by Jon Stock
47
‘…you can trust him as if he was a member of our family.’
Salim Dhar rested the letter on his lap, tears stinging his eyes, and looked out of the cockpit at the slanting rain. It was only his second flight in the two-seater SU-25UB, but already he felt at home in the confined titanium-alloy space. It would take longer to adjust to the colossal G-forces that blurred his vision as the aircraft banked and climbed into the sky, but he was determined not to show any weakness.
Sergei, his Russian instructor, also known as the Bird, was sitting behind him, putting the plane through another roll, the Archangel countryside spinning around to settle above his head. There was something about Sergei that Dhar liked. He became a different person in the air, less lugubrious, as if all his worries had been left on the ground. And Sergei had plenty to worry about. According to Primakov, he had been one of Russia’s best pilots until he had crashed a MiG-29 into the crowd at an air show, killing twenty-three people and ending his career. The crash still haunted him day and night.
‘I don’t trust him,’ Sergei said over the intercom, spinning the jet back over and pulling into a steep climb.
‘Who?’ Dhar managed to say, his jaw heavy with G-force. He could feel himself being pressed down into his seat, the blood rushing to his legs and feet. In training, Sergei had taught him how to squeeze his abdominal muscles to prevent blood flowing to the lower body. He tried to squeeze, but his vision was already greying at the edges.
‘Primakov,’ Sergei said calmly.
‘Why not?’ Dhar harboured similar suspicions, but he was struggling to speak, unable to see anything now except blackness. He was close to losing consciousness as Sergei banked hard left.
‘Just a feeling. Are you ready to fly?’ According to the dials swimming in front of Dhar, the plane was levelling out at 15,000 feet.
‘I’m ready,’ Dhar said, his vision returning. Euphoria swept through him as he looked around, blood flowing freely to his brain. He had waited a long time for this moment. Inshallah, his new life was coming together. He could do this. What lay ahead suddenly seemed possible. More importantly, his past had shifted too, on a tectonic scale, giant plates of data slipping into place beneath the surface.
Primakov had left him twenty-four hours earlier, and in that time Dhar had read and reread the letter the Russian had given him, thinking back to the only time he had met his father, when he was being held prisoner at a black site facility in Kerala. To Salim, the son I never knew. South Indian jihadis were suspected of being behind a series of bomb attacks in Britain at the time, and Stephen Marchant, then Britain’s head of MI6, had travelled all the way to Kerala to ask Dhar if he knew anything about the campaign. Dhar couldn’t help him.
It was then, as the monsoon rain beat down outside, that Marchant had detonated a bomb of his own: Dhar was his own son.
‘If it’s any consolation, I loved your mother,’ Marchant had continued, walking around Dhar’s dank cell. A solitary lightbulb hung from the ceiling. ‘I still do.’
Dhar had been too tired, tortured too many times, to feel anything at first. Instead, he just stared at the betel-nut juice stains that streaked down his cell walls. There was blood mixed in with the red marks; his own blood. Eventually, he looked up from the threadbare charpoy on which he was lying. Any anger he felt towards Marchant was tempered by relief that the man he had thought for so long was his father, a man he despised above all others, was no such thing. After a long pause, during which the rain outside increased to a deafening downpour, Dhar sat up with difficulty, and spoke.
‘How did you meet her?’ he asked, rubbing his bruised and swollen wrists together. They were shackled and chained to a steel ring on the wall.
‘She worked as an ayah at the British High Commission when I was stationed in Delhi. 1980. She was there for a year, I think. Before she switched to the American Embassy.’
Dhar had cast his eyes down at the mention of America.
‘She asked me never to make contact with her or with you again. I agreed, with reluctance, but I always provided for you both, sending money once a month.’
Dhar wondered why the British spymaster had broken his promise. He could have sent a colleague to interrogate him. The south Indian rendezvous was a risk in itself, but the news Marchant had brought was far more dangerous, more compromising — for both of them. Western spy chief fathers jihadi. Then, as Marchant had talked on into the monsoon night, peppering his conversation with anti-American asides, Dhar had begun to understand. His world, far from being fractured by the revelation, had in some way become more complete.
