Dirty Little Secret

by Jon Stock

  He cut down to the water’s edge, where the sand was soft – too soft for the quad bikes, he hoped. This end of the bay was deserted. Anything could happen down here, Marchant thought, and no one would know. He needed to get back to the cover of crowds, where it would be harder for the Russians to shoot him. They had missed him once, killing Lakshmi. They wouldn’t miss again.

  Riding back up the beach, he took the horse in a long, sweeping arc. To his left, he could see a man lying motionless on the sand, and Abdul slumped on his camel. The quad bikes were heading straight towards him. Either he could head up into the dunes, where the going would be tough for both horse and bike, or he could drop down to the sea again and ride back to Essaouira. But to do that he would have to pass in front of the quad bikes, and he didn’t know if he had enough time.

  He galloped across the beach on a diagonal path towards the sea. His horse seemed to sense the urgency, and found more speed, or perhaps they were on harder sand. The quad-bike riders saw where he was going and tried to cut him off, but he reached the water with a lead of two hundred yards. It was now a straight race back to the headland and around to the cafés. He could feel the horse beginning to tire in the wet sand, but his pursuers were staying higher up the beach. They were still behind him, but were closing fast. One of them had drawn a handgun.

  A shot rang out as Marchant rounded the headland. He was running out of options. Fifty yards in front of him, an instructor was teaching a group of teenagers how to kite-surf. He guessed it was an introductory lesson, because none of the students were standing on their boards, which were lined up in the shallow water beyond them, bobbing about like toy boats in the splashy surf. The instructor was holding the bar of a kite, but it wasn’t attached to his chest harness. Instead, he passed the bar to each teenager in turn, allowing them to feel the force of the wind.

  Marchant glanced to his right. The quad bikes were now level with him. They were risking the softer sand and had come further down the beach towards the water without losing speed. Turning his horse into the shallow water, Marchant headed straight for the group of teenagers, hoping they would get out of the way. The horse seemed to enjoy being in the sea and accelerated again, panting hard, kicking up spray.

  Marchant knew he only had one shot at what he was about to do. He shifted his weight to the left. A terrified cry went up from the teenagers as it became clear that the crazy tourist on the horse wasn’t just buzzing their lesson with a ride-by – he was galloping straight through the middle of them. They split in all directions, but the instructor seemed to freeze, holding onto his kite.

  As Marchant rode past, he leant down, grabbed the kite bar from him and leapt free of his horse. The wind was strong enough for him to be carried a few yards, like the surfers who were jumping waves in the distance. He landed beside one of the boards, and it took only a second to slot his feet into its grips. Without looking behind him, he bent his legs, braced his arms against the pull of the wind and pointed the board out to sea.

  Just as he began to pick up speed, a gust of wind blew down the beach, ripping him off balance. The kite dropped down low, almost touching the waves, and dragged him through the shallow water, first on his front, then on his back, arms above his head. Water sluiced through his mouth, up both nostrils, down his throat. He struggled not to think of being waterboarded, tried not to panic.

  Normally he would have released the bar, but he knew he had to hold on if he was to stand any chance of escaping. Gagging on the salt water, he managed to lever himself upright. A plume of water seemed to explode beside him as another gunshot rang out, then another. He trimmed the angle of the kite, adjusted his feet on the board, and set off again, this time skimming across the waves like a flying fish.

  100

  ‘Welcome home, sir,’ the immigration officer at Heathrow said. Fielding nodded, took his US passport and walked on. He was still travelling in the name of Ted Soderling, his American tourist cover, which meant his real ID must have been flashed to every desk in immigration. Americans might be all over Whitehall, but they didn’t call Britain home, not yet. Armstrong had been thorough.

  Earlier in the day, Brigadier Borowski had rung through to Fielding’s safe house to tell him the international warrant for his arrest had been lifted. Borowski had done some research of his own too, calling in a favour at the British High Commission in Warsaw. Ian Denton had ‘fallen ill’, and many of the decisions he had made as acting Chief, including the order to arrest Fielding, had been rescinded.

