‘Incontrovertible. It’s just a pity she took matters into her own hands. A debrief would have been helpful.’
Fielding nodded at a small gathering of people under the trees, at the far end of the graveyard. Monika was flanked by two bulky men in suits, one of whom was handcuffed to her. Marchant hadn’t seen her inside the church, and assumed that she had just arrived. He would talk to her later, when his own feelings had settled. Prentice was dead, unable to justify himself, explain why he had crossed the divide. He couldn’t forgive Monika for that, for ending the treachery but not the confusion. She had denied them all an answer, a taste of the forbidden fruits of defection.
He caught up with Fielding, who was heading over towards Ian Denton, a lean presence in the shade. Marchant knew that the deputy’s attendance at the funeral was purely for appearances’ sake. Most people assumed he had only turned up to make sure Prentice was dead. Denton had been sympathetic to Marchant, though, acknowledging that he had lost a close friend.
It was more complicated for Fielding. The news of Prentice’s betrayal had aged him. Late nights at the Foreign Office defending his officers had left him gaunt and withdrawn. It wasn’t just the security implications, it was the personal humiliation. Everyone knew that in Prentice he had finally found someone he could trust. He had dropped his guard. The D-Notice committee had done what it could to limit the media fallout, while Fielding had called in personal favours with security correspondents, but there was little disguising that the Service was reeling. A High Court injunction was out of the question, as national security was not at risk. Just MI6’s reputation. I/OPS had set to work planting exaggerated press stories of Prentice’s gambling habits, but the damage had been done.
‘The one mercy is that Warsaw’s not going public,’ Fielding said. ‘They can’t afford to. Hiring gangland hitmen isn’t part of the AW’s charter. Hugo was in debt. He liked to gamble, owed bad people money. End of story.’
Marchant knew that Prentice had often rolled the dice. Even in death, his cover story was based on truth.
‘Were our own networks compromised?’
‘We’re still checking. Did you manage to tell Prentice that you were resigning?’
Marchant thought back again to the restaurant, a scene his mind was keen to erase. He had relived the details too many times already for the police and MI6’s own counter-intelligence officers: the unusual Benelli TNT motorbike, the silence before the screams, as if no one could quite believe what they had seen.
‘It was the last thing I said before he was shot.’
‘Then there’s hope that the Russians still believe in you.’
‘You’re sure they were listening?’
‘Moscow asked Argo to sound you out when you arrived back at the airport. And I bloody sent him.’ Fielding shook his head and walked on. ‘I’m sorry about Madurai and Spiro, but for a time they had their doubts.’
‘And now they don’t?’
‘Let’s hope not.’
‘Where is she now? The mother.’
Fielding paused before answering. ‘You tell me.’
Marchant stared at him and then turned away. He knew what he was meant to say. ‘Bagram.’
The very name made him flinch. The airbase’s notorious theatre internment facility was not for the faint- hearted. Up to five hundred enemy combatants could be housed there at any one time. Marchant was sure Shushma was safe, in a secure location somewhere in Britain, not at Bagram, but Fielding wasn’t prepared to break the spell, not yet. It was a reminder of what lay ahead, the mindset he needed to adopt if he was to convince Salim Dhar of his treachery.
‘And still with Spiro,’ Fielding added. ‘Don’t resign just yet. You’ll be of more use to them in the Service. Dissemble, rebel, fall apart. Remember how you felt in India, how you feel now. They’ll be watching.’
Marchant deeply resented the way he was being handled, but no doubt that was the point. It wasn’t the time to challenge the Vicar about tactics, his lack of faith in him.
‘They’ve asked me to do something,’ Marchant said. ‘A final test before they exfiltrate me.’
‘Then make sure you pass it. I can’t help any more. You’re on your own now.’
Fielding was about to move to join the main group in the churchyard, but he hesitated, knowing there was something else that Marchant wanted to ask. They both knew what it was. The wider implications of Prentice’s treachery stretched like poison ivy back into the Service’s past as well as out across Europe’s network of agents.
‘Hugo was like family,’ Marchant said, watching a red kite wheel in the sky above the church. He felt his eyes begin to moisten, and turned away from the bright sun. ‘My father trusted him.’
‘I know. Use it. Embrace your worst fears. They may be the only thing to keep you alive when you meet Dhar.’
73
Primakov’s test had sounded relatively straightforward at the time. He had asked Marchant to knock out Britain’s early-warning radar system on the north-west coast for two minutes. Within that narrow window, two MiG-35 Russian fighters would penetrate British airspace, travelling just below the speed of sound until they were over land. Then they would turn around and head back towards Russia, leaving Britain’s airspace before the radar was up and running again.
After Marchant had made some discreet enquiries, the reality seemed much more complex. The radar network was overseen by the Air Surveillance and Control Systems Force Command (ASACS) at RAF Boulmer in Alnwick, which was stood up in 2006 in belated response to the terrorist threats highlighted by 9/11. The Control and Reporting Centre, located in a reinforced bunker at ASACS, monitored the airspace around the UK, and was responsible for providing tactical control of the Tornado F3 and Typhoon F2 jets that were scrambled whenever the skies over Britain were violated.
The planes were part of the RAF’s Quick Reaction Alert Force, and were based at Leuchars (covering the north) and Coningsby (the south). They had been particularly busy in recent years, shadowing the increasing number of Russian bombers that flew into the UK’s Air Defence Identification Zone, a sensitive area just outside Britain’s airspace.
There was only one man who could help Marchant, and he was sitting opposite him now in a corner of the Beehive pub in Montpelier, Cheltenham. Paul Myers liked his beer. He liked talking about Leila, too. Marchant gave him both, endless pints of Battledown Premium and stories of Leila in her early days at the Fort, and despised himself for it. Despite her betrayal, Myers had never managed to get over her, or dismiss the fantasy that she had once fancied him.
‘She used to talk about you often,’ Marchant said. Myers was clumsy enough when he was sober, but he looked even more vulnerable and awkward when he was drunk. Perhaps it was because he liked to remove his thick glasses after a few beers, exposing his clammy face to the world.
‘Did she really? That’s great. What did she say?’
‘That you were a good listener.’
‘They always say that. Particularly when they’re pouring their hearts out about other men.’
‘And if she hadn’t met me, then maybe…’
‘Honestly?’
‘Be careful what you wish for. You’d be the one feeling betrayed now.’
‘I do anyway. She betrayed us all, Dan.’
Had she? Marchant was always less sure when he was drunk. Alcohol could be very forgiving. For the first round, he had tried to sip at his beer, let Myers do the boozing, but it was no good. He had been drinking heavily ever since Prentice had been killed. There was no need to lay it on for the Russians, who were meant to be watching him for signs of disaffection. Besides, pretending to get drunk was not a skill he possessed. The KGB had
