Dead Spy Running

by Jon Stock

‘Can’t we land him in any closer, bypass the long walk?’ a young, shaven-headed man asked.

  ‘Look, I’d land Marine One on top of the goddamn building and winch the President down through a hole in the roof if I could, but the White House needs the avenue, temple in the background, symbol of world peace. This trip is all about hearts and minds, remember. New president, new beginning. Once he’s on those steps, we’re fine.’ Johnson pointed to the aerial image again. ‘There are high walls on either side, here and here.’ Five cascades of steps led up through a narrow, high-sided approach to the main temple entrance, beneath one of the twenty-seven ‘petals’ that formed the building’s distinctive roof.

  ‘He’ll attend a short ceremony inside, along with a couple of hundred Bahá’ís, then leave by Marine One from the south side and go straight back to Palam airbase. They wanted the temple full, but the Indians couldn’t guarantee full security screening.’

  ‘Have they guaranteed anything on this trip?’ Spiro asked. The room laughed politely.

  ‘This temple’s for Bahá’ís, right?’ another Security Service officer asked.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Johnson said.

  ‘And if the Bahá’ís come from Iran, are they, like, Muslims?’

  ‘Kind of,’ Johnson replied, looking across at Spiro.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Baldwin interrupted, standing up from his front-row seat. ‘They have their origins in Shia Islam, but that was over 150 years ago. Today’s Shia clergy regard them as heretics, infidels, a threat to Islam. The Republican Guard in Iran are all over them right now. They’re the country’s largest religious minority, and the most persecuted. Leaders executed for apostasy, schools closed down, denied passports, barred from government jobs, civil rights withdrawn.’

  ‘Which is why POTUS is paying them a call,’ Spiro said, reasserting his authority over the gathering as Baldwin sat down again. ‘Symbolic support for regime change. Leila, would you care to enlighten these ignorant people further?’

  Spiro threw Baldwin a glance as Leila walked from her third-row seat to join him and Johnson on the stage. For a moment she was standing in the light of the projector, an image of the Lotus Temple playing across her face. She moved to one side, putting a hand up to shield her eyes.

  ‘There are more than five million Bahá’ís in the world,’ she began, emotion rising in her voice. ‘My mother happens to be one of them. The biggest population is in India, the second largest is in Iran, where it all started.’ She paused, composing herself, glancing at Baldwin. ‘They believe that Moses, Buddha, Krishna, Jesus, Mohamed and Baha’u’llah, the religion’s founder, were all messengers of the same universal God. Baha’u’llah was born in nineteenth-century Persia, so it’s a relatively new religion. He believed in spiritual unity, world peace, compulsory education for all. He was also against any form of prejudice.’ Leila stopped again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s the heat.’

  But everyone knew it was more than that.

  ‘You can begin to understand why POTUS is so keen to visit the temple,’ Spiro said, stepping forward to stand beside her. ‘You want to take a break, babe?’ He had one arm around her now, squeezing a shoulder.

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ Leila said, pouring herself a glass of water from a plastic bottle on the table beside her. ‘The Bahá’í House of Worship, better known as the Lotus Temple, was designed by an Iranian architect. Its distinctive shape is based on a partially open lotus flower.’

  ‘It kind of reminds me of the Sydney Opera House,’ Spiro said.

  ‘They say it’s the most visited building in the world,’ Leila continued. ‘Everyone’s welcome: Hindus, Jews, Christians, Parsees, Muslims, you name it. The President will enjoy his visit. It’s a very special place.’

  Leila went back to her seat, but she was desperate to get out of the stuffy room, out of Delhi, away from India. She wanted to be with her mother.

  ‘Thanks, Leila,’ Spiro said. ‘We appreciate it.’ The room applauded, several of the Secret Service officers turning in their seats to look at her. Spiro glanced at Baldwin as he continued. ‘Given her specialist knowledge, Leila has been asked to join the POTUS party for this leg of the trip, representing the Company.’

