubbing it between finger and thumb. If only he could break free, leave the distrust behind.
I couldnt sleep, he said.
You were going to share something earlier, Lakshmi said, walking over to him. Her feet were bare except for ankle chains, which tinkled like tiny bells as she crossed the stony beach. The sound brought back childhood memories of India, Marchants ayah approaching across the marble floor with sweet jalebi from Chandni Chowk.
Maybe if you told me, you might get some rest, she continued, standing beside him now, tightening the cord on her dressing gown as she shivered in a gust of wind. She rested her hand on Marchants neck and began to work the tight muscles.
Marchant breathed in deeply. There was no point being enigmatic. If he was going to tell her, he would be blunt about it. The Russians have got an asset high up in MI6, he began, raising a hand up to hers. Very high. He needed to feel her warmth. Or was it to stop her slipping him thirty pieces of silver? It was the first time he had told tales out of school.
I thought hed been killed. Lakshmis tone sounded casual, which annoyed Marchant, even though he knew it was unintentional. She was referring to Hugo Prentice, his close friend, fellow field officer and mentor in MI6. Prentice had been accused by the Poles of working for Moscow, and was gunned down in front of Marchant on the streets of London. The Americans had been only too ready to believe that he was a traitor. For Fielding and Marchant, it had been harder to dismiss him so quickly.
It wasnt Hugo. None of us wanted to believe it was him, but we did. We forced ourselves, recalibrated our pasts. Now it turns out it wasnt him after all.
And that makes you mad.
It makes me feel cheap, sordid. Hugo was a family friend. Close to my father. He looked out for me.
Perhaps now you can remember him as he was, without the guilt.
Marchant let his hand drop, and picked up another stone. Arent you going to ask me who the traitor is?
I cant do that, Dan, she said, ignoring his flippant tone. Youve got a career to return to. Youre a hero, remember? The man who talked Salim Dhar out of killing thousands.
Marchant laughed. Sometimes Americans saw things in such black and white: heroes and villains, good and evil. His world wasnt like that. Try telling that to Langley. To James Spiro. I was in the plane that shot down a US jet.
Spiro wont listen to me.
Are you definitely leaving the Agency?
Ive got no choice.
Then theres no harm telling you who the traitor is.
This time Lakshmi returned his smile and sat down on the rocks next to him, close, her injured wrist slung playfully over his knees. Let me guess, now. Marcus Fielding?
They laughed together, the tension gone for a moment, a sudden brightness in her tired eyes that gave him hope: for them, the lives they had chosen. The thought of Fielding, Chief of MI6, being anything other than loyal was risible, they both knew that. Known as the Vicar, Fielding was the one constant in Marchants life. Lakshmi liked him, too. She had met him a couple of times, once at the Chelsea Physic Garden, and had warmed to his professorial ways. He had even visited her in hospital, brought her honey mangoes from Pakistan and Ecuadorian roses.
Its true, Marchant said. Hes defected to the Royal Horticultural Society to head up their fight against moles.
Lakshmi smiled again and fell silent, running her front teeth over her lower lip. They both knew better than to fall under Fieldings avuncular spell. A few weeks earlier in Madurai he had turned Lakshmi and Marchant against each other for his own cold purposes, and he would gladly do so again if circumstances required it.
Spiro once told me that he thought you were a traitor, she said, her good hand sliding up Marchants leg, working the thigh muscles.
Sounds like Spiro the guy thinks hes James Jesus Angleton. Spiro also suspected my father for years, particularly when he was tipped for the top. I dont think the CIA ever really got over Kim Philby.
Dont tell me who it is, Dan. Lakshmi was serious now, almost whispering, her sweet breath warm on his neck, her hand squeezing the top of his thigh. Youve got to go on, continue the fight. No one can stop Salim Dhar except you.
But Marchant was no longer listening. His phone was vibrating, and there was only one person who rang him at this time of night: Fielding. He stood up to take the call, instinctively turning away from Lakshmi as if to shake off their intimacy, worried he had been caught.
Its Paul here, the voice said. Paul Myers.
Paul? How are you doing? Marchant asked, relieved, walking down the beach. He turned and waved a hand of reassurance at Lakshmi, but he could already feel the shutters coming down, protocol kicking in. Myers had been injured when Dhar had bombed GCHQs headquarters in Cheltenham after downing the US jet. The bomb was meant to have been dirty, but Marchant had talked Dhar out of it.
Bit of a headache. Ears still ringing. But Im back at my desk. Well, working from home. Spent the afternoon at A&E. The doc told me to stay away from GCHQ for a while.
It could have been worse, trust me. Marchant felt bad that he hadnt been to visit Myers, but Fielding had insisted on him staying at the Fort in the aftermath of the attack.
So I gather. I suppose I should be thanking you.
Any time. Whats up?
I couldnt help listening in on the crash zone. I should have been resting, but you know how it is.
Marchant knew exactly how it was. Myers lived and breathed for chatter, drawing it down from the ether with the dedication of a drug addict. Intercepts, voice-recognition, black-bag cryptanalysis, wiretaps, asymmetric key algorithms: he was a privacy kleptomaniac. The more measures people took to ensure their communications were private, the more Myers wanted to listen in. If Myers hadnt been working for GCHQ, he would still have found a way to eavesdrop.
I picked up something just now that I thought you should know about, he continued.
About the crash? Marchant asked, glancing back at Lakshmi, who was heading up the steps to their room. Once again she had got under his skin, come too close when he should have been focusing elsewhere.
Maybe.
According to Fielding, a trawler had been found with its autopilot on, drifting west in the Bristol Channel with three dead Russians on board. There had been no sign of Dhar, which troubled Marchant. He also remembered counting four crew when he had been in the sea with Dhar.
A Search and Rescue Sea King from RAF Chivenor was called out a few minutes ago. A man rang in from the coast, near Quantoxhead. Said hed fallen down a cliff on the way home from the pub at Kilve. I was listening in on the call. He sounded in a lot of pain. And drunk.