hard steel armour blast plates, and the sides had been reinforced with composite ballistic protection panels.
‘Thank you for ringing back,’ he said, trying to picture his opposite number in America, his Langley office, the bland Virginia countryside. Fielding’s relationship with the DCIA had been at rock bottom during the past year, but he knew that things had to improve sooner or later. Much as it would like to, Britain couldn’t survive indefinitely without America’s intel.
‘What can I do for you, Marcus? No problems with Lakshmi Meena, I hope?’
‘No, she’s fine.’
‘Treat her as yours, Marcus. A shared asset. She’s good.’
Better than the last one, you mean, Fielding thought, but he said nothing. ‘Thank you. She’s briefed me fully about Dhar’s mother.’
‘That’s what she’s there for. Keeping our allies in the loop.’
Like hell, Fielding thought. He looked out of the window at the grey scenery either side of the Westway: tatty tower blocks, car showrooms, digital clocks, vast hoardings. It was such a drab part of London, a depressing first impression of Britain for anyone driving in from the airport.
‘How’s Jim Spiro these days?’ Fielding asked.
‘I never knew you cared. He’ll be touched, truly.’
‘Is he still suspended?’
‘To all intents and purposes. He’s the subject of an ongoing internal inquiry, based largely on evidence provided by MI6.’
‘I need to talk to him.’
52
Daniel Marchant moved quickly around his one-bedroom basement flat in Pimlico, removing a suitcase from underneath the bed that was already packed with three sets of clothes and a wash bag containing a razor, toothbrush and two passports. The cobblers had given him a new spare one after Morocco. He had asked for two, but they had talked about budgets and come back to him a few days later saying that the passport in Dirk McLennan’s name, the snap cover he had used to get out of Morocco, had not been compromised.
Out of habit, he checked the issue date, making sure it was still valid, and then he saw an old Islamabad visa stamp on one of the pages. A trip to the Islamic Republic of Pakistan had been fine for Morocco, but it might cause problems in India. He cursed the cobblers and put the passport on his desk. He paused for a moment, looking at the photo of Leila that he had tried so often to throw out. She was smiling back at him, the bright lights of a carousel blurred behind her. He had taken the photo at the funfair in Gosport, across the water from the Fort, a few hours before they had slept together for the first time. The instructors had given them a rare day off after two weeks of intense training.
He knew it was a weakness to keep the photo, but something about her expression made it impossible to get rid of it. For a few heady months, he had thought it was love in her eyes. It was still hard to accept that he had been deceived. Wasn’t it his job to be vigilant while deceiving others? Perhaps he kept the photo as a reminder, a warning.
‘I guess you still miss her, right?’ He turned to see Lakshmi Meena standing in the doorway. She had dropped him off outside on Denbigh Street. He put the photo back on the desk, annoyed that he hadn’t heard her walk down the iron steps to his flat. Leila could still make him drop his guard, even now.
‘Have you ever had to sleep with someone as part of the job?’ he asked, unnecessarily adjusting the photo frame on his desk.
‘Spiro once tried it on. Said it was all part of the promotion process.’ She could still recall the approach: first month at Langley, fresh from the Farm. Spiro liked to call all the new female recruits into his office for a friendly one-to-one.
‘I don’t mean with our side.’
‘I know we’re not always the good guys, but we’re not the enemy.’
‘Leila wasn’t just working for you. Read the files.’
‘I tried. Hey, way beyond my security clearance. All I know is that she saved our President’s life.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
‘And another way?’
‘She betrayed me.’ Spiro had used similar words when she played him back an audio recording of his advances. A colleague had tipped her off, and she had gone into his office wired, claiming later that she was testing out new equipment and had forgotten to turn it off. It had been a colossal career risk, but Spiro had never bothered her again. If anything, he respected her more.
‘And you can’t forgive her that?’ she asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Is that why you won’t trust anyone?’
‘Anyone?’
‘Women.’
‘It was a calculated act of betrayal.’
And now, like King Shahryar’s virgin wives, we all stand accused, Meena thought, but she didn’t have time to say anything. They heard a car slow down on the road above them. Marchant glanced up through the basement window at the pavement.
‘Where did you park?’ he asked.
‘Around the corner, Lupus Street. I drove round the block twice first. No tail.’
‘Come, quickly,’ Marchant said, locking the front door to the flat, where Meena was standing, and going through to the bedroom. A pair of french windows looked out onto a small patio garden. He opened them and ushered her outside, glancing back at the front of the flat. Someone was coming down the metal stairs. How had they got his home address? He went into the small adjoining bathroom, turned on the light and the shower and returned to the bedroom. Then he took the key from the inside of the french windows, joined Meena on the patio and locked them from the outside.
‘Spiro’s orders again?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Meena said. ‘The Moroccans are upset Aziz is dead. Very upset.’
Marchant walked across to the back wall, which was about twelve feet high and covered in a wooden lattice for climbers he had never planted. In the corner, there was a rockery. Soon after he had bought the flat, he had built up the rocks at the back to help him climb up the wall, should he ever need to. He had cemented in three bricks above the highest rock, at eighteen-inch intervals up the wall, that stuck out by half a brick and acted as steps, but he had never got round to trying them.
‘Up there, quick,’ he said, pointing at the corner as if it was the obvious way out of the garden. When Meena reached the top of the wall, she looked back down at him.
‘You forgot to build any steps on the other side,’ she said before jumping. He heard a groan as she landed in the mews below. Then he followed her, glancing back at his flat as he reached the top of the wall. Two men had broken in, and one of them was looking at the passport he’d left on his desk. The other was moving towards the bathroom, gesturing to his colleague. For a moment, Marchant wanted to go back inside and confront them, show them his broken teeth, knock out theirs, but he resisted.
As he jumped from the top of the wall, a car turned into the quiet mews, driving too fast for a resident. Marchant got to his feet and rushed at its sweeping headlights, ignoring a shooting pain in his ankle. He knew he had to move fast. Without hesitating, he opened the driver’s door and grabbed the driver, pulling him out onto the road. He was aware of Meena doing the same on the other side. It was only as he pinned the man up against the wall, holding him by his throat, that he realised it was one of Armstrong’s watchers.
He held the man for a moment, then released him.
‘They’re Five,’ Marchant called across to Meena, who had wrestled the passenger to the ground and was holding both his arms behind his back. He made a mental note that she was no slouch when it came to unarmed combat. Marchant’s man dropped to his knees, one hand massaging his throat.