  ‘With the greatest respect to Leila here, isn’t that a little unorthodox?’ Baldwin asked. ‘We all appreciate what she did in London, but…’

  ‘No, David, it’s not unorthodox,’ Spiro interrupted. ‘Not at all. It’s a great honour for the Company, that’s what it is.’

  ‘The honour’s all ours,’ Johnson said, sensing the tension. ‘The President wants to thank Leila personally for her good work in London, as all of us in the Service do.’ Another round of applause spread across the hall. ‘It’s no secret that we owe Langley. And it’s no secret that we don’t like to admit it. Needless to say, we’re not expecting to have to rely on Leila’s heroics this time.’

  43

  There was something about the network of cave-like huts on the hillside that reminded Marchant of Tora Bora. He’d never been to Afghanistan, but he had seen the satellite images, the route Osama Bin Laden had taken when he had given the Americans the slip. Each of the wooden shacks had been built deep into the red Konkan hillside. The one he was now sitting in went back twenty feet, although from the outside it looked like a small, single-room shack. There was no one else inside it apart from Salim Dhar, who had a restless energy about him as he brewed up a saucepan of milky cardamom chai on a small gas stove. Outside the door, a man sat on a plastic chair with an AK47 across his knees, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘We have so much in common, you and I,’ Dhar said in perfect English.

  ‘Except that I put the milk in afterwards, and you boil it all together, along with a couple of kg of sugar.’

  ‘And who has the better teeth?’ Dhar said, turning to hand Marchant a stainless steel beaker of tea, holding it by the rim. His smile was perfect white.

  Marchant was struggling to understand the warmth of Dhar’s welcome. From his Africa days he was used to the hospitality of enemies, that polite respite from hostilities while warring factions broke bread together before the slaughter. But there was something different going on here, and he didn’t know what it was.

  From the moment Dhar had greeted him at the bottom of the hill with a wide smile and a warm embrace, Marchant’s mind had raced with possibilities. The taller of his two escorts had been dispatched up the hill, where Marchant noticed a number of men dotted around the rocky ridge. The second fisherman had accompanied Marchant and Dhar down through a deep valley of coconut groves and dense jungle, at the other side of which was the collection of huts. At least ten men were sitting around, some smoking, all with guns.

  Marchant clocked a mix of nationalities: North African Arabs, Middle Eastern. No one seemed too bothered by his arrival. He wondered whether Dhar had concocted a cover story to reassure them about his presence. But did Dhar really know who he was? Was he aware that, until a month ago, his visitor spent his days and much of his nights working for an organisation dedicated to eliminating people and places like this? But Dhar had appeared relaxed, asking about his journey, the Westerners on the beaches, how he found the climate – the small-talk of casual acquaintances.

  Now, though, as Dhar sat down at the flimsy table opposite him, his head beading with sweat, Marchant sensed that the conversation was about to change. Possibly his life, too. He thought of his father visiting Dhar in jail, and felt the pit of his stomach tighten. Had he been welcomed equally warmly? Were the Americans right to question his father’s loyalty to the West? Marchant reminded himself that Dhar had attacked two US embassies in cold blood, killed many US Marines.

  ‘You look a bit like him, you know,’ Dhar said in English. ‘A family likeness is there – the good looks.’ Marchant sipped his tea, grateful for its spiced sweetness. Dhar was wearing a T-shirt cut off at the shoulders, revealing muscles that could only have been toned in a gym. He was tall, his face long and angular, with a sk
in colour much lighter than that of the local Karnatakans. The nose was prominent, the eye-sockets deep, but none of it seemed out of proportion or surprising. Perhaps it was habit, but Marchant kept glancing at Dhar’s low, distinctive earlobes. They were the hardest parts of a face to disguise.

  ‘It’s good of you to see me,’ Marchant said.

  ‘My fight is not so much with the British, although your government’s support for the infidel is craven.’ At a flick of a switch, Dhar’s voice had hardened into the familiar tones of the jihadi. ‘I received a message that you might be coming.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘An old family friend.’

  Marchant assumed it must have been Uncle K. ‘I need to know why my father visited you in Kerala.’

  Dhar smiled at Marchant again, in a way that disarmed him. He was holding all the cards.

