Marchant saw Meena up ahead and drew alongside Shushma, who was walking swiftly, her small feet barely lifting off the ground.
‘This is Lakshmi, she’s with us,’ he told her as Meena approached. ‘You can trust her.’
Meena stopped, expecting them to slow up. But Shushma kept moving, head down, as if she was trying to shut out the world, an approach to life that Marchant reckoned didn’t look too out of place in a temple.
‘A car’s waiting for us outside,’ Meena said, catching up with them. She turned to Marchant with raised eyebrows. Hadn’t she expected him to close the deal, to appear with Shushma?
‘She’s American,’ Shushma said quietly, still walking fast.
‘Don’t worry,’ Marchant said. ‘We’re going to London. I promise.’
‘Please, relax,’ Meena said, speaking in fluent Hindi and slipping an arm through Shushma’s. For a moment, she resisted, but after glancing at Marchant, who managed a smile, she let Meena’s arm stay interlocked with hers. ‘We’re here to help you,’ Meena added.
Satisfied that Shushma was in safe hands, Marchant looked back down the crowded colonnade. Again he thought he saw someone slipping away, disappearing behind the pillars. He was certain it was Valentin.
‘I thought your people were taking care of the Russian,’ he said.
‘They were. Why?’
‘He’s behind us. I’ll catch you up.’
‘Daniel, we need to get her out,’ Meena said, a sudden urgency in her voice.
‘You don’t know this man. Get her into the car. I’ll find you.’
Before Meena could protest further, Marchant had peeled away and was heading back down the colonnade. He knew it wasn’t part of the plan — Meena was meant to neutralise any threats — but Valentin wasn’t going away. He should have pushed him under the train.
60
The tall Russian was moving fast through the devotees now, walking towards the Hall of a Thousand Pillars in the west corner of the complex. It was one of the temple’s main tourist attractions, a sixteenth-century architectural marvel, according to Meena. She had talked about it on the flight, explaining with a smile that there were in fact only 985 pillars. It reminded Marchant of a round of golf his father had told him he once played at the Bolgatty Palace in Kochi harbour, southern India: nine holes, but only six tees.
Marchant hung back behind a pillar to watch Valentin, trying to establish what he was doing. The Russian showed a ticket and entered the hall, glancing in his direction before he disappeared out of sight. Marchant was confident that he hadn’t been seen. Was he meeting someone? Hoping to draw him away from the others? Marchant knew he should have stayed with Meena and Shushma, but it wasn’t tradecraft that was driving him now. The Russians — Valentin, Primakov — were too closely associated in his mind with something he never wanted to accept. They represented all that he despised about himself, about his father: the potential in everyone to betray.
He paid for a ticket and entered. Ahead of him was a low-ceilinged hall supported by row upon row of carved pillars. It was about to close for the day and was almost deserted, but there was no sign of Valentin. He walked forward, keeping close to the pillars and looking down the lines as they stretched away from him. He thought he saw a movement to his right, in the far corner, and headed towards it. But by the time he reached it there was no one there.
Then he spotted him, at the end of another row of pillars. The hall was also a gallery, and Valentin seemed to be studying a glass display cabinet of some kind. Marchant moved quickly, his bare feet silent on the cold floor. He stopped behind a pillar, four feet from Valentin, who still had his back to him. Marchant watched for a moment, wondering whether to strike from behind or get him to turn first. It seemed less cowardly. But then Valentin glanced at his watch and looked around, making up Marchant’s mind for him.
He hit out hard and instantly, knocking the Russian to the ground.
‘Stop, please,’ someone was repeating behind him.
Marchant stood up, wiping his mouth, and backed away from Valentin, who lay bloodied and unconscious on the floor. It had felt good, too good.
61
The sun was setting, but it was still bright outside compared to the gloom they had left behind in the temple complex. Meena was surprised by Marchant’s behaviour. He had been disciplined in Marrakech, which had impressed her. She was also concerned about her two colleagues inside the temple. They were meant to have delayed the Russian, kept him away from the exits. She knew mobile reception was patchy inside the complex, but neither was answering his phone.
Cars weren’t allowed up to the east gate, so Meena had agreed to bring Shushma to the end of the closed- off street immediately opposite the entrance. It was a walk of about two hundred yards. She glanced up and down the road. A parked car had already caught her eye. Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, but she couldn’t see their face. There was no time to collect her shoes.
She kept walking, her arm still linked through Shushma’s. The older woman had remained silent since Marchant had left them. Meena thought again about her conversation with Fielding at Heathrow. She trusted him, but it didn’t make what was about to happen any easier, particularly after her chat with Marchant at his London flat. King Shahryar would continue to distrust his wives.
At the end of the road, beyond a barrier, a white Ambassador had pulled up. Meena and Shushma climbed into the back. Meena glanced again at the car down the street.
‘Where’s your British friend?’ the driver asked, dropping his tourist manner.
‘We must leave without him. Let’s go,
62
Marchant brushed off the member of the temple staff who was attempting to hold him. He glanced down at the Russian. His eyes were closed and swollen, but he was trying to open them. Marchant turned and fled the hall, pushing away another temple worker who had heard the disturbance.
He thought he was heading straight for the east exit, but found himself in an open courtyard. A group of elderly priests, naked to the waist, were sitting on the ground in a circle, talking quietly as they ate food from stainless-steel tiffin boxes. One of them — bushy grey chest hair, forehead streaked with vermilion — was speaking on a mobile phone. He glanced up at Marchant and then looked away. Marchant asked one of the other priests for directions to the east gate and then set off again, walking fast.
He knew the authorities would soon be looking for him, and his heart sank as he turned the corner and saw a group of four policemen running down the corridor. But something about their manner made him hold his nerve. They hadn’t reacted when he came into view, and were now turning off the main corridor. He glanced after them and saw a crowd gathered around the edge of the Golden Lotus Pond. Two bodies were lying still on the stone floor, surrounded by devotees. Marchant couldn’t be sure, but one of them looked like the CIA officer Meena had met at the Lakshmi idol. Clearly, Valentin had been busy.
It took him longer to get out of the labyrinthine temple than he had intended, so he wasn’t surprised when