‘The West is not as simple as your people sometimes like to think,’ Marchant had said — the last words Dhar was ever to hear his father speak.
Now, here in his hands, 15,000 feet above the Archangel countryside, was written confirmation of what Dhar had barely dared to hope: a father who had the same enemies as him. If Primakov was to be believed, Stephen Marchant, Chief of MI6, had spent more than twenty years spying for the Russians, inspired by a mutual distrust of America.
‘Your father was a true hero of Russia,’ Primakov had said. ‘It was an honour to work with him.’
Dhar knew it wasn’t important, that, inshallah, he would answer to a higher calling, but it mattered. He was being asked to follow in his father’s footsteps. And for a son who had never known paternal love, never been shown the way, the feeling of comfort was almost overwhelming.
He took one last look at the letter, then folded it into one of the clear plastic pockets of his flying suit. I will not try to guess at what path led you to him, only to offer reassurance that I have trodden a similar one before you.
‘The Grach is yours,’ Dhar heard Sergei say over the intercom. And for a brief moment, as his hands tightened on the stick and endless pine forests passed in a blur far beneath him, it felt as if life had a coherence that had so far evaded him.
48
‘Call me if you need to talk,’ Harriet Armstrong said, moving towards the door. Fielding nodded. He was grateful for Armstrong’s support, but he needed time on his own. Inevitable cracks were beginning to show in their newfound friendship. Fielding had no choice but to keep her in the dark about some of the more sensitive aspects of the Dhar case, and she resented her exclusion. The encrypted audio file on his computer, procured by her officers, was for his ears only.
He didn’t blame Armstrong, but he could never tell her that his real intention was for Daniel Marchant to be recruited by Primakov, or that his biggest concern was Marchant’s seeming inability to play the traitor. Nor could he ever reveal the Faustian pact that Stephen Marchant had once signed with Primakov: the flow of American intel from London to Moscow in return for Russian product. He couldn’t tell anyone.
Fielding waited for Armstrong to close the door before playing the audio file. Five’s eavesdroppers had finally managed to get a live feed from the restaurant, but Daniel Marchant had already left. As soon as he heard it, Fielding recognised the voice: Vasilli Grushko, head of the SVR’s London rezidentura. The Russian’s cold tones still made his pulse quicken, even though he was familiar with it from countless intercepts. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t heard the anger before. Grushko was reprimanding Primakov, and he could almost hear the sweat dripping from his brow.
‘Give me one good reason why we should trust him,’ Grushko said. He then used a word that Fielding had dreaded to hear in connection with Daniel Marchant: ‘podstava’, a dangle. Grushko wasn’t buying Daniel Marchant.
‘His loyalties are no longer with the West,’ Primakov protested. ‘The apple never falls far from the tree. He is his father’s son.’
‘That’s what worries me,’ Grushko said. Fielding was well aware that Grushko was one of those SVR officers who believed that Stephen Marchant had been a podstava, too.
‘What harm will it do if he meets Salim Dhar?’ Primakov said. ‘The Muslim has asked to see Marchant.’
‘We already hav
e someone in London who could help. Why can’t you persuade Dhar to work with them?’
We already have someone in London who could help. Was Grushko bluffing, or had the SVR been on a recruitment drive? Fielding would run it by Ian Denton afterwards.
‘Because I doubt that they can claim to be Salim Dhar’s brother,’ Primakov said.
‘Half-brother.’ Grushko paused. ‘I am sorry, Nikolai, but I have not heard enough tonight to be persuaded that Daniel Marchant is no longer loyal to his country.’
‘How much do you need? Here is a man who has been waterboarded by the CIA. And now he has been tortured in Morocco. If past experience is any guide, British intelligence must have been aware of what was happening to him. What more do you want?’
‘So why does he keep returning to his job after being so poorly treated?’
‘Because he wants to meet his brother, and he knows his best chance is with MI6.’