  ‘He wanted a name. Someone in London.’

  At last, Marchant thought. He had come a long way to hear this. ‘Why did he think you would tell him?’

  Dhar paused, glancing out of the door at the guard. His voice became quieter.

  ‘Because I had once – foolishly – agreed to assist our family friend.’

  ‘And did you give my father a name?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t help him.’

  ‘Couldn’t?’

  ‘I didn’t know it. He said someone in London was destroying all that he had worked for. From the inside. I couldn’t help him.’

  ‘Do you know the name now?’

  ‘No. These things are kept separate.’

  Marchant was suddenly very tired, even more tired than he had felt in the marathon. The hike had been bearable in the heat, knowing that ahead lay a chance, however slim, to restore his father’s reputation. But now he was finally here, sitting opposite Salim Dhar, one of the world’s most wanted, and it had all been a waste of time. Dhar didn’t know a damn thing.

  ‘My father lost his job shortly afterwards,’ Marchant said, angry now. ‘Then he died, of shame.’

  ‘Some say it was the infidel Americans. Doing our job for us. Someone in MI6, close to the Chief.’

  Marchant looked up at him. ‘But you don’t have a name.’ He paused. ‘Why did you agree to see me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You had no choice with my father. You were in prison when he visited. But with me, you could have had me killed.’

  ‘Because there’s something you need to know. Something Stephen told me.’ Marchant flinched at the use of his father’s first name, his mouth turning dry. Dhar’s liquorice eyes had begun to glisten. ‘He was my father too.’

  44

  Fielding put down the phone and looked around the room, his mind working fast. There was no question Daniel was telling the truth. It all made sense now: the payments each month, authorised by Stephen Marchant, to Dhar’s father. His predecessor hadn’t been trying to bring on a potential asset; it was a personal allowance, prompted by guilt, paid for by the Service.

  The dates fitted, too. Stephen Marchant had overlapped with Dhar’s father at the British High Commission for six months at the beginning of 1980, the year Dhar was born. It was then that he must have met Dhar’s mother, in the months before returning to Britain for the birth of Daniel and Sebastian, when he was without his wife in Delhi.

  He picked up the phone again and rang Anne Norman, asking to be put through to Ian Denton, who listened quietly to what Marchant had told Fielding on the phone.

  ‘Where was he calling from?’ Denton asked.

  ‘He wouldn’t say.’

  ‘But he was with Salim Dhar.’

  ‘No, he’d just left.’ There was a pause, too long even for the taciturn Denton. ‘Ian?’

  ‘We might not have much time.’

  ‘Can you contact Carter? Straker won’t take my calls any more.’

  ‘The phone, Marcus. If Daniel was talking on a targeted mobile, Fort Meade will have picked it up and passed it on already.’

  ‘That’s why we need to speak to Carter.’

  ‘Isn’t he out of the loop now?’

  ‘Not yet. He’ll understand what this means.’

  ‘And you think it’s going to help our case with Langley?’

  In the few minutes since taking Daniel’s call, Fielding had felt only relief, finally knowing why Stephen Marchant had travelled to India on an unauthorised visit, a trip that had always troubled Fielding because it had been so out of character. There had been no mention of any name, no mole uncovered, but at least Fielding now knew that the journey had been made for private reasons, not national ones. It might lower Stephen’s reputation in some people’s eyes, but for Fielding it meant professional exoneration for his predecessor. Denton was right, though. He always was. In the American mind – Spiro’s, Straker’s – it would be interpreted quite differently: as further proof that the former Chief of MI6’s loyalties were questionable.

  ‘Carter will understand,’ Fielding repeated. ‘It explains Stephen’s visit, why he travelled to Kerala. That’s what was bothering them all so much, wasn’t it? He was a philanderer with a conscience, Ian, not a traitor. Doesn’t this prove it?’

  ‘It will prove only one thing to them: that they were right to go after him.’

