It was just a precaution on a hot day, Marchant told himself, lengthening his stride. Running had always come naturally to him, a benefit of being tall. He caught up with the group as they left Greenwich for Deptford, heading down Creek Road. The crowds were thinner here, but still noisy, heckling runners with the names they had written on their vests. Wheres Grommit? someone shouted, as a fun-runner dressed as Wallace ran past. Go Dan! two young women screamed. For a moment, Marchant thought they must be supporting someone else, but then he remembered Leila had insisted on writing Dan on the front of his own running vest. He turned his head to take another look but they were already lost in the crowd, cheering on other strangers.
What are you doing? Leila called out from behind Marchant. We were doing fine.
Give me a minute, he said. The group of runners ahead of the man also bothered him. Two were heavily set, struggling in the heat and bearing all the unsubtle hallmarks bulging vests, GI One haircuts of the American Secret Service. The third man was lean and sinewy, a born runner. He looked familiar.
As Marchant drew near, he knew at once that something was not right. He could taste it in his mouth, like corked wine. His father had always taught him to trust his instinct, whether it was a bad feeling on first meeting a potential agent or pulling out of a rendezvous for no other reason than that it felt wrong. It wasnt tradecraft; it was more visceral than that.
Marchant positioned himself as close as he could behind the man, trying to get a better look at the belt, but the running field was still tightly packed. He counted six drinks pouches. They were eight miles into a hot race, but none of the pouches had been opened.
Then he noticed what looked like an oversized watch on the mans wrist. Leila had something similar for long runs. It was a basic GPS receiver, relaying her position, speed and when she should speed up or slow down. (He remembered how she had once said it beeped ruthlessly at her when her pace dropped below a pre-programmed speed.) It wasnt as sophisticated as the military units he and other case officers had been issued with in Africa, but it wasnt a toy either.
Whats happening? Leila said, appearing on his shoulder. We were going so well.
Marchant nodded at the man in front and slowed up a little, falling away from the group.
See the guy with the belt, he said, as they both slowed to their former pace. Marchant was short of breath as he continued. I dont think those cartons are for drinking.
Why not? Leila asked.
And that man up there, the tall one all in white. Isnt he the US Ambassador?
Turner Munroe? Dan, whats going on?
Marchant knew what Leila was thinking. He was deluded, still drunk from the night before, seeing things where there was nothing to see. Hed watched it himself in other case officers who had been called in from the field and tethered to a desk in Legoland (the name employees had given to MI6s headquarters in Vauxhall), drinking themselves to death to alleviate the boredom of captivity. In his case, though, he didnt even have a desk. That was the hardest part: knowing there might never be a way back. And now here he was, hard on the heels of a runner in the London Marathon, convinced that the man was shortly to kill himself and everyone around him, including the US Ambassador to Britain. Hed run agents who were less paranoid.
What exactly did Cheltenham pick up last night? Marchant asked, breathlessly.
Nothing like this. He guessed Leila was already making her own calculations, weighing up risks. How can you be so sure about the belt?
By asking him, Marchant replied.
Dont be stupid, Dan.
For a drink.
Dan
Marchant ignored her and moved towards the runner again, pulling up alongside. The man was clearly in trouble. Sweat was pouring off him as his head bobbed like a donkeys.
Hot one, Marchant said. The man glanced at him nervously and looked ahead again, wiping his thick eyebrows with the back of his hand. Did you see that last drinks station? Marchant continued. Crazy. Shouldnt have to queue for water, not on a day like this. Marchant smiled at the man, nodding towards his belt. Inside, his stomach turned. He was right. Couldnt have one of yours, could I?
Who are you? the man said aggressively. His accent was thick, from India: another cell from the subcontinent. Marchant knew immediately there would be consequences, for him, for his father, but they would have to wait.
No problem. Any idea who that is? Marchant gestured at the US Ambassador. Brought his own fan club with him.
Please, stay away, the man said.
The two of them ran on in silence. Marchants mind was racing. Post 7/7, it was bulky clothing that had attracted attention. Here was a man wearing explosives on the outside, and it was so bloody bold no one had noticed. The pouches must be wired together inside the belt, he thought. But if the man was a running bomb, why hadnt he blown himself up by now? Why was he warning him to stay away? And if his target was the Ambassador, he could easily have bunched in close to him and his babysitters and taken them all out before now.