There was a pause, long enough for Fielding to wonder if the feed had dropped.
‘Maybe you are right,’ Grushko continued, his voice fainter now. ‘I’m not so sure. It is clear that Marchant dislikes America with commendable passion, but that is not the same as being ready to break the bond with your own mother country.’
Fielding listened as Primakov showed his boss out, then took off his headphones and walked to his desk, mulling over what Grushko had said. Moscow Centre clearly didn’t believe that Marchant was ripe for recruitment. He was too damn loyal. It was understandable, given the implications. Marchant was being asked to act as if his father had been a traitor, an accusation he had fought long and hard to disprove.
It would have been so much easier if Primakov had slipped up at the restaurant and given Marchant a sign, but the Russian had been too professional. Now Primakov’s superiors were growing restless. Grushko wanted proof of Marchant’s willingness to betray, evidence of his treachery inheritance. It was time to cut Marchant loose.
‘Can you get me Lakshmi Meena on the line?’ Fielding asked Ann Norman over the intercom. The American might be useful after all.
He then replayed Grushko’s words for a second time. We already have someone in London who could help. Fielding moved to call Denton, but then he paused. If Moscow Centre really had penetrated Six, he knew what lay ahead. He had watched Stephen Marchant go through a similar molehunt when he had been Chief. There would be a top-down investigation. Morale in Legoland would plummet. Everyone would be under suspicion, especially people like Denton, whose reputation had been made in Russia. He couldn’t tell anyone what Grushko had said, not yet.
49
Marchant walked up the iron steps, trying to get his bearings. Primakov had offered him a circuitous back exit from the restaurant, through the cellar into the basement of an adjoining wine bar, which he had gladly accepted. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk in the back of a black cab with one of Armstrong’s watchers. According to Primakov, Maddox Street was crawling with them, which had annoyed him. Fielding and Armstrong had promised him he would be left alone. One officer had even tried to get inside Goodman’s, posing as a diner.
‘It’s the footwear that gives them away,’ Primakov had joked. ‘Only your policemen and MI5 wear such ridiculous rubber soles.’ No wonder the Russian had got on so well with his father. Marchant resisted mentioning Valentin’s tell-tale shoes.
He knew that Fielding would be expecting him back at Legoland for a debrief, but he needed to clear his head, walk the summer-evening pavements. He stepped out onto Pollen Street, a narrow, dog-legged lane that ran down between Maddox Street and Hanover Street. Opposite him was the Sunflower Café, closed for the day. He glanced right and then headed away towards Hanover Street, turning into the square. No one had seen him.
It was only as he was heading west down Brook Street that he became aware of a tail, and it didn’t feel like MI5. At the junction with New Bond Street, he waited to cross the road, giving himself an opportunity to glance back down Brook Street. He spotted two of them, on either side of the road, a hundred yards away. The first man kept walking, head down, not letting Marchant get a look at his face. The second, further back, peeled away into a pub. Marchant guessed there would be at least two more. They didn’t look Russian either. Or American.
He had two choices. Keep walking to see how good — and who — they were, or call in and get picked up by MI5. He opted for the former, and increased his pace, continuing west down Brook Street towards Grosvenor Square. The American Embassy was not his favourite building in London, but the armed policemen that guarded it night and day might unsettle whoever was following him. If his tail pursued him for two brisk circuits of the embassy building, there was a good chance that they would be stopped by the police on the third. But before he could give them the runaround, a car drew up next to him.
‘You’re a guy in a hurry.’ It was Lakshmi Meena, sitting at the wheel of an Audi TT convertible. Its roof was down.
‘Working off dinner,’ Marchant said, continuing to walk.
‘Fielding said I might find you around here. He wants us to talk.’
‘Well, now you can tell him we have.’
Marchant stopped, glancing back down the road, scanning the pedestrians for signs, shoes. He could see four of them in total. They had broken cover, making no attempt to conceal themselves. Their body language was more lynch mob than watcher. Marchant recognised the one at the back from Sardinia. He opened the door of Meena’s car and climbed in.
