Jon Stock - Dead Spy Running

‘Earlier, yes.’

‘Jesus, we were right about Stephen Marchant. Like father, like son. But what about Marcus? Daniel’s put through to his home, then the Chief chooses not to report the conversation to anyone. And now he’s gone AWOL. I thought this guy was on our side.’

‘It also bothers the PM.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Straker said, failing to detect much sincerity in Armstrong’s reply. ‘Does the PM know about Chadwick, too?’

‘David?’

‘Sir David, knight of the realm.’

‘What about him?’ Armstrong tightened her grip on the phone. She had always liked Chadwick, even fancied him in her earlier Whitehall days. She wouldn’t hear a bad word said against him.

‘Seems like he’s been signing up to some illegal websites over here. The FBI passed over the credit card trail this morning, thought we should know.’

Armstrong, her resentment rising, wanted the conversation to end. She didn’t believe a word. The Americans were still on the warpath after removing Stephen Marchant, but this was new territory. They would go after the PM next.

‘How illegal?’

‘I hope he hasn’t got children.’

Marchant slipped the mobile phone back under the magazine and lay on his charpoy again, watching the guard walk back up the hill towards him. He looked in briefly on Marchant then sat down, picking at his teeth. It had been good to hear the Legoland receptionist’s voice. The best ones worked on the emergency number. Her warm, reassuring tones had contrasted sharply with Anne Norman’s brusque manner.

Fielding had said very little. They both knew that the less time they spoke, the less chance there was of the call being traced. But it had been hard to convey everything quickly and cryptically. The most important thing had been to provide Fielding with the real reason for his father’s trip. He had also wanted him to know that Dhar might be turned. Dhar would never work for America, but the notion of him spying for Britain was suddenly not so implausible.

The implications of his father’s revelation had not yet fully sunk in, he knew that: the opposite lives his sons had led, each one’s existence on a separate continent, unknown to the other, despite being born within months of each other. Marchant knew that by ringing Fielding, immersing himself in his old professional world, he was avoiding the personal consequences. His father, who had spent a lifetime uncovering other people’s secrets, had been carrying around the biggest one of all. Did he think worse of him for it? He feared the Americans might.

A commotion outside broke in on his thoughts. A man was coming up the hill with a large sheet of cardboard, cut out in the shape of a human figure. He was talking excitedly, a small group of men following him, looking at the effigy. Marchant couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he heard Salim’s name mentioned, and recognised the figure. It was of the previous US President, wearing a cowboy hat and boots.

One of the men barked an order at another, who pulled out a cigarette lighter and held it to the image, dropping it to the ground when the flames caught. But before the curling fire had reached the President’s head, Marchant saw quite clearly that there was a small hole between the eyes, made by a single bullet.

Spiro leant in towards Leila and touched her hand. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ he said, maintaining the contact longer than she would have liked. ‘The threat level is high. There are others who can take your place.’

‘Like Baldwin? He doesn’t seem very pleased to see me here.’

‘The guy’s a loser,’ he said, looking around the restaurant. ‘All hat and no cattle.’

Spiro had been drinking all evening — their last chance for the next forty-eight hours, he said — and was starting to worry her.

‘It’s important I’m there. My mother will be proud that her daughter’s showing the US President around the biggest Bahá’í temple in the world. It’s important for me, too. I need to draw a line under all that’s been said, reassure the doubters.’

‘Who cares what Baldwin or the Brits think?’ Spiro said, topping up her glass with wine. She shouldn’t have agreed to dinner, but she was indebted to Spiro, and needed his ongoing support. She glanced around the restaurant. It was on the roof of their hotel, the lights of New Delhi spread out beneath them as two musicians from Rajasthan worked the candlelit room. With a different man the scene might have been romantic, she thought, trying not to picture herself and Marchant together.

‘They’re pulling the Vicar in, too,’ Spiro said. He was pumped up, unrelaxed, his leg bouncing beneath the table. ‘Never liked the guy.’

Leila knew all about the allegations Fielding had made, that she was working for Iran, but she hadn’t heard of his apparent suspension.

‘Why?’

‘Daniel, your former squeeze. Seems he made a call to London. Spoke to Fielding on a phone used once by Salim Dhar. Thank God Fort Meade had their pants up and their headphones on for a change.’

Leila was relieved to hear that Marchant was still alive. She had feared the worst after the Gymkhana explosion. What remained of the book at the club’s reception had confirmed that a ‘David Marlowe’ had been signed in as a visitor, but his body was never found. She hoped one day to talk to him, explain it all, but time was running out.

‘Where was he calling from?’ she asked, struggling to conceal her interest.

‘Somewhere south of here. We were right to man-mark him in London, Leila. You did a fine job. It turns out the whole lot of them were at it: Marchant, his father, Fielding.’

‘Was Daniel with Dhar when he called?’ Her voice was more anxious.

‘We sure as hell hope so. But you don’t need to trouble yourself about him. What do you say to a drink back in my room?’ He forced his leg between hers under the table.

‘I must do a bit more reading up on the Bahá’ís,’ she said, pushing back her chair. ‘I’d hate the President to think I’d just screwed my way to the top.’

‘I’m not sure you heard me,’ Spiro said, holding her forearm. She looked around the restaurant for support, but no one had noticed. Spiro’s breath was sour, his lips oily from the earlier biryani . ‘I’ve been asked a lot of questions in recent days, told a lot of folk to trust you. Men like Baldwin. I think that deserves a little payback, don’t you?’

Marchant heard the mobile phone begin to ring moments before the Sikorsky Seahawk came in low over the treetops. He rushed to pick it up just as the guard outside fell to the ground, a single sniper shot to his chest.

‘Get out of there now,’ a familiar female voice urged. As he tried to place it, a loud explosion ripped the roof off the hut, knocking him to the ground. He started to crawl, but his eyes were filling with warm blood from a cut to his forehead. Wiping his face, he rolled across the dusty ground to the back of the hut, where he slid out through a hole that had been torn in the palm-woven panelling. The air was thick with the sound of gunfire, urgent shouts — American, Indian, Middle Eastern — and the cry of crows.

Marchant kept thinking of the crows, what they were doing in the middle of a firefight, as a group of Black Cats moved down the hillside towards him. They must have walked, taken the long route, he thought. If it hadn’t been for them, he would have escaped. Two of them lifted him up and dragged him semi-conscious towards the winch rope of the Seahawk, now hovering above the clearing.

‘No Dhar,’ Marchant heard one of the Black Cats say into his helmet mike, as he rose above the coconut canopy into a cerulean sky.