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 vehicles headlights swept round the corner. It was a solitary police car, driving fast, blue light flashing, but no siren. Instinctively he grabbed the pilots 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.
10
I need to know why Marchant was in the cockpit with Dhar, Ian Denton said, sitting back in Marcus Fieldings 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 Dentons 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 MI6s tradition of need-to-know, its culture of compartmentalised knowledge. Even as deputy, he wouldnt 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. Youll understand why I could tell no one at the time. Nikolai Primakov, Moscows 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. Marchants 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.
No, and I would ask you, in your new role, that it should stay that way.
The last thing Fielding needed was some CIA goon going over the Primakov files.
That could be a problem. As part of our efforts to rebuild trust with Washington, weve agreed to an independent investigation into the events at Fairford and Cheltenham. Its no secret that the Americans want to throw the book at Marchant and Lakshmi Meena.
Then its up to us to protect them, isnt it?
Fielding had expected a witch hunt. Top-down, no stone left unturned, the usual Whitehall hysteria: craven civil servants running around doing the Americans bidding. It was why he had sent Marchant and Lakshmi to Fort Monckton. They would be safe there, at least for the time being.
What the Americans are struggling to understand and I see their point is why Marchant didnt eliminate Dhar. Fielding thought Denton looked increasingly at home in the Range Rover, sitting back, at ease, elbows out, his sinewy body expanding with new authority. In the past, he had never relaxed when Fielding had given him a lift, perching on the buttermilk leather like a watchful lizard. Once hed won his trust by defecting, Denton continued, there must have been opportunities to kill him. In Russia. On board the plane.
Fielding could never tell him the real reason why Marchant hadnt killed Dhar. He could never tell anyone. He tried to change the focus.
I think were forgetting who were dealing with here, he said. When Marchant reached Russia, Dhar forced him to shoot Primakov, a family friend, for being a Western spy. The bigger question is why Dhar didnt kill Marchant. He could have done so at any time. Marchant was exceptionally brave.
So why didnt Dhar kill him?
Fielding turned away, looking down the Thames as they drove over Battersea Bridge. It was almost 3 a.m. He always felt depressed when he saw Albert Bridge at night, lit up like a gaudy old whore in pearls. Perhaps he was curious. Theyre half-brothers, after all. And Dhar only met his father once, when he was in jail in India. Maybe Marchant reminded him of his father, I dont know.
The Americans want answers, Marcus, not cod bloody psychology.
I dont remember you always being so ready to oblige them.
Fielding was struggling to remain civil as the Range Rover drew up outside a nondescript terrace house on Battersea Bridge Road. Dentons anti-US views had been well known in the Service, causing Fielding enough problems in the past. It appeared that he had put them to one side with the promise of promotion.
They also want to find Dhar. Marchant was the last person to see him alive. I assume we can circulate his Fort debriefing?
It will be on desks in the morning, Fielding said.
Denton got out of the car and leant in through the open door.
Thanks. He tapped the roof, as if hed just chosen the vehicle in a showroom. For the lift.
Theres one thing I can tell you, Fielding said. Daniel Marchants one of the good guys. Trust me. Lets not throw him to the lions. Not yet.
11
Marchant lay staring at the vibrating phone. It was still dark outside, and for a moment he didnt know where he was. He didnt even know if he was awake. His dreams had been about dead sailors and Dhar. The phone display said that Dad Home was calling. He hadnt been called from that number since his father had died seventeen months before.
The call was from the family home at Tarlton, outside Cirencester in the Cotswolds. Nobody lived there any more. The house was closed up, and would remain that way until Marchant decided what to do with the place. As the only surviving member of the family, he had inherited his fathers flat in Pimlico, where he now lived, and the large family house in Tarlton. He could never envisage living there, but he hadnt been able to bring himself to sell it.
Marchant slid out of bed, checking that Lakshmi was asleep. Her eyes were closed, her breathing uneven. He would call a doctor in the morning, get her wrist checked out. Careful not to wake her, he stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He was glad the phone was on vibrate, as he could tell himself it was the phone and not his hand that was shaking. Who would call from his home? And at 4 a.m.? Once a month, his fathers cleaning lady dropped by to check on the place, but she would only ring if there was a problem. Perhaps there had been a fire?
Who is this? Marchant said quietly.
Who is this? Marchant said quietly.
Your pilot.