He remembered the last suicide bomber he had seen, in Mogadishu. They had been talking in the marketplace, making nervous progress. Then a phone rang. Twice. Marchant had run for his life. The mans head was found on the corrugated-iron roof of a nearby café. The bomber hadnt wanted to die, Marchant was sure of that. Afterwards, in the British Embassy bar, as his hand shook the Johnnie Walker out of his glass, he kept telling himself, over and over, that the bomber had not wanted to die. It had made it easier to understand. The handler knew it too, which is why he had detonated the bomb himself.
This time, he had to keep his man talking, establish the method of detonation, hope the mobile networks would be too busy for a phone call from a third party. Like the bomber in Mogadishu, this man was also not a volunteer. He had been forced to wear the belt. It was happening more and more these days: genuine suicide bombers were becoming hard to find. Trust your gut feeling, his father had said.
That watch youve got there, Marchant said. GPS?
Sat-Runner, the man replied. Better, Marchant thought, much better; a gear and gadgets man.
Useful piece of kit.
The man nodded. Then the GPS beeped. Both of them looked at it. Please, you must go, the man said to Marchant. They werent the words of a suicide bomber hoping to take as many people with him as he could.
Whys it beeping? Marchant asked, recalculating the risk to himself, to others. His lungs tightened, making words difficult. Does it do that when you slow down, when your pace drops? he asked, trying to remember how Leila had explained it, cursing himself for not showing more interest at the time.
The man nodded. He had been coerced into this, Marchant repeated to himself, which meant that he could be talked out of it.
Then what? Marchant glanced down at the belt again.
Can you help me? They looked at each other for a moment, gauging the fear in each others eyes.
I can try. Whats your name?
Pradeep.
Keep it going, Pradeep. Youre doing fine. Just fine. Dont go anywhere. Im coming straight back.
Pradeep glanced over his shoulder, stumbling again, as Marchant dropped back down the field to search for Leila, but he couldnt see her in the crowd. How much faster than her had he been running? He slowed up some more, looking at everyone who overtook him. He shouldnt have left her, he knew that now. There were too many people, too much noise.
Above him the helicopters circled low again, drowning out the jazz band playing on the roof of a pub. Children by the roadside cheered, holding out bags of sweets. Stout women from St Johns Ambulance were offering outstretched hands of Vaseline. And then he spotted her, over on the far side of the road, hidden behind a small group of club runners. He cut across the flow of people to join her, almost tripping on the heels of another runner. His legs were tiring, more than they should have been at this stage of the race. He was desperate for more water, too.
Leila, weve got a problem, he said, short of breath. A big problem.
Where have you been? I couldnt see you anywhere.
In between swigs from her drinking bottle, he told her about the GPS, and how he thought it was linked in some way to the pouches around Pradeeps waist, which he was now convinced contained explosives enough to kill dozens of people if he was in a tightly bunched group. He knew how he sounded: a has-been desperate to prove himself in the field.
My guess is, if he drops below a certain pace, the isotonics will blow, he added.
Daniel
Leilas face told him she was struggling to comprehend the situation, trying to decide whether his reading of it was deluded or credible. She was momentarily tearful.
Youve got to leave this to others, she pleaded. You must. Youre no longerI need to make a call, she said, removing her mobile phone from a pocket at the back of her running shorts.
You wont get a signal, Marchant said, glancing at the phone. With its stubby, inch-long aerial, the unit looked very familiar.
She held the phone in front of her, tripping and grabbing at Marchants arm for support.
Who are you ringing? MI5? The networks will be congested, he said. Too many people.
She looked at him again, her face suddenly professional, drained of all emotion, and then she dialled.
Its a TETRA handset, she said coldly. The secure encrypted digital network used by the emergency and security services was one of the perks Marchant missed. Theyre not answering. Daniel, please. This is not your responsibility, not mine. If what you say is true, its one for MI5, Anti-Terrorism Command. We must leave it to them.
Marchant looked at the road ahead, and reckoned he knew where the runner was, give or take a few hundred people. Ive got him talking. He doesnt want to go through with it.
Leila hesitated, weighing up the options. Had she conceded he might have a role to play? She looked at him again, swallowing hard.
OK. If you take my phone, Ill drop out, find a phonebox and tell Five about the situation. Once the networks have been knocked out, Ill give you a call on TETRA.