Jon Stock - Games Traitors Play

He had to redo those calculations as he saw the SU-25 turn and begin a second approach. If Dhar attacked the marquee where the American Secretary of Defense was holding court with the Georgians, Fielding knew his career was over. But as the aircraft drew close to its target, he began to sense that his faith in Daniel Marchant had not been misplaced. Dhar was leaving it very late to strike at the marquee. Had Marchant talked him out of it?

His phone rang as the aircraft passed low over the control tower and pulled into a steep climb. It was Harriet Armstrong.

‘Is it true? Dhar’s just taken out an American fighter jet?’

‘It’s true.’

‘And Marchant’s with him?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘Jesus, Marcus, what the hell do I tell COBRA? And the Americans?’

‘Tell them that Marchant’s just saved the life of the US Secretary of Defense, as well as a tent full of American and Georgian top brass.’

He hung up as he watched the SU-25 disappear into the distance, wondering why Dhar was now heading north-west towards Cheltenham.

The Russians had left Paul Myers shortly after he had begun to corrupt the Recognised Air Picture. He didn’t know how many jets would attempt to violate the UK’s airspace while its defences were compromised, or what their mission was. All he knew was that Daniel Marchant was involved in some way.

‘I suggest you keep the window open for as long as you can,’ Grushko had said, just before he departed with his colleague. ‘Unless you want your friend Daniel Marchant to be shot out of the sky.’

Myers was suspicious that they weren’t remaining with him. It was true that he didn’t want to do anything that might put Marchant in more danger than he was in already. Again he tried to think what Marchant would want, and decided to interfere with the Recognised Air Picture for as long as he could. But the Russians had been in an unseemly hurry to leave.

‘Have you lived in Cheltenham long?’ Grushko had asked just before he left.

‘Ten years, maybe longer.’

‘It’s strange. The poorer parts remind me of Chernobyl, where I grew up. Before the accident, of course.’

After twenty minutes of delaying and corrupting the RAP, Myers had left his flat and driven to work. He wasn’t due in until Monday, but the experience of being held hostage in his own home had left him feeling shaken and vulnerable. He also needed a change of scene after being cooped up in his airless bedroom for twelve hours. GCHQ was bright and airy and, as the director often reminded staff, one of the most secure work environments in the country. He would walk the Street, buy some food and sit out on the grassy knoll in the sunny central enclosure. Then he would ring Fielding back and tell him what had happened, although he suspected that the Vicar already knew.

‘Just so you know,’ Armstrong said, back on the phone to Fielding, who had ordered his driver to head at speed for Cheltenham, ‘there are now six jets closing in on Dhar with orders to shoot him down. I’ve stressed to the Chief of Defence Staff that an officer of MI6 is also on board, but he has been deemed expendable. In your absence, Ian Denton has signed off on it. I’m sorry.’

‘I’d be grateful if you could pass on my objections to COBRA,’ Fielding said. Denton’s decision surprised him. His deputy should have rung him first. ‘Salim Dhar doesn’t do things by halves. He didn’t try to assassinate the American Ambassador in Delhi, he pointed his rifle at the President. He thinks big. Before we take out the jet, it’s worth considering the payload it might be carrying. There’s a chance Dhar’s armed with a nuclear weapon, or possibly a dirty bomb, which would rather spoil the Gloucestershire countryside if we shoot him down. The Russians are behind this, remember. The difficulty of sourcing radioactive isotopes isn’t a factor here.’

‘Are you saying we should just hold fire and watch while a state-sponsored terrorist flies around Britain attacking targets at will?’

‘Of course I’m bloody not. But we need to establish contact with Marchant first, before we risk triggering a major nuclear incident.’

‘There it is,’ Marchant said, looking down at the circular silver roof of GCHQ, shimmering like an urban crop circle on the outskirts of Cheltenham. Its grassy centre was surrounded by the ring of the main building and, further out, radials of parked cars. The town was to the east, and the M5 to the west. It had taken two minutes to fly the twenty miles from Fairford. For a moment, Marchant thought the building would make an excellent substitute for Wimbledon’s Centre Court.

‘So this is the place that has led the global hunt for me and many of my brothers,’ Dhar said. ‘It is smaller than I thought.’

Marchant was thinking fast now, measuring opportunities against risks. His priority was to persuade Dhar not to drop a dirty bomb on a densely populated area. But it was also evident that Dhar was willing to consider working for MI6. This was a hope that Marchant had held onto ever since he had first met Dhar in India more than a year ago, when he had found out they were half-brothers. It was why he had travelled to Morocco, chased leads into the High Atlas, flown to Madurai and faked his defection to Russia. And it was why Nikolai Primakov had died in a draughty hangar in Kotlas. He owed it to his father’s old friend to turn Dhar.

The risks of running him would be considerable, not least the problem of London’s relationship with Washington, which would want his head more than ever after the attack at Fairford. Dhar would never stop waging his war against America. If he did choose to share information with Britain, spare the land of his father from the full wrath of his jihad , the rest of the world must never know.

But would Dhar’s stock have risen after taking out the US Air Force’s pride and joy at an air show? It was brave and spectacular, in a Top Gun sort of way, but not exactly another 9/11. If Dhar was to be an effective British asset, he would have to do more. Which was why Marchant was desperately trying to think through the implications of an attack on GCHQ.

A dirty bomb dropped into the middle of the doughnut would partially disable the facility for months, if not years, and would be a massive propaganda victory for jihadis everywhere. Air filters and life-support systems in the underground computer halls were designed to ensure that basic services continued in the event of a surface nuclear attack, but the disruption to the offices above ground would still be considerable. Caesium was particularly difficult to clean off metal surfaces such as the building’s aluminium roof.

Then there was the population of Cheltenham to consider. It was too late to evacuate the town, even if it was possible. The panic as people fled after an attack would cause chaos as well as deaths; and then there would be those who died later from radiation-induced cancer.

‘A conventional thousand-pound bomb would do it,’ Marchant said. It seemed that it had been Dhar’s plan to drop the standard LGB on Fairford and the dirty bomb on Cheltenham: one for the SVR, one for himself, both sides happy. Marchant had talked him out of the first; now he had to do the same with GCHQ.

‘Do what?’

‘Give you front-page headlines around the world and destroy much of the building.’

‘But I hate this place, and the people who work there,’ Dhar said, banking the plane around to the south. ‘They are the foot-soldiers of Echelon. Do you know how it feels to be hunted day and night, searching the skies for satellites and drones, not knowing if you can breathe at night for fear of being heard?’

‘You tricked them easily enough about your location in North Waziristan,’ Marchant said. He was surprised to hear Dhar namecheck Echelon, the Western computer network that sorted and analysed captured signals traffic. The hunted had finally found the hunter.