Dirty Little Secret

by Jon Stock

  Life had been hard when he was growing up on the fringes of Chanakyapuri in New Delhi, where his parents had worked at various foreign embassies. The man who claimed to be his father used to beat him regularly with a wooden baseball bat: back of the legs, arms, soles of his feet when he slept late. His mother had suffered terribly too, hiding when her husband returned from yet another party at the American Embassy, drunk on bourbon and Coke. Dhar couldn’t blame her for turning to another man.

  He leant forward and kissed the top of the gravestone, the sound as his lips touched it exaggerated in the quietness. Silence at dawn felt alien to him. Where was the muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer? Where were the mosques in this sterile land they called the Cotswolds? That was the hardest thing for Dhar to accept: that his father had been an unbeliever. It was painful enough that he had worked for an infidel intelligence agency, but he had come to terms with that. Now, though, he had to deal with the kuffar, whom he could feel closing in all around him.

  25

  Fielding walked briskly along the south side of Grosvenor Road. Oleg was at heel, surprised but happy to be on a night-time walk. They had slipped out of the Dolphin Square flat unnoticed by the Special Branch guard down on the street, which gave Fielding a kick. He might not be Chief for much longer, but he hadn’t lost any of his old field skills.

  He wanted to see for himself if Spiro had really parked his tanks on MI6’s lawn. The threat, relayed by the PM, had sounded real enough, and as he turned south onto Vauxhall Bridge, dawn beginning to break over London, he knew his career with the Service would soon be over. They weren’t tanks, but two large US military lorries were positioned across the road, stopping what little traffic there was at that time of the morning. He could see more US military vehicles down by the bus station, closing off all approaches to the usually busy junction. It was a scene not unlike the ones that had recently caused Fielding to wake in the middle of the night, dripping in sweat: tangible proof of Britain’s submission to America.

  Up in front of him a solitary car was turning around, followed by a motorbike, both being instructed by a helmeted US Marine waving a gun. A gust of wind blew up from the river. Fielding tugged at his coat collar and considered turning around too, but he wanted to see if Spiro was there, tell him to his face that he was making a fool of the United States, and not just MI6. He was certain now that Dhar had made his way to Tarlton, the Marchant family home, from where he had rung Daniel on an old secure line. It was a desperate decision for a man on the run, but perhaps he had nowhere else to go.

  There was nothing Fielding could do about it. What power he still had was slipping through his fingers like desert sand. It was up to Marchant now. He would find a way out of the Fort, and make his way to Tarlton. That was what he was best at: kicking out against his own system. Like Fielding, Marchant would want to know what the hell Dhar was playing at. He just hoped that others wouldn’t get to Tarlton first.

  He kept walking, tugging at Oleg, who seemed less eager to confront the scene up ahead.

  ‘No access, sir,’ the Marine said as Fielding approached the roadblock.

  ‘Is Jim Spiro around?’ Fielding asked. ‘Tell him it’s Marcus Fielding, Chief of MI6.’

  The Marine looked him up and down, then got on his radio mike. Two minutes later, Spiro was sauntering over as if he had just conquered London. Fielding was surprised he wasn’t smoking a stogie.

  ‘Nobody seems to be at home,’ Spiro began, looking over his shoulder at Legoland. The lights were all out and the windows shuttered. ‘We knocked on the front door, like the polite people we are, but there was no answer. Don’t suppose you’ve got a key?’

  ‘If I had more time, I’d gladly show you around.’

  ‘Where is he, Marcus?’

  ‘He’s not in Legoland, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I kinda figured that. Not even the Brits would be that dumb.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘Wanted a drive through London without the traffic. And our trucks are cheaper than those open-topped buses. Or them crazy Yellow Duck tours. We’re bringing Marchant in too, by the way. He took the call. He’ll know where Dhar is.’

  ‘And when you find him, what then? Will our problems be over?’

  ‘I reckon the world will be a safer place with a dead Salim Dhar, don’t you?’

  Fielding didn’t answer. Without realising it, Spiro had gone to the core of what had been troubling him ever since he and Marchant had signed off on their deal. Would their plan lead to a safer world? It didn’t matter now. The operation was in pieces, shattered before it had begun.

