Dead Line

came to their first erratic move. What had gone wrong? A blow-out? Possibly, though at such relatively low speed it should have been possible to control the saloon until it had stopped safely on the narrow road.

He looked carefully around the track to see what might have caused the accident. A nail, broken glass, something sharp; perhaps, he thought, even a small remote-controlled explosion. He found nothing.

He had better get going. He jogged back up the fifty yards of track, climbed into his own car, then drove down towards the junction, anxious to get away before a patrol car arrived and trapped him on the one-lane track.

Five minutes later, he was far enough away to think about what had happened. Could it have been a simple puncture after all? Realistically he had to admit that the odds of a blow-out at low speed on the way to a covert meeting, resulting in Jaghir’s death, were minimal. Far more likely that Jaghir’s work for a foreign agency had been discovered and his Syrian masters had extracted the penalty. But he’d found no evidence to support that theory, either. It was only as he saw the residential apartment blocks of Nicosia appear on the horizon that he remembered something else – the dull crack he’d heard just before the ill-fated saloon first veered. His hands shook. If Jaghir had indeed been killed, how had he been detected?

TWENTY-NINE

Charles Wetherby was sitting in his armchair by the window of his office reading the draft JIC papers for the next day’s meeting, when his secretary tapped on the door and put a tentative head in. ‘It’s Geoffrey Fane on the line.’

Wetherby was a patient man, but even he had his limits. What did Fane want now? Yesterday he’d revealed that the two ‘names’ and their threat to the Gleneagles conference had come from some highly placed Syrian source whom the Americans had actually donated to Fane’s people. And who had done the donating? Miles Brookhaven for pity’s sake, seemingly a bit of private enterprise. And what were these two names up to? Just about everything except threatening the conference, so far as MI5 had been able to find out. But Fane had calmly come over and asked him to protect them. From what, exactly? To judge by the attack on Liz, it was MI5 who needed the protection. Just who was deceiving whom? And why in the name of hell and damnation had Fane not found out sooner about Brookhaven’s links to Syria – if that’s what he had – while that young man was enjoying a ringside seat on all the security arrangements for Gleneagles? He’d asked Fane that and got no plausible response. But at least Fane had volunteered to talk to Andy Bokus about it. That might be a tricky conversation. How did you tactfully tell someone like Bokus that his man might be working for the opposition? Well that was Fane’s problem, thank God. And now what did the man want?

He walked over to his desk and picked up the telephone warily. ‘Hello, Geoffrey,’ he said.

‘Charles, I’m afraid there’s been a further development. Not a good one, either. Our Syrian source has been killed in the Troodos mountains in Cyprus. He was on his way to a meeting with Peter Templeton, head of our Cyprus station, who was running him.’

‘Was he assassinated?’

‘It’s starting to look like it. He drove off a narrow track that leads to the monastery where Templeton was waiting to meet him. The car was completely smashed up, and then there was a fire. Naturally Peter didn’t wait around to investigate, but he’s been talking to his sources in the Cypriot police. Apparently, the rear tyres in Jaghir’s car were both shot out – there must have been a sniper somewhere on the hillside.’

‘What have the Syrians said?’

‘That’s the interesting thing. They only cooperated minimally with the police. Didn’t seem to want to go into it much.’

‘Perhaps they were hoping to hide the fact that he was an intelligence officer.’

‘Perhaps. But in Syria they’ve hushed it up as well. I think they must have killed him.’

‘Which means we have another leak somewhere,’ said Wetherby bitterly.

‘Possibly,’ said Fane. ‘Or it could be the same one.’

THIRTY

Liz knew she’d made a mistake. She’d insisted that she felt perfectly well enough to do the interview with Marcham, though everyone – Charles, Peggy, her mother and even Edward, though he’d admitted it wasn’t his business – had disagreed.

Now, sitting in the taxi on her way to Hampstead, she knew they’d been right. She felt weak and shaky, her head hurt if she moved it too quickly and the yellowing bruise down one side of her face still attracted looks, if not comments. Why had she been so obstinate? Charles could have done the interview, or even Peggy at a pinch. But they wouldn’t have done it as well, she’d told herself, though now she wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t stand the feeling she was on the sidelines. Was it a fear of not being needed? She shook her head painfully to get rid of her thoughts. This wasn’t the time to psychoanalyse herself; she needed to focus on Marcham.

He had cleaned up his house. It now looked bohemian rather than tatty – no overflowing ashtrays, the books and magazines once strewn on the coffee table were stacked neatly, and the filthy carpet looked professionally cleaned. Marcham had made an effort, or paid someone to make it for him. Liz wondered if the clean-up had extended to his bedroom, remembering the religious relics and icons in there when she’d looked in on her last visit. But now the door was firmly closed.

She sat uncomfortably on the lumpy sofa while Marcham flitted back and forth between the sitting room and the kitchen, making himself the cup of coffee she had declined. He seemed nervous. He’d tidied himself up, too, she noticed, observing the blazer with shirt only slightly frayed, flannel trousers, and brown brogues. He looked almost respectable.

At last Marcham sat down in an old patched armchair. Sipping his mug carefully, he winced, then, smiling ingratiatingly at Liz, he sat back and said, ‘So how can I help you now, Miss Falconer?’

‘I’d like to talk to you about Syria,’ said Liz. Marcham’s eyes flickered and she felt sure that whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. ‘You’ve been there often, I understand, and I know you’ve just come back. What I wanted to ask you is whether on any of your visits there you’ve been contacted by the intelligence services.’

He paused. ‘No. Not as far as I know. I interviewed the President recently for an article I’m writing and I had to go through various official hoops, but as far as I know none of them were the intelligence services.’

‘Did you meet any hostility there? Did anyone make any threats or ask you to do anything for them?’

‘No. I can’t remember anything like that,’ Marcham replied. His voice, which had been deep and rather hoarse, rose an octave. ‘Why are you asking me these questions?’

Liz ignored him. ‘Have you ever been approached by any intelligence services on your visits to the Middle East?’

‘Miss Falconer,’ he said, putting down his mug and rubbing the palms of his hands together, ‘in my job you’re always being approached by spooks of all sorts. I’ve learned to see them coming and I don’t get involved. It’s more than my professional reputation is worth.’

‘I know you’ve spoken to MI6 in the past,’ said Liz, in case any unnecessary loyalty was holding him back.

‘Yes I have. But I’ve never done more than talk in general and I’ve never done anything for them.’

‘Any others you’ve just spoken to without doing anything?’

‘No,’ he replied and leaping to his feet he said, ‘I’d like another cup of coffee.’

There’s something here, thought Liz while he was in the kitchen. I’m sure there is. Her head was beginning to ache and she didn’t feel up to a long interrogation, so she decided to exert a bit of pressure. While he was in the kitchen she leaned forward and put a photograph on the coffee table in front of Marcham’s chair.

When he came back he picked it up. ‘It’s Alex,’ he declared. ‘I read about his death in the papers. What’s he got to do with you?’

‘You knew Mr Ledingham, then?’

Marcham nodded. ‘Of course. For a while I knew him fairly well.’ He added regretfully, ‘Lately, we hadn’t been in touch while I’ve been travelling.’