by Jon Stock
Jean-Baptiste gave him a mischievous smile. Marchant wished it was that simple.
‘And she’s not well. I couldn’t leave her behind.’
‘Does she have a name?’
‘Lakshmi,’ Marchant said, speaking quietly, keeping an eye on the boat. Last time he checked, she was in a deep sleep, but he didn’t want her to appear while they were talking.
‘The Hindu goddess of wealth. What’s wrong with her?’
‘I’m not sure. She works for the Agency. At least she did. She’s in trouble with Langley for helping me. She took a Russian bullet in the arm on my behalf. I owe her one.’
‘She’d better come with us then. Let Clémence take a look at her.’
Marchant could feel Jean-Baptiste’s bonhomie slipping away. He should have warned him about Lakshmi. He was already asking a lot of his old friend. Now he was involving his wife, Clémence, too. She was a doctor with Médecins sans Frontières.
Two minutes later, Marchant stood in the cockpit of the boat with Lakshmi draped in his arms. She was still asleep, wearing an ill-fitting woollen jumper and yellow oilskin trousers. He was aware that it wasn’t a good look, but it had been all he could find after pulling her out of the water.
‘Can you take her?’ Marchant said, checking that nobody was about as he stepped up onto the deck. The quay was deserted, except for two locals fishing off the end of the harbour wall. They had their backs to them and seemed preoccupied.
Jean-Baptiste lifted Lakshmi into his arms and carried her to the Mehari, where he laid her in the back, making a pillow for her out of an old jacket.
‘She doesn’t look well, Dan,’ he said. ‘Is that where she was shot?’ he continued, gesturing at her wrist. Marchant nodded. He didn’t enjoy seeing Lakshmi lying in the back of a plastic car, looking like death and wearing ridiculous clothing. And standing over her felt like an invasion. Perhaps he should have left her at the Fort, where she might have been safer.
‘She doesn’t normally dress like that. Her clothes got wet.’ Marchant had put her jeans and top in a plastic bag, which he raised in explanation. But he knew he owed his old friend more.
They climbed into the front of the car, neither of them saying anything. For a few seconds they sat in silence in the darkness before Jean-Baptiste started up the engine, turned on the lights and accelerated away. The ‘voiture en plastique’ was just as Marchant remembered it. The suspension was shot and the seats were threadbare. And there was no room for his long legs, which he had to turn to one side. None of this worried Jean-Baptiste as he drove down la route de la Plage towards the Atlantic, hunched over the wheel as if he was driving a Dodgem.
Marchant had to hold onto the roof bar on the first right-hand corner, which brought them parallel with the sea. After a few hundred yards, the road, now rue Rozé, turned back inland, but Jean-Baptiste drove straight on, taking a sandy track that ran along the top of the beach.
Marchant began to relax, breathing in the sea breeze. The fog of the Channel seemed a distant memory. The stars were as bright as scattered diamonds in the clear night sky.
‘Was the harbourmaster happy?’ he asked.
‘No, but I’ve sorted it.’
‘Thank you.’ When Marchant had rung Jean-Baptiste, as he was passing the Needles, he had explained that he was in a tight spot with the Americans and needed some assistance. His most immediate problem was that he didn’t have a passport, which might have caused difficulties when he arrived at Portbail. (Lakshmi had swum out to the boat with two passports and her phone, sealed in a plastic bag. The passports had survived, but the phone had died.)
Jean-Baptiste was well placed to help, and hadn’t asked any questions. The Americans weren’t his favourite allies in the war on terror. After a brief spell with the Commandos Marine, the French Navy’s special forces, he had joined the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure (DGSE), France’s MI6 counterpart. They had met when Jean-Baptiste was a liaison officer in London, hitting it off after they discovered a shared ambivalence towards authority and a taste for Bruichladdich whisky. Jean-Baptiste was also indebted to him after he had botched an operation to burgle the London offices of China Eastern Airlines. Marchant had assisted with the subsequent cover-up.
‘We won’t stay for long,’ Marchant said as they continued along the edge of the sand. ‘I just need somewhere to work out what I’m going to do.’