  Fielding took it all to mean only one thing. Daniel Marchant had managed to show the SVR photos of Denton to Harriet Armstrong, along with his own evidence from London. He had thought about calling her himself, but old habits died hard. A small part of him still suspected a trap, so he had asked Borowski to speak with Armstrong to confirm that the coast was clear for his return.

  Fielding didn’t have any luggage, so he was soon standing outside Arrivals. Armstrong had told Borowski that she would meet Fielding in person, which seemed unnecessary, but they had much to catch up on. A few moments later, a black Range Rover swept up in front of him and a rear door opened. A second car drew up behind with a Special Branch security detail.

  ‘There was really no need,’ Fielding said as he climbed in beside Armstrong.

  ‘I’m sorry we’re in my car,’ she said. ‘Yours is still being swept and checked.’

  Armstrong wasn’t overtly warm in her greeting. She never was, hiding behind a veneer of primness that Fielding had long dismissed as affected. But he sensed, as he looked across at her, that she was pleased to see him. The corners of her pinched mouth twitched with a suppressed smile as they sat in silence, waiting to join the M4. Perhaps she was just feeling pleased with herself. She had every right to be. Britain would sleep more easily tonight. A major terrorist cell had been arrested in Greenwich – he had watched a report about it on the plane.

  ‘I’m sorry about the photos,’ he said. ‘There was really no other way.’

  ‘I’ve seen worse.’

  Fielding wondered where. MI5 was under investigation for collaborating in torture during the aftermath of 9/11, as was MI6. Before he left London he had made the mistake of putting Denton in charge of the search for the rogue MI6 officer. There was less urgency now. When he was back in the office, he would cross-check the files with Denton’s movements. Or maybe he would ask Anne Norman to do that. She had never liked Denton, and the process might prove cathartic.

  ‘Were you surprised?’ he asked.

  ‘Hindsight’s a wonderful thing. When Marchant called about Denton, a part of me was disappointed. You know, that there was no higher motive.’

  ‘People don’t betray for ideology any more.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but blackmail? It’s so … tawdry. We’re all tarnished by it. It reminds us how cheaply our profession can be bought.’

  ‘I blame myself. Not for Ian’s sexual preferences, of course, but for his bitterness. I didn’t manage him well. I should have spotted the dissatisfaction, the depth of it. He was always an outsider, that’s why I brought him on. To shake things up a bit. He didn’t burn those agents in Poland because of love for Russia. It was out of hatred for us – Prentice, me, the old guard. The club. Philby once said that in order to betray, one must first belong. Ian never belonged.’

  ‘But would he have betrayed us if the Russians hadn’t blackmailed him?’

  Fielding didn’t know. He had asked himself the same question many times in recent days. ‘Moscow Centre saw someone who was hesitating on the ledge, an aggrieved deputy who needed to be pushed before he jumped. All I know is that there are still good people out there, fighting for what’s right. And Daniel Marchant’s one of them.’

  ‘So you always say. You’re going to have to be honest with me, Marcus. Let me know what’s going on between him and Dhar.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ But he knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘He’s always been your private project.’
<
br />   ‘I knew his father well. I promised I’d look after Daniel.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you spoke with him while you were away.’

  ‘Once. To give him the photos.’

  ‘He rang me yesterday.’

  ‘Then you’ve talked to him more recently than I have.’

  ‘He gave me the address in Greenwich where four men were arrested. The place was a hub, a nerve centre for coordinating a network of smaller cells around the country. We’ve since picked people up in Truro, Bristol, Edinburgh, Sheffield and Cumbria. And we’ve found enough bomb-making material to blow up half of Britain.’

  Fielding was good at not reacting, but even he struggled to remain unmoved at this.

  ‘Sounds like it was a good lead,’ he said.

  ‘Good? We stopped an imminent attack on Sellafield. Twelve hours later and we would have been looking at a nuclear disaster.’

