Jon Stock - Games Traitors Play

‘Are you saying that Marchant in some way facilitated the breach of airspace?’ the chairman of the JIC, Sir David Chadwick, said, looking across at Fielding.

‘“Facilitated” is one way of putting it,’ said Spiro. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he was standing on the shores of Stornoway with a couple of paddles and a fluorescent jacket, instructing the MiGs where to taxi.’

A chuckle rippled through Sir David’s jowls, then he checked himself when he realised that no one else was laughing. He was an odious chairman, Fielding thought, obsequious in the extreme, always looking to see where the real power lay. Not so long ago, Spiro had been trying to frame him in a child-porn sting. Now he was cosying up to the Americans again.

‘These are serious allegations,’ Fielding said. ‘Sorry to sound so old-school, but do we have any evidence?’

‘I appreciate that this is the last thing you need, after the Prentice affair,’ Spiro said, hoping to pile on the public embarrassment. Although he owed his own rehabilitation to Fielding, he couldn’t resist the moment. There was too much history between the two of them, their respective organisations. ‘One Soviet mole could be construed as careless. But two…’

‘The evidence, please,’ Sir David said, convincing no one with his attempt at neutrality.

‘Where do we start?’ Spiro asked, shuffling some papers and photos in front of him. ‘The covert meeting with Nikolai Primakov in central London?’ He waved a couple of photos in the air, one of Marchant entering Goodman’s restaurant, the other of Primakov.

‘“Covert” might be pushing it,’ Fielding said. ‘I seem to remember the dinner — sanctioned by me — took place at a well-known Russian restaurant in the middle of Mayfair. We were listening.’

‘So were we,’ said Spiro, ‘until the Russians jammed the entire area. Must have been quite an important meeting. Then we have Madurai, south India. After we took Dhar’s mother off your hands, Marchant hitched a ride back into town with — guess who? — one Nikolai Primakov.’

He waved another surveillance photo in the air. ‘I’m not sure I want to ask why Marchant’s meetings with Primakov, former director of K Branch, KGB and now high-ranking member of the SVR, were sanctioned by MI6, so let’s not go into that here. It kind of brings back bad memories when you discover Primakov had been good friends with Marchant’s father. Of more interest to today’s meeting is what Marchant was doing in an Internet café yesterday — after knocking off work early and dropping in for a warm beer or three at his favourite pub — forwarding photos of the MIG-35s to various national newspapers.’

Another sheaf of documents was waved in the air, this time press cuttings, as a murmur went around the room. Fielding was conscious that all eyes were on him now, but he had read the cuts in the car into work, smiled at the quotes from the twitchers. He was a bit of a birder himself, when he had the time, although these days he was reduced to spotting oystercatchers on the bank of the Thames below his office window.

‘He used an anonymous Gmail account,’ continued Spiro, ‘but our people at Fort Meade narrowed the IP address down to three Internet cafés in Victoria. They needn’t have bothered. All emails leaving that particular café go out with marketing headers and footers — unless you switch them off, which Marchant failed to do. I don’t know how much evidence you need, Marcus, but we have photos of him entering the café five minutes before the anonymous emails were sent out.’

Fielding didn’t reply. Instead, he was thinking of Marchant, the intentional trail he was leaving. Primakov must be close to exfiltrating him. According to the UK Border Agency, the Russian had left on a flight to Moscow earlier in the day, which Fielding took as a good sign. Marchant had been smart to attract the attention of the Americans: it was the easiest way to reassure Moscow Centre that it had the right man, that he was ready to defect, keen to meet Dhar. But it was a risk if the Americans got to him first. He hoped Marchant had his timing right.

‘Marcus?’

‘Let’s bring him in,’ Fielding said. He had no choice. He must be seen to be hard on Marchant.

‘I kinda hoped you’d say that,’ said Spiro. ‘He’s with Lakshmi Meena as we speak. Having yet another drink. She’s ready when we are. I just thought that, you know, in the interests of resetting our special relationship, I should inform you first.’

Spiro looked around the table. His eye was caught by Harriet Armstrong.

‘Would you like us to handle Marchant?’ she asked. Fielding turned away. It was an unusual offer, a blatant challenge to MI6 that had all the hallmarks of their old turf wars. She was also reaching out to Spiro, a man she had once admired before she had fallen out of love with America. Fielding knew that she had felt increasingly sidelined by Six, but he was still surprised by the move.

‘That’s kind of you, Harriet,’ Spiro said. ‘And unexpected. I appreciate it. But I think, if it’s OK with the assembled, this has now been upgraded to a NATO Air Policing Area 1 issue. And as such, we’d like to take care of it.’

Marchant knew his defences would drop if he had any more alcohol. Meena was looking more beautiful than he could remember, wearing the same embroidered Indian salwar that she had worn in Madurai. Her body language then had been diffident, hard to read. Tonight she was radiant, the mirrorwork on her neckline reflecting the candlelight, lightening her whole demeanour. He just wished they were meeting in different circumstances, where they could be true to themselves rather than to their employers’ agendas. The last time he had felt like this was when he had said goodbye to Monika at the Frederick Chopin airport in Warsaw, hoping that she would step out of her cover and into his life.

‘My mother used to read me a new tale every night,’ Meena was saying as they sat at the small bar in Andrew Edmunds, a restaurant in Lexington Street. Her mask was slipping too. Marchant stuck to his script, trying to stay sober behind the miasma of Scotch. Soon they would be moving from the bar to the cramped dining area, where the lines of sight were less good. In his current position he had a clear view of the main entrance and the door to the kitchen. Tonight he needed to see everyone who came in or out.

‘After each story, I would ask if Scheherazade had done enough, if King Shahryar would spare her,’ Meena continued. ‘I was more worried about her dying than anything else. And each time, the King let her live for another night. I was so relieved.’

‘And this all took place in Reston? In between trips to the mall?’

Marchant had eaten a meal in Reston once, as part of a visit to the CIA’s headquarters down the road, in the days before the Agency had become too suspicious to allow him on campus. All he could remember was the piazza at the Reston Town Center, an open-air mall that had boasted Chipotle, Potbelly Sandwich Works and Clyde’s, where he had been taken for lunch by a gym-buffed field agent who swore by its steaks. It was strange to think of Meena living in such a sterile suburb in Virginia.

‘Our home was a little corner of India. At least, my bedroom was. Wall hangings, incense, my own pooja cupboard. Mom didn’t want me to forget.’

Marchant signalled to the barman for another drink.

‘I don’t want to sound like your mom, but haven’t you had enough?’

She was right. Marchant was at the very edge of what he could consume and still be able to react quickly when it happened. There were only a few more hours, maybe less, of playing the drunk. A coded text from Primakov had told him it would be sometime tonight. It wouldn’t be pretty. The American presence had made sure of that. He looked again around the small, candlelit room, scanning the punters. Someone had followed him to the restaurant, but he was confident that they were still outside.