Jean-Baptiste shrugged. ‘You can stay as long as you want. We’re here for the summer.’
‘How’s Clémence?’ Marchant had flown back from Morocco at the end of the previous year for their wedding outside Versailles. He had never been to such a stylish event, although the evening was a bit of a blur. Clémence had a younger sister.
‘Working too hard. It’s the first time she’s taken a holiday this year. Travel, travel, travel.’
And now she would be asked to take care of Lakshmi, Marchant thought.
‘I guess you heard about Salim Dhar’s arrest,’ he said.
‘I may be on holiday in the sand dunes, but I’m not an ostrich, Dan. Of course I heard. But that’s old news now. Did the radio on your boat not work?’
‘You mean the oil refinery attack.’
‘And the ones in Cornwall.’
‘No?’ Marchant could feel his stomach tightening.
‘Britain is no longer linked to America by fibre-optic cable. The special bond has been broken. Explosions have been reported at various sites on your west coast. All of them are where these cables reach land.’
Dhar had always been precise in his targeting. Now, it seemed, his followers had struck at the heart of Britain’s relationship with America, severing its umbilical cord. He felt another sharp pang of patriotism. His country was under attack, and it was within his power to protect it. Only my freedom will bring you peace.
‘I thought that’s why you left Britain,’ Jean-Baptiste joked. ‘You’re better off here in France.’
Marchant returned his friend’s smile. They were happy to be in each other’s company. For a moment, Marchant forgot about Lakshmi lying in the back. Then she groaned and he turned to check on her, making sure her head wasn’t knocking against anything as they bumped along the dusty track.
‘She’s asleep again,’ he said, but Jean-Baptiste’s mind seemed to be on other things.
‘Was it really you in the Russian jet with Dhar?’ he asked.
Marchant didn’t say anything. News of the attack had gone around the world, but he had hoped that his own role in it was known only to Britain and America’s intelligence agencies. But Jean-Baptiste had always been well-connected.
‘I won’t ask what you were doing,’ he continued. ‘I will just assume that it is why you are now on the run in France without a passport.’
Marchant paused before he spoke. ‘I was trying to turn him.’
Jean-Baptiste seemed to think about this for a moment. Usually they avoided speaking about their work, unless they had to, but Marchant had just broken the rule. It was the least he could do in the circumstances. There was a limit to how much he could take without giving something in return. Jean-Baptiste wouldn’t buy a cover story.
‘Ambitious,’ he said.
‘And I got burnt. The only person who knew about the operation was Marcus Fielding, who I doubt will be Chief of MI6 for much longer.’
‘I heard that too.’
‘It’s official?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Christ. I’m in a bigger mess than I thought.’
‘So they caught Dhar, and now they want to catch you, thinking that you were working with him when in fact you were trying to turn him.’
‘That’s about it.’
‘Why has Fielding left?’
‘The Americans must have forced him out. It was hard for him to explain what one of his officers was doing with Salim Dhar in a Russian jet.’
‘That is a tricky one,’ Jean-Baptiste said, laughing.
Marchant was grateful that Jean-Baptiste wou
ldn’t ask any more questions, even though his own explanation was inadequate. That was the nature of their friendship. But he was surprised that Jean-Baptiste’s smile fell away so quickly.
‘Are you sure nobody followed you across the Channel?’ he asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror. Marchant knew better than to look around. They had left the beach and were now driving inland on a main road.
‘I’m sure.’
‘There’s a car that’s been behind us since Barneville-Carteret. If it follows us at the next turning, we’ve got company. The road only leads to our house, and we’re not expecting guests.’
Marchant tried to think who might have tracked him across the Channel. Denton and Spiro were the people who most wanted to find him, and they both had assets that could be mobilised in France. He was confident that no one had seen him board the boat at Gosport. There was a possibility that the NSA or GCHQ had listened in to his phone call to Jean-Baptiste, but they would have to have been monitoring Jean-Baptiste’s number, which was unlikely. The French were very protective of their agents, particularly against the prying eyes and ears of America.
