Jon Stock - Games Traitors Play

‘Do you want to, or shall I?’ he asked, holding out the gun. ‘We cannot let him continue to insult our father in this way.’

Marchant’s heart was racing. He knew it was a test, one final challenge. If Dhar suspected Primakov, he suspected him too, but for the moment it appeared that Dhar wanted to believe in his father, his half-brother — his family.

‘I saw something in our father’s eye when I met him,’ Dhar continued, now looking down at Primakov. ‘And do you know what it was? Approval. Anything to stop the American crusade: MI6 officers passing US secrets to Moscow, jihadists shooting the President in the name of Allah. And now that he has gone, it is left to you and me.’

He turned back to Marchant, who hesitated for a moment, looking at the gun that was still in Dhar’s outstretched hand. Suddenly he saw Dhar as a child, desperately seeking a father’s endorsement, something he had never been given in his childhood. If his real father hadn’t been a traitor to the West, Dhar would be left with nothing. Dhar had to believe in his father’s treachery, dismiss Primakov’s talk of another agenda. In his mind, Moscow Centre had brought Dhar and Marchant together for one simple reason: they were both their father’s sons.

Marchant listened to the sound of Primakov’s wheezing, the loudest noise in the hangar. The Russian had finally told him the truth, knowing that he would pay for it with his life. He had avoided any admission that he was working for the British — that would have implicated Marchant, too. Instead, he had told Marchant that his father had wanted him to meet Dhar, explore their common ground. That was enough. And Marchant knew now exactly what he had to do.

‘Let me,’ he said, taking the gun.

‘I shouldn’t be here, but I wanted to thank you in person,’ Fielding said, standing at the foot of Lakshmi Meena’s hospital bed. One arm was heavily bandaged and she had bruising below her left eye, but she seemed in reasonable spirits.

‘For what?’

‘For letting them take Daniel. It must have gone against everything you were taught at the Farm. I brought you these.’

He waved the bunch of full-headed Ecuadorian roses he was holding, and put them on the windowsill. He had also brought a box of honey mangoes from Pakistan.

‘Thank you. I wasn’t armed. There were at least four of them. In the circumstances, I had no choice but to protect myself. Have a seat.’

She gestured at a chair, but Fielding remained standing.

‘Is that what you told Spiro?’ he asked.

‘It took a while for him to accept that they weren’t your people.’

‘We haven’t had to resort to kidnapping our own officers on the streets of London. Not yet.’

‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what Dan’s up to.’

He hesitated. ‘All I can say is that you were right to trust him. I’m sorry about your arm.’

‘You’re asking a lot of him. To stop Salim Dhar on his own.’

Fielding glanced towards the door at the mention of Dhar’s name. Through the frosted glass panel, he could see the profile of an armed policeman standing guard outside. He wanted to tell Meena that Marchant’s orders weren’t just to stop Dhar, but to turn him as well, but he couldn’t. The stakes were too high. If Marchant could persuade Dhar to work for the West, it was not something Britain would ever be able to share with any of its allies, least of all America, whose President Dhar had come so close to killing.

‘No one else can,’ Fielding said, moving towards the door. ‘It’s family business.’

‘Please place a flower on my daughter’s grave,’ Primakov whispered, leaning forward, his whole body shaking now. ‘And may your father forgive you.’

Marchant wanted to look away as he fired. It took all his strength to pull the trigger, leaving him with no will to watch. But he knew Dhar was scrutinising his every move. Primakov’s head lurched forward as if in a final drunken bow, and then he fell to the floor.

As the sound of the single shot faded in the echoing spaces of the hangar, Marchant prayed for the first time in years. He tried to tell himself that Primakov would have been executed by Grushko or Dhar if it hadn’t been by him, but it didn’t make it any easier. He had never killed anyone in cold blood before. Primakov deserved better. He had been one of his father’s oldest friends, a courageous man who had carried out his wishes to the last. He hoped to God his death was worth it.

Dhar looked on impassively, then took the gun from Marchant without a word and walked over to his living area.

‘Our father told us to trust him as if he was family,’ Marchant called after him, feeling the need to explain himself as he tried not to stare at Primakov’s slumped figure. A pool of blood had formed around his disfigured head, dust floating on its surface like a fine skein of flotsam.

‘He made an error of judgement,’ Dhar said. ‘Primakov had other interests.’

‘Like stopping the global jihad ?’ Marchant asked, regaining some of his composure. He needed to reassure himself that Dhar had moved on, no longer suspected him. ‘He must have known you wouldn’t like what he said.’

‘Primakov was working to his own agenda. There are many within the SVR who are at war with Islam. He was trying to turn you against me, suggesting that our father had somehow sent you here from beyond the grave to halt my work.’

‘Was he anti-Russian, too?’ Marchant asked, thinking that was exactly what their father had done. His question was a risk, but he needed to know what Dhar thought.

Dhar fixed Marchant with his eyes, now shining blacker than ever. ‘No. I do not believe Primakov was a British agent, if that’s what you are asking. Grushko was simply trying to frame him. As Primakov said, there were people in Moscow Centre who were jealous of him when he recruited our father. His signing was quite a coup.’

Marchant couldn’t ask for more. Dhar not only still believed that Primakov was working for Moscow, he was also sure that their father had been too. Primakov had chosen his words carefully. Thanks to him, Marchant was now safe, free from suspicion. He looked again at Primakov’s body, remembering his final wish.

It was the first time Marchant had heard that Primakov had a daughter. He would make enquiries when all of this was over, find out where she was buried and put flowers on her grave. It was the least he could do. And may your father forgive you.

‘Now I must prepare to fly,’ Dhar said.

‘Where are you going?’ Marchant asked as casually as he could, glancing at the aircraft at the end of the hangar. From the moment Primakov had requested him to help with the MiG-35s’ incursion, Marchant had assumed that Dhar’s plans involved an airborne attack of some sort. All he had to do now was persuade him to take him along.

‘To the land of our father,’ Dhar said, patting him on his shoulder.

‘Then let me come with you,’ Marchant said instinctively. It was the only chance he had of stopping Dhar. ‘We still have so much to discuss. And I know the country well.’ He managed a light laugh. ‘I could show you the sights.’

Dhar paused for a moment, smiling to himself as he seemed to consider Marchant’s offer. There was something Dhar wasn’t telling him that made Marchant think that he had a chance. ‘That is true. And it is a long flight. Have you flown in a jet before?’

‘Only a Provost. But I have a strong stomach.’ Marchant was thinking fast now, improvising. The last time they had met, Dhar had abandoned him on a hillside in south India when he left to shoot the US President. Marchant wasn’t going to let him get away again. He had to be in the cockpit with him, find out what the target was, get a message to Fielding.