  ‘I don’t know why you sound surprised. As I’ve always said, Marchant’s one of the best.’

  ‘How did he know, Marcus? How did he know something that’s eluded us for weeks?’

  ‘How do any of us know? By doing what we do: lying, manipulating, deceiving.’

  ‘They were also planning another attack, more personal.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘I went down myself to the house in Greenwich, took a look around. There was a scrap of paper with a private address on it. House number, street, directions from the nearest Underground station.’

  Fielding looked up. ‘Whose?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘Marchant will be pleased.’

  ‘I owe him my bloody life, Marcus.’

  ‘Like I said, he’s good.’

  ‘Try telling that to Spiro.’

  ‘I gather he was at yesterday’s COBRA.’ Fielding had heard of Spiro’s presence at the meeting, thanks to another favour called in by Borowski. Friendly intelligence agencies across Europe were monitoring events in London, anxious to see how much America would bully its oldest ally.

  ‘At one point he made an allegation about Marchant. Everyone else was too interested in Denton to notice, but his words stayed with me.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That Marchant helped Salim Dhar escape from Bagram.’

  ‘And how did Spiro think he might have done that?’

  ‘He didn’t elaborate. But there was something else he said. “Myers has told us everything.”’

  ‘Paul Myers? GCHQ Myers?’

  ‘I assume so. He’s been working at home ever since the attack. I tried to ring him last night, no answer. Apparently he hasn’t logged into the network for twenty-four hours, which is unlike him. He normally sleeps with his keyboard.’

  Fielding had always had a soft spot for Myers, ever since he had humiliated Spiro at a Joint Intelligence Committee meeting. He didn’t like the thought of Spiro spending time on his own with him. Enquiries would be made.

  Neither of them spoke for a while. Armstrong checked through some paperwork. Fielding stared out of the window at the passing scenery. The M4 as it approached London always struck Fielding as a depressing introduction to Britain, with its billboards and boarded-up office blocks. The only sight that cheered him was the onion dome of the Russian Orthodox Church in Gunnersbury, a vivid splash of cobalt blue in grey suburbia.

  He knew he would finally have to take Armstrong into his confidence about Dhar and Marchant. Her support would be crucial in the coming days, and there wouldn’t be a better time to get her onside. The terrorists responsible for making MI5’s life a misery had just been arrested. Peace was returning to Britain. And a plot to kill Armstrong had been thwarted. If ever she had reason to be grateful to Dhar, it was now.

  ‘What I’m about to tell you must never go beyond you and me,’ he said, turning from the window to face her. ‘The Prime Minister can’t know, nor the Foreign Secretary, nor the Home Secretary. No one. It’s better for all concerned if they remain ring-fenced.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Daniel Marchant is running Salim Dhar as a British asset. Dhar’s war is with America, not with us. And we’ve just received our first dividend.’

  101

  Marchant was more than five hundred yards offshore when he allowed himself to slow down, bearing away from the wind. A crowd had gathered around the quad bikes on the beach. He guessed the camel herders were remonstrating with the riders, accusing them of killing two of their friends. It would be an ugly scene. The Russians were quite prepared to shoot themselves out of trouble.

  Marchant’s arms were tiring. He had been on a long tack without a harness, with only his adrenaline to keep him going. Kite-surfers rarely ventured out so far. He looked around for others nearby, but they had moved further around the bay, scared off by the shooting. If he kept going, he told himself, he could reach the Île de Mogador and safety. It was his only plan, although the inflatable rescue boat he had seen earlier was now heading in his direction.

  The last thing he wanted was to be picked up and taken back to shore, even if the Russians had gone. Someone would have called the police, and he would be asked to be a witness, which meant questions, ID and an unwelcome appearance on the grid. He was travelling on the French passport Jean-Baptiste had given him, which he had wrapped loosely in a plastic bag, but he feared it would be ruined.

  The rescue boat was approaching fast. Marchant turned his board away, hoping to make it clear that he didn’t need assistance, but the boat tracked him.