‘Hold on,’ Jean-Baptiste said as he stepped on the accelerator. The fiberglass frame of the Mehari shook as he took the speed up to 110kph. He kept the needle there along the long straight road, braking slightly as it curved to the right. After the bend, he braked sharply and turned off to the left through two stone posts and down what Marchant remembered was the final approach to his family château. But instead of proceeding along the tree-lined avenue, Jean-Baptiste parked up, jumped out and swung a high wooden gate shut. The car behind would have not seen them turning off.
‘Let’s see who it was,’ Jean-Baptiste said, looking through a crack in the gate. They both stood there like naughty kids, listening as the vehicle approached. It was a black people-carrier. The windows were dark but partially lowered in the front. As it passed, Marchant caught a glimpse of the driver, who was looking straight ahead.
‘Friend of yours?’
Marchant closed his eyes. ‘No.’ He couldn’t be certain, but the figure at the wheel looked like an SVR officer called Valentin. If the Russians knew he was in France, he had a problem.
52
Harriet Armstrong looked around the COBRA table and wished Marcus Fielding was there. She had not always seen eye to eye with him, but his erudite presence was comforting in times of emergency. She didn’t want to dwell on where he was. It made no sense for Fielding to have gone to Russia. All she knew was that he hadn’t fled as a traitor. It wasn’t possible, not Fielding. She put the thought out of her mind as she turned to the assembled politicians, military chiefs and intelligence officers. There was only one other woman in the room, the Home Secretary, but they had yet to bond. Perhaps the crisis now engulfing Britain would bring them closer.
‘According to the latest intel, terrorist strikes have been confirmed at the following targets,’ she began. ‘Satellite teleport comms hubs at Goonhilly, Cornwall; Madley in Herefordshire; and Martlesham in Ipswich. They have also taken out submarine cable termination stations at Skewjack and Bude, disabling the FA-1, Apollo, TAT-14 and AC-2 fibre-optic cables, as well as the Tyco transatlantic cable that comes ashore at Highbridge in Somerset. And the US Murco terminal at Milford Haven has been destroyed. Casualties have – thankfully – been minimal, but I hardly need point out the strategic nature of these targets. They are all central to our relationship with America.’
‘And we’re absolutely certain that this is a response to the capture of Salim Dhar?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘I would say they’re more a response to his being handed over to the US.’ Fielding would have said the same if he had been here, Armstrong thought. She owed it to him. Like him, she had long argued that Britain’s support for America, most notably during the Gulf War, was a significant factor in the rise of homegrown terrorism.
‘Either way, these are not impulsive attacks,’ the PM continued, ignoring her jibe. ‘They must have been months in the planning.’
‘Without a doubt,’ Armstrong replied. ‘And they all bear the hallmarks of Dhar. It’s as if his arrest was a trigger for his followers to carry out a series of pre-planned attacks.’
The director of GCHQ took up her point. ‘Dhar certainly has a considerable following in the UK. We can see that from the online chatroom activity. And they know what he likes: surgical strikes against US military and political targets. What we can’t be sure about is whether Dhar authorised them.’
‘Right now, I just need to know if this is the beginning,’ the PM said. ‘The markets are in turmoil, the recession’s deepening. The British public doesn’t have the stomach for a summer of terror.’
‘We’re assuming this is phase one,’ Armstrong said.
‘Are the Americans sharing intel?’ the PM asked. His face had the look of a man who already knew the answer.
‘Not with us,’ Armstrong said. ‘They’re following “their own lines of inquiry”.’
The PM turned towards the director of GCHQ.
‘Cooperation is not a word I’d use to describe the present situation,’ he said. ‘The NSA isn’t pooling anything.’
‘We’ve increased security at all critical national infrastructure targets,’ Armstrong said, hoping to lift the mood.
‘What about Daniel Marchant?’ the PM asked, turning to Ian Denton. ‘Is there any news on him?’
‘None, I’m afraid.’ Denton was in quiet mode, Armstrong thought. The restrained tones of newly acquired power.
