Dirty Little Secret. Jon Stock

for much longer. I’m seeing to it personally. As soon as Fielding’s out of the way, we’ll pick Marchant up from the Fort. Until then, I want you to stay close to him. Find out what the hell he was doing in that plane with Dhar, why he didn’t take the guy down. I won’t expect you to make contact. It’s essential you don’t arouse Marchant’s suspicion – unless you’ve got important intel. Even then, be careful. It pains me to say it, but Marchant’s good.’

      ‘There’s one thing you should know.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘Marchant says there’s a Soviet mole, high up in MI6.’

      The information was a down payment, something to reassure Spiro that more would follow. He seemed unimpressed.

      ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

      Five minutes later, Marchant crept back into the room. Lakshmi was in bed, eyes closed, dreading his return.

      ‘Are you OK?’ she whispered in the darkness. She had hoped her voice would sound stronger.

      ‘I’ve just come off the phone to Fielding.’

      ‘How was he?’

      ‘Tired, defeated. He’s been in a difficult COBRA meeting.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘I’d say his days are numbered.’

      Marchant slid off his jeans and climbed into bed. His body was cold. She couldn’t bring herself to hug him.

      ‘I know how he feels,’ she said.

      ‘Have you heard from Langley?’

      ‘Not officially. One of my colleagues rang. A friend.’ She closed her eyes again, bit her lip.

      Your legs are sweating. Are you OK?’ he asked.

      ‘I caught a chill on the beach.’ But she knew she hadn’t.

      ‘And what did this friend say?’

      ‘The Agency want to throw the book at me.’

      ‘For not stopping the Russians?’

      Lakshmi hesitated, doubting whether she could go through with this. She wanted to cradle Marchant in her arms, feel his warmth. Then she thought again of her father.

      ‘Disobeying orders, gross violation of duties,’ she said, repeating Spiro’s words. ‘A warrant’s been issued for my arrest.’

      ‘They won’t be able to touch you here. That’s why Fielding sent you. He saw this coming.’

      They lay in silence, listening to the water lapping at the rocks beneath the window. Already she could feel them drifting apart on the tide of professionalism swelling back into their lives. And she hated herself for it, for the games they were forced to play.

      ‘I helped you in the restaurant because I believe we won’t win by force alone,’ she eventually said, for her own benefit as much as his. She turned towards him, resting her broken wrist on his chest. The cast trembled against his skin. ‘There are other ways of winning the war on terror. I despise Spiro, his brutal approach to intelligence-gathering.’ She paused. ‘And I did it because I wanted to be with you. You do know that?’

      Marchant turned towards her. ‘I’m very grateful.’

      ‘What’s going to happen to us? To you?’

      ‘It doesn’t look good. An MI6 officer apparently defects to Moscow only to show up in a hostile Russian plane with Salim Dhar. Without Fielding to protect me, I’m buggered.’

      She thought again of Spiro, his instructions to find out more, and swallowed hard.

      ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’ she asked, as if it was the most natural question in the world. But she knew it sounded forced. She was no good at this any more, not with someone she loved.

      ‘Dhar? You haven’t asked me that before.’

      ‘I know you can’t tell me everything, Dan, but you never talk about him, the whole half-brother thing. Is that why you wanted the Russians to take you? And why you didn’t kill him?’

      But Marchant didn’t answer.

      9

      Dhar knew it was a risk taking the pilot with him, but he might be useful in the hours ahead. For a few brief seconds, watching the blades spin down in a remote corner of Cotswold Airport in Kemble, he had considered shooting him, but again a calm voice in his head had urged restraint. Instead he had bound his wrists with a bandage, taped his mouth with a roll of plaster and told him he was dead if he tried anything.

      They were now walking in the darkness towards the perimeter fence in the north-east corner of the airfield, the pilot leading, Dhar limping behind. In his left hand he held a set of bolt cutters he had found on the helicopter, stored with other safety equipment. He had ordered the pilot to head for Kemble because it was less than two miles from Tarlton. When he was being trained to fly in Russia, he had often studied this area on a map, wondering if, one day, he would ever get to see the home where his father had lived. That moment was now approaching.

      Dhar glanced at his watch as they reached the fence. Time was not on his side. Air Traffic Control had twice tried in vain to contact their helicopter during their approach to Kemble. A wider alarm might not have been raised by their failure to respond, but it was a risk. A more worrying call had come in from Search and Rescue’s regional headquarters at RAF Valley in Anglesey, which they had also ignored. The only good news was that the control tower at Kemble was deserted, just as Dhar had hoped. Kemble had no licence for night use.

      Dhar told the pilot to stand with his face to the fence. Again, he wondered if it would be easier to shoot him. He pulled out his gun and pressed it against the back of the man’s head, suddenly impatient. What was he doing, dragging this kafir with him? For a few long seconds he thought about squeezing the trigger. The pilot looked down, preparing himself for death. He was composed, Dhar had to hand it to him. He hadn’t panicked when Dhar had first appeared behind him in the cockpit, hadn’t flinched with a gun to his head, unlike his craven co-pilot. Dhar loosened the bandage around his wrists and handed him the bolt cutters.

      The pilot knelt in the wet grass and cut away at the bottom of the wire mesh, watched by Dhar. Once he had finished, Dhar tossed the cutters into the undergrowth and pushed the pilot through the gap with his gun, following after him. For a while the vodka had numbed the pain, but it was excruciating as he crouched down. When the pilot was a few feet ahead of him, Dhar took a swig from the Stolichnaya and slid the bottle back into his jacket. It was medicinal, he told himself, but he knew it was more than that. His life, so ordered up until now, was slipping out of control.

      Two minutes later they were standing beside a main road, hidden in the shadows of a dirty lay-by. The road was empty, but Dhar could hear the distant sound of a car. If the pilot was going to try anything, now was the time. Dhar pressed the gun into his back and waited as the vehicle’s headlights swept round the corner. It was a solitary police car, driving fast, blue light flashing, but no siren. Instinctively he grabbed the pilot’s arm and pressed the gun harder into his back as it drove past them. He told himself to relax.

      Once the road had cleared and the night was quiet again, Dhar pushed the pilot forward. Somewhere in the dark woods up ahead, an owl hooted. It was only one mile to Tarlton.

      10

      ‘I need to know why Marchant was in the cockpit with Dhar,’ Ian Denton said, sitting back in Marcus Fielding’s official Range Rover. ‘At least, I need to know what I can tell the Americans.’

      Although Fielding lived in Dolphin Square, he had offered to give his deputy a lift to his home in Battersea after the COBRA meeting. It was out of his way, but he owed him an explanation, and this was their first proper opportunity