‘Aziz is dead. Last night in the military hospital in Rabat,’ Meena said, looking in the rear-view mirror as they drove off. ‘Complications unrelated to his original injuries, but clearly he wouldn’t have been in there if you hadn’t ripped half his mouth off.’
‘Are they lodging an official protest?’
‘Not their style. They don’t want to draw attention to what they did to you first.’
‘On your orders.’
‘Spiro’s.’
‘And you do whatever he says.’
Meena pulled up at a red light and glanced again in the mirror, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. ‘Look, I’m sorry for what happened. Truly.’
Marchant felt the gap in his gum with his tongue, but decided not to say anything. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Your flat, then Heathrow.’
‘Heathrow?’
‘Fielding wants us to go to India. Our flight’s tonight, and you need to pack.’
‘Our flight? Not so fast. I’m not going anywhere until I’ve spoken to him.’
Marchant shifted in his seat. He hadn’t been back to India since the US President’s trip, Leila’s death.
‘Fielding’s meeting us at Heathrow. He’ll explain everything. How was Primakov, by the way?’
Marchant hesitated. A new arrival at the Russian Embassy in London would arouse even the doziest CIA desk officer, but her question still surprised him.
‘The sous-chef at Goodman’s is one of ours,’ she continued by way of explanation. ‘It’s one of the most popular Russian restaurants in town. You showed up on our grid before you’d even ordered your herring with mustard. How can you eat that stuff?’
‘You’re not from Calcutta then?’
‘Reston, Virginia, actually. Why?’
‘Bengalis like their mustard.’
‘I meant the fish.’
‘They like that too. Primakov was fine. Fatter than I remember him. He was an old friend of my father.’
‘Friend?’
‘Sparring partner.’ He paused. ‘So who showed up first on your grid? Me or Primakov?’
Meena hesitated. ‘OK, I’ll admit, we don’t have a great deal on Primakov. Cultural attaché, brought out of retirement, medium-ranking KGB officer before the fall.’
‘But you have a bulging dossier on me. Says it all, doesn’t it? So where in India are we heading?’
‘The south, Tamil Nadu. Where my parents are from.’
‘Great. Meet the in-laws time. A bit premature
, isn’t it? We haven’t even slept together.’
Meena drove on in silence, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
‘I’m sorry,’ Marchant said, more quietly now. It had been a crass thing to say. Sometimes it was easy to forget Meena’s Indian heritage. She talked like a ballsy, confident American, trading coarse comments with colleagues, but there was an inner dignity about her that he recognised as uniquely subcontinental.
‘Actually, we’re going to find your father’s lover.’
He looked across at her for more.
‘Our Chennai substation is closing in on Salim Dhar’s mother. Fielding thought you should be there when we bring her in.’
50
Salim Dhar turned the navigation lights on as the canopy closed, and took a deep breath. Then, after running through the cockpit checks he had practised so often on his ancient PC, he leaned forward and flicked the switch to start the right engine. The RPM dial in front of him spooled up to 65 per cent, and the exhaust-gas temperature rose to 300 degrees. He did the same with the left engine, lowered one stage of flap and used his thumb to reset the trim to neutral.
For a moment, he was back in Afghanistan, sitting in the cockpit of the crashed SU-25. He remembered a solitary poppy pushing up through a broken dial. It was the first time in his adult life that he had been happy. The camaraderie at the training camp had made him realise how little friendship he had found until then. The darkest days of his childhood had been at the American school in Delhi, where his father had insisted on sending him. There were a few Indian pupils, sons of New Delhi’s business elite, but he was not like them, nor was he like the diplomats’ children, who made no effort to talk unless it was to taunt him — Allah yel’an abo el amrikaan’ala elli’awez yet’alem henaak (God damn the fathers of those Americans and whoever wants to study there!).
He turned the landing lights on, requested taxi clearance from the control tower, and again flicked the trim switch, setting it for take-off. Then he tested the wheelbrakes as he ran the throttle up to 70 then 80 per cent.