  Fielding turned and walked slowly back across the bridge. If this was what the intelligence community had become, there was no place in it for him. He glimpsed an oystercatcher in the mud down on the Thames. At least he would have more time for birdwatching. He wasn’t interested in going back into the City, or working in oil, despite various approaches that had already been made. The money was eye-watering, but he had never wanted for much. And he hadn’t talked Gaddafi out of his nuclear ambitions in order to feather his own nest.

  He would call up old friends he hadn’t seen for years, cook them pomegranate chicken with fattoush salad, baba ganoush and sesame couscous cakes. There would be time to spoil his godchildren with trips to Russian circuses. Improve his flute-playing. And travel. Ever since reading From the Holy Mountain he had longed to journey through the lands of the ancient Byzantine Empire, visiting monasteries, churches and Stylite hermitages.

  There might even be time for love. He knew what the office gossip was: the Vicar was gay – either that, or celibate. It wasn’t surprising. He had made a conscious, cold-hearted decision to put that side of life on hold when he joined the Service fifteen years earlier. There had been a woman in his life once, when he was working in emerging Middle Eastern markets before he had joined the Service. Later, during his initial vetting process, questions were asked about her. Kadia’s parents were Libyan, and she and her family had spent a life in exile, mostly in London. Despite her opposition to Gaddafi, Mossad had passed a file to MI6 suggesting she had links with Palestinian terrorists. It turned out to be untrue, but he had learnt his lesson. Love had nearly ruined his career before it had started.

  As he was nearing Dolphin Square, a 4x4 Subaru with blackened windows slowed down beside him. Fielding tensed, suddenly regretting his decision to go out without protection.

  ‘Get in,’ the voice said. It was Turner Munroe, the US Ambassador to London.

  26

  The platoon of sixteen men from Seal Team 5 sped across Portsmouth harbour in two Zodiac Combat Rubber Raiding Craft, leaving HMS Victory and HMS Warrior to port. The inflatable rubber was bulletproof, but no one was anticipating incoming fire, not until they reached the shore in front of Fort Monckton.

  Despite their professionalism, there was unease in the team. Forty-eight hours earlier they had been simulating a terrorist asymmetric swarm attack with the Royal Navy in the Irish Sea. Afterwards, they had spent a drunken evening in the bars of Portsmouth with their colleagues from the SBS. Now they were being told to lift a member of MI6 – allies in the war on terror, last time they checked – from a British military training base, and to expect resistance on the ground. The head of the platoon had queried the order with the captain of USS Bulkeley, who shared his discomfort. But the mission had been confirmed by the head of US Special Operations Command.

  The two Zodiacs skidded up the sandy beach at the same time. Seven Seals, armed with M4 carbines, jumped out of each one and ran up either side of the accommodation block, leaving two men to keep guard on the beach. They didn’t know which room Marchant was staying in, so they started from the outermost rooms on the ground and first floors and worked inwards, kicking open the doors and clearing each one.

  Lakshmi heard them coming, but she wasn’t frightened. She felt safe in her bed, protected from the outside world by the blankets and the diamorphine hydrochloride that was
coursing through her veins. It had already reached her brain, transforming into morphine and triggering her opiate receptors. In turn they had released a sweet surge of dopamine that was orgasmic in its intensity. She knew it all, had studied the medical effects at Georgetown until the words had blurred on the page.

  Despite her overwhelming sense of contentment, she still had the presence of mind to hide the syringe in the bedside table moments before the Seals burst in through her door.

  ‘Hands where we can see them!’ one of them shouted while another made for the bathroom.

  ‘It’s OK, everything’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m CIA. Lakshmi Meena. ID’s over there.’ She nodded at the bedside table.

  ‘Where is he? Daniel Marchant? The Brit,’ a more senior Seal asked, coming into the room behind the others.

  ‘Dan?’ She paused, smiling wanly.

  ‘Don’t fuck us about, lady. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s gone home.’

