Games Traitors Play

Dhar knew it wasn’t important, that, inshallah, he would answer to a higher calling, but it mattered. He was being asked to follow in his father’s footsteps. And for a son who had never known paternal love, never been shown the way, the feeling of comfort was almost overwhelming.

He took one last look at the letter, then folded it into one of the clear plastic pockets of his flying suit. I will not try to guess at what path led you to him, only to offer reassurance that I have trodden a similar one before you.

‘The Grach is yours,’ Dhar heard Sergei say over the intercom. And for a brief moment, as his hands tightened on the stick and endless pine forests passed in a blur far beneath him, it felt as if life had a coherence that had so far evaded him.

48

‘Call me if you need to talk,’ Harriet Armstrong said, moving towards the door. Fielding nodded. He was grateful for Armstrong’s support, but he needed time on his own. Inevitable cracks were beginning to show in their new-found friendship. Fielding had no choice but to keep her in the dark about some of the more sensitive aspects of the Dhar case, and she resented her exclusion. The encrypted audio file on his computer, procured by her officers, was for his ears only.

He didn’t blame Armstrong, but he could never tell her that his real intention was for Daniel Marchant to be recruited by Primakov, or that his biggest concern was Marchant’s seeming inability to play the traitor. Nor could he ever reveal the Faustian pact that Stephen Marchant had once signed with Primakov: the flow of American intel from London to Moscow in return for Russian product. He couldn’t tell anyone.

Fielding waited for Armstrong to close the door before playing the audio file. Five’s eavesdroppers had finally managed to get a live feed from the restaurant, but Daniel Marchant had already left. As soon as he heard it, Fielding recognised the voice: Vasilli Grushko, head of the SVR’s London rezidentura. The Russian’s cold tones still made his pulse quicken, even though he was familiar with it from countless intercepts. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t heard the anger before. Grushko was reprimanding Primakov, and he could almost hear the sweat dripping from his brow.

‘Give me one good reason why we should trust him,’ Grushko said. He then used a word that Fielding had dreaded to hear in connection with Daniel Marchant: ‘podstava’, a dangle. Grushko wasn’t buying Daniel Marchant.

‘His loyalties are no longer with the West,’ Primakov protested. ‘The apple never falls far from the tree. He is his father’s son.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ Grushko said. Fielding was well aware that Grushko was one of those SVR officers who believed that Stephen Marchant had been a podstava, too.

‘What harm will it do if he meets Salim Dhar?’ Primakov said. ‘The Muslim has asked to see Marchant.’

‘We already have someone in London who could help. Why can’t you persuade Dhar to work with them?’

We already have someone in London who could help. Was Grushko bluffing, or had the SVR been on a recruitment drive? Fielding would run it by Ian Denton afterwards.

‘Because I doubt that they can claim to be Salim Dhar’s brother,’ Primakov said.

‘Half-brother.’ Grushko paused. ‘I am sorry, Nikolai, but I have not heard enough tonight to be persuaded that Daniel Marchant is no longer loyal to his country.’

‘How much do you need? Here is a man who has been waterboarded by the CIA. And now he has been tortured in Morocco. If past experience is any guide, British intelligence must have been aware of what was happening to him. What more do you want?’

‘So why does he keep returning to his job after being so poorly treated?’

‘Because he wants to meet his brother, and he knows his best chance is with MI6.’

There was a pause, long enough for Fielding to wonder if the feed had dropped.

‘Maybe you are right,’ Grushko continued, his voice fainter now. ‘I’m not so sure. It is clear that Marchant dislikes America with commendable passion, but that is not the same as being ready to break the bond with your own mother country.’

Fielding listened as Primakov showed his boss out, then took off his headphones and walked to his desk, mulling over what Grushko had said. Moscow Centre clearly didn’t believe that Marchant was ripe for recruitment. He was too damn loyal. It was understandable, given the implications. Marchant was being asked to act as if his father had been a traitor, an accusation he had fought long and hard to disprove.

It would have been so much easier if Primakov had slipped up at the restaurant and given Marchant a sign, but the Russian had been too professional. Now Primakov’s superiors were growing restless. Grushko wanted proof of Marchant’s willingness to betray, evidence of his treachery inheritance. It was time to cut Marchant loose.

‘Can you get me Lakshmi Meena on the line?’ Fielding asked Ann Norman over the intercom. The American might be useful after all.

He then replayed Grushko’s words for a second time. We already have someone in London who could help. Fielding moved to call Denton, but then he paused. If Moscow Centre really had penetrated Six, he knew what lay ahead. He had watched Stephen Marchant go through a similar molehunt when he had been Chief. There would be a top-down investigation. Morale in Legoland would plummet. Everyone would be under suspicion, especially people like Denton, whose reputation had been made in Russia. He couldn’t tell anyone what Grushko had said, not yet.

49

Marchant walked up the iron steps, trying to get his bearings. Primakov had offered him a circuitous back exit from the restaurant, through the cellar into the basement of an adjoining wine bar, which he had gladly accepted. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk in the back of a black cab with one of Armstrong’s watchers. According to Primakov, Maddox Street was crawling with them, which had annoyed him. Fielding and Armstrong had promised him he would be left alone. One officer had even tried to get inside Goodman’s, posing as a diner.

‘It’s the footwear that gives them away,’ Primakov had joked. ‘Only your policemen and MI5 wear such ridiculous rubber soles.’ No wonder the Russian had got on so well with his father. Marchant resisted mentioning Valentin’s tell-tale shoes.

He knew that Fielding would be expecting him back at Legoland for a debrief, but he needed to clear his head, walk the summer-evening pavements. He stepped out onto Pollen Street, a narrow, dog-legged lane that ran down between Maddox Street and Hanover Street. Opposite him was the Sunflower Café, closed for the day. He glanced right and then headed away towards Hanover Street, turning into the square. No one had seen him.

It was only as he was heading west down Brook Street that he became aware of a tail, and it didn’t feel like MI5. At the junction with New Bond Street, he waited to cross the road, giving himself an opportunity to glance back down Brook Street. He spotted two of them, on either side of the road, a hundred yards away. The first man kept walking, head down, not letting Marchant get a look at his face. The second, further back, peeled away into a pub. Marchant guessed there would be at least two more. They didn’t look Russian either. Or American.

He had two choices. Keep walking to see how good — and who — they were, or call in and get picked up by MI5. He opted for the former, and increased his pace, continuing west down Brook Street towards Grosvenor Square. The American Embassy was not his favourite building in London, but the armed policemen that guarded it night and day might unsettle whoever was following him. If his tail pursued him for two brisk circuits of the embassy building, there was a good chance that they would be stopped by the police on the third. But before he could give them the runaround, a car drew up next to him.