  ‘Are you injured?’ a voice called out in French.

  ‘Non, ça va bien,’ Marchant called back.

  ‘Where are you heading?’

  Anywhere but the beach, he thought.

  ‘Île de Mogador,’ he offered, unable to think of a better answer. There were two people in the boat: one at the wheel, and the one talking to him, leaning over the side. They were young and dressed in T-shirts and long shorts, like the men who ran the kite-surf shops beyond the cafés. One had a pair of sunglasses in his short, curly hair.

  ‘We thought you were going to Bandar-Abbas.’

  Marchant felt his whole body relax, as if he had just crossed the line after a marathon. He let his kite spill its wind and fall towards the sea. The boat was alongside him as he sunk, exhausted, into the water.

  ‘Are you friends of Abdul?’ he asked in French.

  ‘He was meant to take you down to Diabat.’

  ‘Abdul was shot.’

  Neither man said anything. Instead, they pulled in the kite and its tendril strings. Marchant was certain they were here to help him, sent by Dhar. Diabat was further down the beach, beyond the ruined fort. He grabbed the side of the boat and hauled himself in.

  ‘The other man was shot too,’ he said. ‘The one with the horse.’

  ‘We know Abdul by name, we spoke on the phone, but –’

  ‘You’ve never met him.’

  Both men nodded. Marchant reassured himself that they were here to help him. The only way they could know about Bandar-Abbas was if they were linked in some way with Dhar. It was anonymous routing again. For safety, nobody knew anyone else in the chain.

  The boat accelerated, turning left and away from Île de Mogador, which was still a long way off. He realised now that he would never have made it.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, shivering in the wind.

  ‘Diabat. New people will drive you out to Mogador airport. You will be given a ticket to Paris, where you will take a flight to Dubai. From there, you will fly on to Bandar-Abbas.’

  102

  Ali Mousavi was in his business-presentation mode again, talking Dhar through a series of slides and videos in a small room on the ground floor of the oil platform, near the indoor boatyard. Two soldiers kept guard outside. Dhar was happy to sit back and listen, eating white-fleshed apricots and drinking from a plastic bottle of Damavand mineral water. The after-effects of his anaphylactic shock had
finally worn off, and he was beginning to feel himself again. His injured leg was still sore, and life on an oil platform induced occasional bouts of claustrophobia, but otherwise he was focused and ready for what lay ahead.

  Mousavi’s presentation was helping his recovery. Dhar was impressed with the scale of Iran’s ambition and the country’s understanding of its own military limits.

  ‘Carrier Strike Group 10 deployed from Norfolk, Virginia, for a six-month tour of duty on 21 May,’ Mousavi said as an aerial photograph came up on the screen. It showed a group of American warships at sea, spread out in formation. ‘CSG 10 currently consists of four destroyers, three frigates and the flagship, the aircraft carrier USS Harry S. Truman, which comes with its own embarked air force, Air Wing Three, also known as Battle Axe.’

  ‘And what does “Battle Axe” include?’ Dhar asked, spitting out the American moniker.

  ‘Eighty aircraft – Seahawk helicopters, early-warning Hawkeyes, electronic attack Prowlers, Hornets and Super Hornets.’

  Dhar, his shoulder muscles involuntarily flexing at the last words, wished he hadn’t asked. He knew they were fighter jets, but he couldn’t stop an image flashing through his mind of the insect that had stung him in Bagram.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mousavi asked.

  ‘Carry on,’ Dhar said, annoyed at his own weakness. He took another apricot.

  ‘The Strike Group passed through the Suez Canal and entered the Persian Gulf earlier this week as part of a major build-up in the Fifth Fleet’s area of operations. A German frigate has also joined them, and we think the Israelis have moved submarines into the Strait. Our threats to block and mine the Strait have drawn the enemy in, as expected. We’ve seen it all before, but this time the Zionists are looking for contact. And so are we.’

  Mousavi paused, waiting for an image of an aircraft carrier to appear on the screen.