Jon Stock - Games Traitors Play

‘Would you run Primakov again?’

‘Tomorrow. And if you’re right and he’s about to approach Stephen’s son, then maybe there’s a way. From what I’ve heard, Daniel shares many of his father’s traits, not least a troubled relationship with our cousins across the pond.’

‘I think it’s fair to say that Daniel Marchant more or less ended the special relationship single-handedly.’

‘The Russians will like what they see in him — a chip off the old Marchant block. But could you run the risk of giving them American intel again?’

Fielding paused. ‘I think they’re after something else this time.’ He didn’t want to mention Salim Dhar, the possibility that the Russians might have recruited him, too.

Cordingley was too seasoned to miss Fielding’s reticence, knew he was holding something back. In his younger days he would have protested, but he didn’t care any more. He was too old, too tired. Besides, they were at the house now, and he had done his duty.

‘Just remember one thing, Marcus: Primakov had a cause, a genuine reason to betray his country. When his only child fell ill in Delhi, he asked Moscow if he could fly her to London. They refused. What was wrong with Russia’s hospitals? She died on an overcrowded ward in Moscow. I don’t think we ever upset Stephen that much, do you?’

Marchant didn’t know how long he could keep running across the hot sand. The resort’s private beach had already come to an end, and he was now amongst hordes of ordinary Sardinians on holiday: extended families gathered under umbrellas, toddlers paddling in the surf, teenage girls flirting, boys in shades keeping footballs in the air. Women of all ages were in bikinis, as if one-piece costumes were banned.

He glanced behind him to see if he was still being followed, and saw one of the Moroccans gliding along the path through the pine trees, set thirty yards back from the beach. He was momentarily hidden behind the wooden shacks serving espressos and ice cream, then he appeared again, looking across at him. If the man was armed, Marchant thought, he wouldn’t attempt a shot while the beach was so crowded. And Aziz probably wanted to take him alive, book him in for a follow-up appointment.

He looked at the beach curving around the bay ahead of him. A fine spray hung above the surf in the late-afternoon sun. His body was no longer aching. The medication had cleared, and he felt the way he had on his morning runs through the souks of Marrakech, his body purged of alcohol, his mind disciplined by trips to the library. With each stride he felt stronger, dodging toddlers, jumping over towels. But he knew the real reason for the extra spring in his step, and it wasn’t the glances from Italian women in shades. The Segway’s electric battery was fading fast.

‘You must forgive me if I seem a little underwhelmed by the prospect,’ Fielding said, walking between the flowerbeds. Lakshmi Meena was at his side, glancing at the plants, reading labels: Catharanthus roseus (Madagascar Periwinkle), Filipendula ulmaria (Meadowsweet). ‘This one here,’ Fielding said, stopping in front of a bed, ‘is Hordeum vulgare . Barley to you and me. It led to the synthesis of lignocaine.’

‘A local anaesthetic,’ Meena said.

‘Correct.’ Fielding walked on, leaving her to look at the plant. She drew level with him again, like a schoolchild catching up with her teacher.

Fielding stopped at the junction of two paths. He was tired after his journey back from Penzance the previous night, and had hoped the peaceful surroundings of the Chelsea Physic Garden would offer comfort and solace. He had become a member soon after joining the Service, but the garden had grown too popular in recent years to be of any use as a regular meeting place. In the past, he had used it when he met players from foreign intelligence agencies who wanted an encounter on neutral ground. Tonight, a warm July evening, the director had opened it especially for him. Half an hour on his own, the garden empty except for him and Meena, a chance to reacquaint himself with its pharmaceutical beds.

‘Listen, we’ve hardly endeared ourselves over the past year or so, I’m the first to admit that,’ Meena said. ‘All I can say is that I think Daniel Marchant is a guy I can work with. And right now he’s the only one who’s gotten close to Dhar.’

Fielding turned to face her. He was struck again by how similar to Leila she looked in the soft evening sun. Perhaps that was why he had been wary of inviting her to Legoland. She brought back too many bad memories. They had all been fooled by Leila. So had the CIA, which had been out of favour with the British ever since it had renditioned Daniel Marchant.

The Agency had done little to improve its reputation in the subsequent year, wielding too much power in Whitehall. Marchant’s treatment in Morocco at the hands of Aziz had tarnished its name even further. Now, following the very public death of six US Marines at the hands of a CIA Reaper, the Agency was a full-blown international pariah. Any trust that had started to come back between it and MI6 had turned to dust. But there had been something about Meena’s call to his office earlier in the day that had made him agree to see her. A candidness that he feared he wouldn’t be able to reciprocate.

‘Do you think that Daniel was right about Dhar and the High Atlas?’ Fielding asked.

‘More right than we were about Af-Pak.’

‘A shame that the Agency didn’t let him travel earlier. Did you believe he was right when Spiro sent you to Marrakech?’ Fielding knew it was an unfair question.

‘Spiro was my superior. I did as he told me.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

Fielding had done some research since her call, walked down to the North American Controllerate and asked around. Meena had an impressive reputation for standing up to Spiro, which took courage, particularly for a woman. She had graduated from the Farm with honours, impressing with her language skills but also her integrity, which must have been a novelty for the CIA examiners. In normal circumstances, her posting to Morocco would have been a sideways career move, but her brief was to keep an eye on Daniel Marchant, which reflected her importance.

Fielding had then spoken to his opposite number in Langley, the DCIA who had famously promised his President — and Britain — to end the bad old ways and then promptly promoted James Spiro to head of Clandestine, Europe. He had been phoning London repeatedly, presumably to try to patch things up, but Fielding had let him sweat. The last time he rang, Fielding had taken the call.

Spiro, the DCIA explained, had been suspended following the drone strike, and the Agency would be apologising formally for the treatment of Daniel Marchant in Morocco, even though it was at the hands of a foreign intelligence service over which the CIA had little control. ‘And the British know all about that,’ he had added caustically. (The British courts’ decision to make public the torture of a detainee in Morocco hadn’t played well in Langley.) As a gesture of goodwill, the Agency was transferring Lakshmi Meena to London and offering her services as a liaison officer.

‘She represents the Agency’s future, Marcus,’ the DCIA had added. ‘And this time she’s above board.’

‘Did you ever meet Leila?’ Fielding asked Meena, sitting down on a bench in front of a bed of Digitalis lanata , a plant that he knew better as Dead Man’s Bells.

‘No, sir.’ Meena glanced around briefly and then sat down beside him.

‘She was a liaison officer for the Agency, too, only nobody ever bothered to tell us. We thought she was working for Six. In the end, it turned out she wasn’t working for either of us.’