  Fielding didn’t care any more what the Americans thought. It had always been Stephen Marchant’s dream to recruit someone like Dhar. In recent days, Fielding realised it had become one of his own, too. Wasn’t that why he had let Daniel try to find him? Now they knew who Dhar really was, a high-level penetration of AQ had finally become a possibility. He wasn’t about to let the Americans pass up the chance. There would never be another opportunity like it. And who better to recruit Dhar, he thought, than Daniel Marchant, his half-brother?

  ‘He never really got over the death of Sebbie,’ Marchant said, sipping at his second cup of cardamom chai. He wished there was something stronger to drink. ‘None of us did.’

  ‘Was he like you?’ Dhar asked.

  ‘Sebbie? More serious than I was. Troubled at times. Used to wake me with his nightmares. Shit hot at maths, though. Drove me mad. Always ahead of me at school.’

  Dhar smiled. ‘Stephen said that one day you would come.’

  Marchant tried to picture the two of them together. ‘Do you think he wanted you to let me know?’

  ‘I was angry when he first told me, cross that it had taken him so long.’

  ‘My mother would have died if he had ever gone public about it. She was very vulnerable.’

  ‘My mother too. That’s why I forgave him. He told me there wasn’t a day in his life when he hadn’t thought about me, wondered how I was getting on. But my mother had made him swear that he would never visit me, never try to make contact, never tell anyone. My father still doesn’t know. He thought the money was from her family. He used to complain that they hadn’t paid him enough dowry. Stephen agreed to her wishes, but said that it had always been his plan to come and find me when I was eighteen.’

  ‘What delayed him?’

  ‘Do you know where I celebrated my eighteenth birthday? In a training camp with my Kashmiri brothers.’

  ‘He might have ruined your reputation.’

  ‘I might have ruined his. He always sent money, though.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Until I was twenty-one. I guess it was him. We weren’t rich. My parents worked in the embassies. My father filed infidel invoices, my mother was paid a pittance for looking after expat children when their parents went out to drink. Both of them were treated like pigs. But we were never short of money. My mother said it was tips. She kept a roll of 500-rupee notes hidden behind the puja cupboard.’

  ‘Your mother was a Hindu?’

  ‘Both of them were. I converted to Islam when I left school. Did everything I could to distance myself from my father, his kafir world.’

  ‘You weren’t close, then.’

  Dhar laughed. ‘When I found out he had nothing to do with me, it all made sense. The rows,
the lack of any bond like those I saw between other fathers and sons. It was such a relief.’

  ‘Maybe he did know?’

  ‘No. He always wanted me to be more like him. To my shame, his favourite job was at the US Embassy. He loved everything American, even wore a cowboy hat and boots to the office fancy-dress party. But he didn’t see it. How they treated him, laughing behind his back. I saw it, and I knew he was so, so wrong. He sent me to the American School in Delhi – the worst years of my life.’

  Dhar stood up, slinging a small rucksack on his back. ‘I have to go. You must stay here for a few days, then they will take you back to Om Beach.’

  ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘Never try to contact me, for your own safety. I’m your only brother around here.’

  ‘And you can’t give me a name?’

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘I’ll ask.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Dhar turned back at the doorway, smiling. ‘Family business. Inshallah.’

  45

  ‘Sons turn out in the strangest ways,’ Carter said. ‘My youngest is in a goddamn thrash band.’ Carter was sitting in the back of a black people carrier, Fielding and Denton opposite him at a small foldaway table. They were heading west on the M4, planes landing at Heathrow in a steady procession to their left. He had never seen the Vicar so quiet. ‘Besides, Marchant was sending his family money long before he became a jihadi warrior.’

  ‘Straker won’t buy it, though, will he?’ Denton said.

  ‘No, he won’t. Which is why we have to get ourselves out to Delhi. I’m not going to sit here quietly while our new President’s life is on the line. Hell, I voted for him. You’re still the Chief, Marcus. I’m still head of Clandestine. Let’s pull some rank here while we’re both in play.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have taken the call,’ Fielding said, looking through the tinted glass as another plane came in to land. It was a sight that still made him nervous, after what had nearly happened at Heathrow a few years earlier. ‘If Daniel had just called the switchboard, he could have been dismissed as a renegade trying to come in from the cold. But he asked to speak to me, and I took the call.’