  27

  There were no lights on in the house as Marchant crept up the driveway, keeping off the gravel and in the shadows. It was strange to be back. He had spent some time here after his father’s funeral, but it had been a harsh February, and the place had never really warmed up, despite the roaring fires he had made in the sitting room. It had been his intention to visit at weekends, but he had never made the journey, and the longer he stayed away, the harder it was to return.

  He wished he had come before. The sight of the house at dawn triggered happy memories, stronger and more lasting, it seemed, than those of the funeral, when the place had been full of dark suits and white lilies and forced conversation. An air of guilt had hung over proceedings that day. Friends and colleagues knew they could have done more to stop the CIA from driving his father out of office and into an early grave.

  But those dark memories were fleeting. It was here in the orchard, on the other side of the drive, that Marchant had spent some of his most blissful days with Sebbie, his twin brother. For a few years they had come here every summer, escaping the heat of Delhi to play in the shade of the Cotswolds, climbing trees, throwing water balloons, chasing the cat. He had returned in the aftermath of Sebbie’s death too, hoping the wounds would heal.

  Now, in the family home, he was about to meet another brother. He knew he didn’t have long. He might even be too late. Despite the heavy encryption, the call would already have been traced. It felt as if he was here to say goodbye. Dhar would be dead within hours; there was no escape from here.

  He walked around to the back of the house, where a rusting greenhouse leant against the rear wall. His father used to call it the conservatory. A door to the kitchen was inside. Marchant was about to slide the greenhouse open when he saw that the window in the kitchen door had been smashed. Dhar must have come in this way. There used to be a complex alarm system installed in the house, including floodlights, but it kept going off for no reason. Marchant had deactivated it after the funeral.

  Moving quietly, he stepped into the greenhouse, lifting the glass panel as he slid it to avoid noise, and then stopped. He could hear a muffled sound inside, and what he thought was a chair being scraped across the tiled kitchen floor. He walked up to the kitchen door and looked in through the broken glass. A man in a flying suit was sitting on a stool, arms and legs tied and mouth taped. He was trying to shuffle his way across the room. When he saw Marchant, his eyes widened with fear or relief, it was hard to tell which.

  Marchant put a finger to his lips and opened the door. The man must have been from the Search and Rescue helicopter that picked Dhar up.

  ‘Where is he?’ Marchant asked. The man nodded at his bound feet in desperation. He was clearly expecting to be released, but Marchant wasn’t going to be rushed. First, he needed to find Dhar.

  28

  ‘I’m not happy with where things are going,’ Turner Munroe said. He was in the back of his official car, with Fielding beside him. Oleg was in the footwell. ‘Not at all happy. What I just saw in Vauxhall is an embarrassment – to Washington. It shouldn’t be happening. I knew Spiro was going ahead, but I needed to see it with my own eyes.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘You know I’ve worked hard over the last few years on the relationship. We’re meant to have a presidential visit next year, when it’s set to be upgraded from “special” to “essential”. That might not sound like a big deal, but it is in my world – the culmination of a lot of hard work by my staff in London. I’m not prepared to see it all going to waste over one lousy jet.’

  ‘Quite an expensive one, I gather.’

  ‘Production’s already halted on it. The F-35 will be the game-changer. And hey, we spent twenty billion last year on aircon alone in Afghanistan.’

  On paper, Fielding should have despised Munroe. The Ambassador was widely regarded in Whitehall as a hawk, and he had been a surprise appointment by the incoming President in 2008. Like Spiro, he had fought in the first Gulf War and believed that military intervention was the only way forward in Iran. He was also a fitness fanatic, running 3.30 marathons around the world, whereas Fielding limited himself to a daily swim in the basement pool in Legoland. If all that wasn’t enough, he preferred Bruce Springsteen to J.S. Bach.

  But despite their differences, Fielding was more than happy to step into his car. It was Munroe’s behaviour in the chaotic aftermath of the London Marathon that had changed his opinion of him. He had gone away, studied the evidence, and concluded that it was Leila, not Marchant, who had tried to kill him. Marchant had saved his life. And it seemed he was prepared to be equally open-minded about Marchant’s role in the air show. Unfortunately, his was a lone American voice.

