Jon Stock - Games Traitors Play

‘We have been following your friend Daniel Marchant for some time now,’ Grushko said.

‘Was it him who was taken? In London?’

Myers tried to prevent his left leg from shaking, but it was impossible. Instead, he bounced it up and down as if the movement was voluntary. At least they had stopped pointing the gun at his head. After frisking him, the weapons had been put away, but Myers was still all over the place, too many possible scenarios unfolding in his mind. The computers had already been turned on when he entered the bedroom. Had they hacked into GCHQ using his passwords? If they knew about his role with the MiGs, who had they told? Who else knew? He was just glad that he had gone to the bathroom when he first arrived, otherwise he would be pissing himself now.

‘Your concern is almost touching. He is fine. Unharmed.’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘He came to see you. At the Beehive pub near here. Marchant chose the location well, because it was busy, but we think you were talking about the MiGs. Now that we have discovered you bring your work home’ — Grushko nodded towards the bank of computers — ‘we know for certain that it was you who helped him.’

‘What do you want from me? Please. There was no harm. Nobody died. It was good publicity for Russia, your air force. Bloody lousy for ours. Air defences like a sieve.’

‘It is quite simple. We want you to help him again.’

Dhar held the cocked gun to Primakov’s head. The Russian had entered the hangar full of his usual bonhomie, and had not seen him standing behind the door. Dhar closed it and pushed Primakov into the middle of the building, where Marchant was standing beside a wooden chair, holding a rope in his hand. Marchant felt like a guilty executioner. It was as if Dhar had put their own relationship on hold while he sorted out Primakov. He had asked Marchant to help him interrogate the Russian, a process that Marchant assumed he himself would be subjected to later.

‘Salim, this is unexpected,’ Primakov said, nodding at Marchant, who looked away. Whatever else Primakov was, he was dignified, and the next few minutes would be demeaning. Marchant felt a mix of shame and nausea. After Dhar had shown him the gun, they had both slept, but Marchant’s sleep had been fitful. He had woken at dawn full of dread, envying Dhar, who was praying calmly on a mat in the middle of the hangar.

‘Is it really?’ Dhar asked. ‘Grushko says you have been under suspicion for many years.’

‘A small price to pay for knowing your father so well. May I sit down?’

Dhar kicked the wooden chair towards Primakov, the scraping sound echoing in the hangar. The SU-25 jet that Dhar had flown the day before had been wheeled in through the main entrance overnight, and was now parked at the end of the hangar, the doors closed behind it. Marchant had noted that it was a two-seater, used for training. Apart from the plane, resting up like a vast squatting insect, the hangar was empty.

Dhar nodded at Marchant, who grabbed Primakov’s arms and bound his hands tightly behind his back. He tried to do it painlessly, but he was aware of Dhar’s eyes on him. Primakov’s breathing had become heavier, rasping like a Siberian miner’s. Marchant could smell the cologne, mixed now with the strong scent of sweat. If Primakov was going to give him a sign, something to reassure him about his father, it would have to be soon. Time was running out for all of them.

‘Grushko is on his way back to Britain,’ Dhar said as Marchant finished tying Primakov’s wrists to the back of the chair. ‘He would rather you were dead, but I wanted to ask a few questions first.’

‘About your father?’ Primakov was working hard to keep his voice steady, but it was fraying with fear.

‘Grushko does not believe that you recruited Stephen Marchant.’

‘What does he believe?’

‘He accuses my father, our blessed father’ — a glance up at Marchant, who remained behind Primakov, to one side — ‘of having recruited you. I don’t want to believe Grushko, but he is a meticulous man. He has been going through old KGB archives, file by file. Our father gave you intelligence about the Americans, it is true, but Grushko says that with hindsight much of this information was not as important as it seemed at the time.’

Marchant closed his eyes. It was the first time he had heard anyone on the Russian side question his father’s worth as a double agent. But any relief he felt was short-lived. If Dhar decided that his father was not a traitor after all, he would come to the same conclusion about him, too. It was down to Primakov now, balanced on a high wire. He had to reassure two sons about their father, one hoping to hear of his loyalty, the other of his treachery.

‘Comrade Grushko will find whatever he wants to find in the archive to support his case,’ Primakov said, treading carefully. ‘The files are endless, and so is his jealousy. Your father was a priceless signing. At the time, I was fêted by the Director of the KGB, hailed as a hero. Within months, I was awarded the Order of Lenin. I could do no wrong. I admit that on some occasions the intelligence was gold, at others it was dust. But I knew your father better than many — and all I can say is that he detested America to the day he died. Whether that makes him or me guilty of treason, I leave to others.’

Marchant looked down at Primakov. His chest was heaving, his voice beginning to crack under the strain. One wrong word and Marchant’s cover would be blown, but he still needed something.

‘Salim, Daniel’ — a cock of the head towards Marchant — ‘I don’t know why you have suddenly decided to listen to Comrade Grushko, but before you give him too much time, there is something you should both know.’ A pause as he gathered himself. More rasping. ‘My instructions were quite clear: I was asked to bring you two together. A rising jihadi and an ambitious MI6 officer. Now that I have done my job, I may rest peacefully.’

‘And whose instructions were they?’ Dhar asked, walking up to Primakov. Marchant could hear his suspicion, his mounting anger. Primakov was wobbling on the wire. This was the moment, the sign Marchant had been waiting for.

Primakov paused. ‘Your father’s. He had witnessed the birth of Islamic terror, watched it grow in strength, knew that one day it would pose the greatest threat of all — to everyone: Britain, America, Russia.’

With no warning, Dhar whipped the pistol across Primakov’s face.

‘You are lying!’ he shouted. Marchant had never heard him raise his voice before. ‘It was Moscow Centre that asked you to bring us together.’

A trickle of blood was dripping from Primakov’s mouth.

‘So it was Moscow Centre,’ he said finally, with the air of a condemned man. ‘But at my suggestion, and your father’s wish.’

‘A lying kuffar ,’ Dhar muttered, walking over to the window.

‘Salim, your father had always followed your progress from the other side of the world, but when there was a chance to meet you in person, he took it, knowing there might be some common ground between you.’ Primakov was talking with difficulty, his cut lips bleeding, distorting his words. ‘And of course he had another son, Daniel, carving out a career in intelligence in the West, despite the best efforts of the CIA. There was some common ground there, too, between all three of you. On the last occasion I saw him, your father made me promise to bring the two of you together when the time was right. He said you would both know what to do. That time has now come.’

Dhar walked past Primakov and stood with his face inches from Marchant’s. The smell of apricots was strong and sour now.