Jon Stock - Dirty Little Secret

Fielding could never tell him the real reason why Marchant hadn’t killed Dhar. He could never tell anyone. He tried to change the focus.

‘I think we’re forgetting who we’re dealing with here,’ he said. ‘When Marchant reached Russia, Dhar forced him to shoot Primakov, a family friend, for being a Western spy. The bigger question is why Dhar didn’t kill Marchant. He could have done so at any time. Marchant was exceptionally brave.’

‘So why didn’t Dhar kill him?’

Fielding turned away, looking down the Thames as they drove over Battersea Bridge. It was almost 3 a.m. He always felt depressed when he saw Albert Bridge at night, lit up like a gaudy old whore in pearls. ‘Perhaps he was curious. They’re half-brothers, after all. And Dhar only met his father once, when he was in jail in India. Maybe Marchant reminded him of his father, I don’t know.’

‘The Americans want answers, Marcus, not cod bloody psychology.’

‘I don’t remember you always being so ready to oblige them.’

Fielding was struggling to remain civil as the Range Rover drew up outside a nondescript terrace house on Battersea Bridge Road. Denton’s anti-US views had been well known in the Service, causing Fielding enough problems in the past. It appeared that he had put them to one side with the promise of promotion.

‘They also want to find Dhar. Marchant was the last person to see him alive. I assume we can circulate his Fort debriefing?’

‘It will be on desks in the morning,’ Fielding said.

Denton got out of the car and leant in through the open door.

‘Thanks.’ He tapped the roof, as if he’d just chosen the vehicle in a showroom. ‘For the lift.’

‘There’s one thing I can tell you,’ Fielding said. ‘Daniel Marchant’s one of the good guys. Trust me. Let’s not throw him to the lions. Not yet.’

Marchant lay staring at the vibrating phone. It was still dark outside, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. He didn’t even know if he was awake. His dreams had been about dead sailors and Dhar. The phone display said that ‘Dad – Home’ was calling. He hadn’t been called from that number since his father had died seventeen months before.

The call was from the family home at Tarlton, outside Cirencester in the Cotswolds. Nobody lived there any more. The house was closed up, and would remain that way until Marchant decided what to do with the place. As the only surviving member of the family, he had inherited his father’s flat in Pimlico, where he now lived, and the large family house in Tarlton. He could never envisage living there, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to sell it.

Marchant slid out of bed, checking that Lakshmi was asleep. Her eyes were closed, her breathing uneven. He would call a doctor in the morning, get her wrist checked out. Careful not to wake her, he stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He was glad the phone was on vibrate, as he could tell himself it was the phone and not his hand that was shaking. Who would call from his home? And at 4 a.m.? Once a month, his father’s cleaning lady dropped by to check on the place, but she would only ring if there was a problem. Perhaps there had been a fire?

‘Who is this?’ Marchant said quietly.

‘Your pilot.’

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.