‘Washington might start talking to us again if we could hand him over too,’ the Foreign Secretary said.
‘I’m aware of that,’ Denton said. ‘And we’re doing all we can to find him. Jim Spiro is at least still on speaking terms, and I’m working closely with him to locate Marchant.’
Of course he was, Armstrong thought. Denton owed his promotion to Spiro. She was not surprised by his sudden change of attitude towards Washington. She had always thought of him as a chameleon. Now he found himself the sole beneficiary of a rapidly deteriorating relationship with America, much to the chagrin of everyone else. The Foreign Secretary and the PM had both had their arms twisted over the promotion of Denton. At least they had stood up to the bullying sufficiently to insist he was made only acting Chief.
‘I thought Fort Monckton was a secure site,’ the PM said tersely. He was not good at disguising his feelings, Armstrong thought. MI6 had already caused him enough trouble, what with Fielding’s apparent defection and Marchant on the run. But Denton, America’s anointed one, had suddenly become one of the most powerful people in the room.
‘It is,’ Denton said. ‘But it was designed to stop people getting in, not escaping.’
‘Can we rule him out?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Can we be certain that Daniel Marchant played no part in these bombings? I mean, given he was in the SU-25 with Dhar.’
Denton hesitated for a moment, knowing that all eyes were on him. He’s enjoying this, Armstrong thought.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Fielding that. But as he’s in Russia, we can only guess.’ He paused again. Fielding’s apparent defection was next on COBRA’s crisis agenda, but it seemed that Denton wished to bury him now. ‘If you want my honest answer, I think Marchant’s involved in some way with these attacks. And if Marchant is involved, we must assume Fielding is too.’
53
Marcus Fielding wasn’t initially aware that Denton had placed him in Moscow, but he knew his deputy would make the most of his disappearance. As it happened, Denton wasn’t far wrong. Fielding had left the country, but he wasn’t in Russia. He was in Warsaw, sitting in the office of Brigadier Borowski, head of Agencja Wywiadu, Poland’s foreign intelligence agency. Both men were drinking whisky.
After leaving Legoland for what he believed was the last time, Fielding had taken a taxi to Victoria Station, where he kept a passport, money and a suitcase with two changes of clothes in a
left-luggage locker. To return to his flat in Dolphin Square would have been too risky. He knew his number would be up the moment Denton opened the safe and saw the handwritten report by Stephen Marchant. Denton would go straight to the Americans, who would take the letter as evidence of what they had always suspected: MI6 was a hotbed of traitors. Stephen Marchant would be found guilty posthumously and Fielding branded a traitor by association.
So he had embarked on an emergency cover that he had never dreamed would be necessary. Placing his plastic box of office possessions in the station locker, he had taken the suitcase down to the men’s cloakrooms beside Platform 1, where he changed into different clothes: affluent New England slacks, open-necked shirt. His spare passport was American, drawn up for him by Langley in happier times, in the name of a tourist from Boston who was visiting Europe in his early retirement. The cover story had been compiled a while ago, and Fielding reread the two-sheet legend before emerging from the cloakrooms as Ted Soderling.
After doubling back a couple of times on his way out of the station, he was satisfied that no one was following him. He bought a ticket for the Gatwick Express, then purchased a cheap pay-as-you-go phone with cash, using the transaction to polish up his New England accent. Although the circumstances were depressing, it felt good to be in the field again, and he had boarded his train with a copy of the International Herald Tribune under one arm and a spring in his step.
‘We are still very sorry about what happened,’ Borowski said, splashing more whisky into their glasses. It was unlike Fielding to drink, but these were unusual times. ‘All of us.’
‘Of course.’ Fielding knew the air would have to be cleared before he could start asking favours. His oldest friend and colleague, Hugo Prentice, had been killed in London on the orders of one of Brigadier Borowski’s agents, Monika, because it was believed that Prentice was a Russian asset. A ring of Polish AW officers had been blown, including Monika’s brother. All of them were shot dead by the FSB, Russia’s domestic intelligence agency, having apparently been tipped off by Prentice.