Jon Stock - Games Traitors Play

Before Marchant could do anything, Primakov had placed both hands on his shoulders and was admiring him as if he was one of the canvases on the walls.

‘It’s so true, you look just like your father,’ he beamed, standing in the middle of the gallery and making no effort at discretion. His accent was almost completely Westernised, more American than English, with only a hint of Russian. ‘I can’t believe it. Can you believe it?’ He turned towards one of his babysitters, who shuffled awkwardly. ‘This boy’s father was my very dear friend,’ Primakov said, ‘and a lifelong enemy.’

The group’s entrance had silenced the gallery. Still smiling, Primakov leaned in towards Marchant and kissed him on both cheeks before hugging him. Marchant caught the strong smell of garlic, and for a moment he was back in Delhi. Just before Primakov pulled back, he whispered into Marchant’s ear. ‘Goodman’s, Maddox Street, ten minutes. I’ve a letter from your father. We’ll take care of the Graham Greene joker.’

Marchant glanced across at Prentice standing by the bar, chatting up one of the waitresses, who topped up his glass as they flirted. He then turned to the group of Russians, who were now being introduced to the artist. A letter from his father? The room suddenly felt very hot as Marchant headed for the door. He had no time to warn Prentice. Not much inclination either.

Outside in the street, he hailed the parked taxi he had seen earlier. Its light came on as it drove towards him. Marchant met it halfway and climbed in.

‘A friend of mine in there needs a cab, too,’ he said, nodding at the gallery window. ‘Now.’

‘He’s left the gallery,’ Prentice said, walking down a side corridor and back into the main gallery.

‘Get yourself out of there,’ Fielding ordered, glancing at Armstrong. They were in his fourth-floor office in Legoland, watching a bank of CCTV screens relaying images from the West End. In one of them, a black taxi was making its way down Conduit Street.

‘Repeat please,’ Prentice said. His voice was being broadcast in the office, but it was barely audible, breaking up.

‘Marchant’s flagged a code red alert,’ Armstrong said. She had never liked Prentice, but the message had been given to one of her officers, so she felt obliged to pass it on. ‘You need to move now.’

Prentice hadn’t heard Armstrong’s words, but he caught her tone of anxiety just before his comms dropped. He had also noticed Valentin, the tall Russian from Sardinia, who had peeled away from the group around Primakov and was coming towards him, blocking his exit from the gallery.

‘You caused me a lot of embarrassment with your little home movie,’ Valentin said, his body language at odds with his thin smile. ‘It was a fake, of course.’

‘Of course. But a good one, no? An Oscar, surely, for best foreign film.’

‘Our politicians don’t like to be ridiculed.’

‘And Her Majesty’s agents don’t like to be compromised.’

‘The boy seemed to be enjoying himself. At least, that’s what Nadia said. Where is he now? I thought I saw him earlier.’

‘No idea. I must go, though. It’s been a pleasure.’

But Prentice knew already that he was going nowhere. With a taut smile, Valentin took the glass of wine from him and handed it back to the waitress, just as the gallery began to spin and blur.

Marchant was shown by the female maître d’ to a back room of Goodman’s, separated from the main restaurant by a screen.

‘A drink while you’re waiting?’ the woman asked, ushering him to a table that had been made up for two. She let her hand linger on his shoulder a moment longer than was appropriate. There were four other tables in the room, but they were empty. ‘Nikolai will be here in a few minutes.’

‘A whisky, thanks,’ Marchant said. ‘Malt.’ He had drunk a glass of wine at the gallery once he had seen others being served from the same tray, but he had declined a top-up, despite the persuasive charms of the waitresses. He wouldn’t drink his malt until he had heard what Primakov had to say.

The taxi from MI5 had dropped him off in Maddox Street, outside the restaurant, where the parked cars were a wealthy mix of Porsches and Bentleys. He needed to talk to Primakov on his own, but it was no bad thing if Armstrong’s people knew where he was. He thought for a moment about Prentice. He had looked tired tonight, too old for street work.

Goodman’s served American steaks, but it was owned by a Russian who ran a chain of similar restaurants in Moscow. To judge from the main room, at least half the clientèle was Russian too. Marchant had seen few female diners when he was shown through to the back room.

He glanced at the starters on the menu — sweet herring with hot mustard — and listened to the subdued hubbub of conversation on the other side of the panel, which must have been more solid than it appeared.

Then suddenly Primakov was in the room, quieter now, taking a seat opposite him, leaning back to whisper something to the maître d’ , who had reappeared with two crystal glasses of whisky. Marchant thought how at home he looked in a restaurant, his natural habitat. The waitress put the glasses down on the table then left the room, closing the sliding door firmly. They were alone.

‘I presume you’ve had the “big talk” with the Vicar,’ Primakov began, burying the corner of a linen napkin under his chins and spreading the rest out across his chest as if he was hanging out the washing. His breathing was thickened by a slight wheeze. ‘Let MI6 believe what they want. Your father and I were very close, it is true — unnaturally so, I suppose. But I never once considered working for him. Please remember that.’

Marchant tried not to blink at the Russian’s bold opening gambit. If Primakov was lying for the sake of Moscow Centre’s ears, he was making a good job of it. For a split second, Marchant doubted everything — his father’s judgement, his own, Fielding’s. Maybe the Americans had been right to suspect the house of Marchant. Then he recalled the Vicar’s words. Betrayal requires faith. Don’t expect the smallest sign that Primakov is one of ours. He’ll give you nothing . Marchant’s immediate task, he told himself, was to be recruited by Primakov.

‘So why do you want to see me?’ Marchant asked. ‘I don’t really have the time or the desire to sit around discussing old times.’

‘You share a family look, and the same taste in whisky.’ Primakov took a sip from his glass, ignoring Marchant’s insolence. ‘Your father liked Bruichladdich, too. I ordered it in specially. It takes me back, just sitting here across the table from you. We shared many happinesses together, your father and me. They were good times.’

‘Different times. The world’s moved on.’

‘Has it?’ Primakov paused, raising a silver lighter to his cigarette.

Marchant wondered if his father might have been friends with the cultured Russian even if there hadn’t been an ulterior motive. In Delhi, they had both enjoyed going to the theatre, visiting galleries, attending concerts, which had made meetings easier. And Primakov had an undoubted warmth about him: a camaraderie that drew people in with the promise of stories and wine, the stamina to see in the dawn.

‘When we were both first posted to Delhi, we used to argue late into the night over local whisky — Bagpiper in those days — about the Great Game, what our countries were doing there. Your father was an admirer of William Moorcroft, an early-nineteenth-century East India Company official who was convinced Russia had designs on British India.’

Marchant knew the name well. ‘He wanted to publish a book about Moorcroft,’ he said. ‘It was going to be his retirement project. Unfortunately, he found himself retired earlier than expected, and wasn’t ready to write it.’