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.
Its the weekend, isnt it? Marchant knew Myers was one of the best analysts at GCHQ, but this time he wondered if he had been on the beer too. Marchant didnt blame him. He had been lucky to survive the bomb blast.
He also sounded Russian.
3
Marcus Fielding was surprised to see the lean figure of Ian Denton already in position at the long coffin-shaped table, talking quietly with the Foreign Secretary. Less surprising was the sight of Harriet Armstrong, his opposite number at MI5, chatting with the Prime Minister at the far end of the airless conference room. She had always been good at the politics. As he watched them, silhouetted against a flickering mosaic of flat TV screens, the thought crossed Fieldings mind that this might be his last COBRA meeting.
A part of him flinched at the idea. He wasnt ready to step back from the fray. There was still so much to do, battles to be won, not just in the war on terror but in Whitehall. He knew he should be more like Armstrong and Denton, sweet-talking the politicians, but he had always preferred dealing with field agents rather than Foreign Secretaries. He was a Chief who liked to stay south of the river.
If this was to be his final COBRA, he wouldnt 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 didnt 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 wasnt reciprocated. Dhars bomb might not have been dirty, but it had still knocked some sugar off the doughnut, as GCHQs Cheltenham premises were known. Fielding felt a knot begin to tighten in his lower lumbar. Tonight wasnt 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 its 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, yesterdays 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 Id 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, Dhars 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 dont. Ive 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.
Its no exaggeration to say that our relationship with Washington is in tatters, the Foreign Secretary said. Trade meetings cancelled, diplomatic initiatives dropped.
Ive just been informed that the proposed new Joint National Security Board has been put on ice, added the governments National Security Adviser, glancing up at Fielding.
And the NSAs Echelon cooperation thresholds on SIGINT have significantly risen across the grid in the past few hours, the director of GCHQ said. Its as if the UKUSA Agreement didnt exist.
I also understand France has now been asked to head up NATOs joint sea exercise off Cape Wrath next week, said the Joint Chief of Staff. Its 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 couldnt. It was a secret that only he and Marchant were privy to.
Its with all this in mind, the Prime Minister continued, that Ive 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. Its the only thing that will pacify Washington, and its the least we can do, given Dhars unfortunate connection with Britain. He glanced at his watch. As of thirty minutes ago, when Fox News broke the story against our wishes, Im afraid its now common knowledge that Salim Dhars 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 dont know any more about Dhars last movements in UK waters? the PM asked.
Weve got Sentinel and Sentry cover, theyre 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 Dhars original exit strategy, but Im not sure how keen the Russians would be to help him, given he failed to attack the Georgian generals. Im 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 Russians jacket and bloodied trousers, watched by his hollow stare.
If the dead Russian had seemed to disapprove of Dhars 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 Satans 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, wasnt it? And hadnt 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 alcohols alien effects made Dhars head spin when he closed his eyes. He hoped that his breath carried its sinful traces. Why hadnt 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 couldnt 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 wasnt 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 wasnt.
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 didnt 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 hadnt 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 wasnt 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.