  ‘There are people in Langley who want you out of office, Marcus, you know that.’

  ‘They’ve almost got their wish.’

  ‘You’re not going down without a fight, though?’

  Fielding paused, looking out of the window at a slowly waking London. The street cleaners were out already, sweeping up the excesses of the night. He was too tired to fight.

  ‘The latest CX to cross my desk points to a Russian mole high up in MI6.’

  ‘When wasn’t there?’ Fielding knew what was coming. The Americans had long suspected him of treachery. He had been too close to Stephen Marchant, his predecessor.

  ‘My source says it wasn’t Hugo Prentice.’ Fielding flinched at the name of his old friend. No one had wanted to believe Prentice had been a traitor, least of all Fielding. ‘Apparently someone framed him to protect themself.’

  ‘And Langley thinks it was me?’ Fielding asked, wondering for the first time if there might be more to Primakov’s allegations about Denton than he had thought. Nothing would make him happier than clearing Hugo Prentice’s name, even if it were posthumously.

  ‘They want to believe it was you, but there’s no evidence.’

  ‘There’s a surprise.’

  ‘Find the mole and your position will be safe. Nothing scares us Yanks more than British intelligence run by Moscow.’

  ‘And does your source know who this mole might be?’ Fielding thought again about Denton. Why was he reluctant to point the finger at his deputy? Because it was he who had appointed him? Fielding had brought Denton on over the years, encouraged him to apply for jobs, happy to see the cosy old mould of MI6 being broken by an intelligent grammar-school boy from Hull.

  ‘I’m working on him. First, I wanted to check that you had the stomach for a fight. And that you’re close to finding Salim Dhar. That would kinda help the relationship.’

  ‘We’re close.’

  29

  Marchant walked into the high-ceilinged hall, stood still and listened. Somewhere far above him, he could hear the sound of a muffled voice. It wasn’t Dhar’s. He had heard it before, a long time ago, but he couldn’t place it at first. Then he remembered. What was Dhar doing?

  He looked around and saw the old phone on a corner table. Above it, numbers had been written in ink by his father on a piece of paper
stuck to the wall. He went over and saw his own mobile number next to the word ‘Daniel’. His father had never called him ‘Dan’, despite all his friends using the name. There were no work colleagues on the list, unless his father had given them codenames, which wouldn’t surprise him. He noticed, though, that the ink was green – a private joke.

  Slowly, he moved up the stairs, thinking back to those times when, after a night out as a teenager, he had tried to reach his room without waking his father. He had always heard him. Marchant liked to think the reason was his father’s training, but he knew now that it was his own unsteady legs. Sebbie had died when he was eight, in a car crash in Delhi. They’d never got to share the teenage years, the parties, the dope, the girls. Sometimes Marchant wondered if that was why he had consumed so much alcohol in his life: he was always drinking for two.

  He reached the landing, and listened again. To his right: the guest room, the bathroom, his father’s bedroom. He preferred to call it that, even though he had shared it for a while with his mother. She had played only a small part in his childhood, retreating into herself with depression, and was dead by the time he was seventeen. His father’s brief affair in Delhi with Dhar’s mother can’t have helped. Or perhaps it was a reaction to his wife’s illness. He had never found out.

  His and Sebbie’s bedrooms were on the top floor, where the voice was coming from. He knew what it was now, even though it was still muffled. It was the first record his father had ever bought him: Sinbad the Sailor and Other Stories. Dhar must be playing it on the old wooden-cased HMV player in his room. The door was shut, but he could see that Sebbie’s was open. It hadn’t been a conscious intention to turn it into a shrine, but he and his father had decided to leave it as it was when he had died.

  Marchant crept up the last flight of stairs, stopping to look at a photo of his father, Sebbie and himself. They were standing in front of the Taj Mahal. As he passed the leaded window, he thought he saw a flash of light over by the chapel, on the far side of the garden. It was a tiny Norman chapel of rest, where the hamlet gathered for services on special occasions. His father’s funeral had been at the bigger church in Rodmarton, down the road, but he was buried here.