by Jon Stock
According to the DCIA, a jihadi website was claiming that six kidnapped US Marines had been killed in a drone strike. The website had been flooded immediately by Fort Meade, temporarily shutting it down, but the signs weren’t good, and the news, true or false, would soon come out elsewhere. The thought made Spiro want to throw up. He had served in the Gulf alongside one of the soldiers, Lieutenant Randall Oaks, knew his wife, heard they had a young daughter.
‘Don’t beat our drum too loud in London,’ the DCIA had said. ‘We might need our friends in the days ahead.’ So it was with a deep breath that Spiro splashed water on his weathered face, dried himself with a paper towel and hoped that the Vicar might offer a prayer for the dead.
19
Marchant had a contingency plan for leaving Morocco, the first part of which he had already put in place. The ticket he had booked on the morning flight out of Marrakech was in his own name. But the passport he now held in his hand as he sat in the back of the speeding taxi was in the name of Dirk McLennan, a ‘snap cover’ stitched together by Legoland’s cobblers before he had left. The biography was not as detailed as an operational legend, but it was good enough to get him out of Morocco. And the airport he was heading for was Agadir, not Marrakech.
Marchant didn’t miss his previous cover identity, the backpacking student who had done such an efficient job of getting him to India when the CIA had been on his case in Poland. He had enjoyed winding back the clock, smoking weed and getting laid by Monika, the hostel receptionist, but it had been complicated, raised too many issues. His new identity was far more straightforward: a libidinous snapper who ran residential photography courses in Marrakech, mainly for parties of single British women of a certain age.
And this time there was none of the cobblers’ bitterness that had characterised his last legend, no biographical flaws echoing the tragedies of his own life. Dirk McLennan was a good-time cover, full of joie de vivre: girlfriends aplenty, all-night benders and an interesting sideline in glamour photography. In short, Marchant saw it as a gift, his bonus from Legoland for a difficult year.
He checked the passport, his business card and the Billingham bag of cameras and lenses that he had kept in his flat, then caught a glimpse of himself in the driver’s mirror and adjusted the sunglasses that were perched on the top of his head. McLennan’s hair was slightly darker than his own, which was dirt-blond, but he had had no time to dye it. After spotting Meena, he had collected a small overnight bag from his flat and jumped in a taxi, ordered by a man he could trust in the medina.
Now, as the taxi drove down the highway to Agadir, Marchant thought back three months to when Fielding had called him into his office on the morning he had left for Marrakech. The Vicar had reminded him of his responsibilities, the need to keep his head down. They had both survived a challenging time together in India, and their relationship was close, at times almost like father and son. Fielding had risked his own career to support him, something Marchant would never forget. The ensuing year in London had not been easy for either of them. Confined to Legoland by the Americans, Marchant had drunk too much and caused trouble in the office. Fielding had grown tired of having to bail him out. They both knew that Marchant was the only person who could find Dhar, and he wasn’t going to do it chained to a desk in London.
‘The Americans have retreated, lifted the travel ban, but they insist that you remain a legitimate target for observation,’ the Vicar had said, sipping at a glass of the sweet mint tea he had asked Otto, his Eastern European butler, to prepare for the two of them. ‘We’ve protested, of course, but there’s no movement.’
‘And our rules of engagement, have they changed?’
‘Despite everything that happened, to you, to me, to Harriet Armstrong, America remains our closest ally,’ Fielding said. ‘Remember that. The appalling truth is that we can’t live for long without them or the intel they share with us.’ He paused. ‘Langley is on record as having cleared you and your father of any wrong-doing. That counts for something. Salim Dhar is the enemy combatant here, not you. But we both know that your relationship with Dhar presents the CIA with a problem. If they ever cross the line again, hold you against your will, interrogate — ’
‘Waterboard,’ Marchant interrupted.
‘Yes, well — you may have to cross the line, too.’
‘And the real reason for my presence in Marrakech remains deniable,’ Marchant said.
‘Utterly. As far as the Americans are concerned, you are in Morocco on sabbatical. Marrakech is a natural place for you, an Arabist, to sort your life out. HR have signed off on it, citing ill-health and low office morale. Given the disruption you’ve caused in Legoland over the past year, they are only too pleased to see the back of you.’
Marchant reckoned that the circumstances he found himself in now satisfied Fielding’s conditions. Lakshmi Meena had crossed the line. The woman Langley had sent to keep an eye on him was suddenly on his case after weeks of inactivity. He might be wrong, of course, but it was odd that Meena had come back to watch him late in the night after their meeting at the bar anglais. The only explanation was that she must have heard about the helicopter incident and Marchant’s presence in the mountains. But who had seen him? He assumed it was a local informer. The CIA was closer to the Moroccan intelligence services than MI6, particularly after the courts in London had revealed details of torture at a Moroccan black site.
By the time he reached Agadir airport, Marchant was confident that nobody had followed him by road from Marrakech. His worry was that a reception committee might be waiting for him in the departures hall. If Meena meant business, she would be watching all the country’s exits, particularly when Daniel Marchant didn’t show up for his flight from Marrakech. But security at the airport was no more rigorous than usual.
After checking in one piece of luggage, Marchant was about to make his way to passport control when he heard a commotion behind him. He turned to see a man in shades being escorted into the departures hall by three policemen, an air stewardess and a posse of screaming middle-aged women. Behind them were half a dozen paparazzi, cameras flashing as they jostled for position.
‘Who’s the celeb?’ Marchant asked the attractive woman behind the checkin desk.
‘Hussein Farmi,’ she said, a faint blush colouring her face.
Marchant nodded knowingly, but the woman wasn’t convinced.
‘Star of more than a hundred films,’ she explained. ‘Khali Balak Min Zouzou? With Soad Hosny?’
‘Of course.’
‘He’s one of the Middle East’s most popular actors. And he has been married five times.’ She stifled a giggle.
‘I’d better get a few shots of him then,’ Marchant said, nodding at the canvas bag slung over his shoulder. Without thinking, he pulled out a camera, snapped the checkin woman and gave her a wink as he walked off in pursuit of Farmi. Photographers could get away with murder, he thought.
20
Fielding couldn’t remember such a tense meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee. Even the ones that had been hastily called in the hours after 9/11 and 7/7 had been characterised by unity rather than discord. Everyone had been pulling together then. There were no divisions, no conflicting agendas. The Americans had needed Britain’s help after 9/11, and the British had needed their help after 7/7.
This time the Cabinet Room in Downing Street was crackling with resentment and rivalry as Spiro addressed the London heads of the Canadian, Australian and New Zealand intelligence services, Harriet Armstrong, Director General of MI5, the head of GCHQ, accompanied by an awkward Paul Myers, a raft of faceless Whitehall mandarins, and the clammy-cheeked Sir David Chadwick, still chairman of the JIC despite the Americans’ best efforts to unseat him in a cooked-up child-porn sting.
‘I had hoped to bring better news to you all today,’ Spiro said, studiously avoiding any eye contact with Fielding. ‘As you know, we believe we have eliminated Salim Dhar in a Reaper strike in Afghanistan. We still ma
intain the target was destroyed, but there are rumours this morning that Dhar might have been with the six US Marines who were taken at the weekend by Taleban forces. In terms of potential collateral, that particular scenario couldn’t be worse.’
Six US Marines struck Fielding as a result, compared to the normal quota of innocent women and children who were destroyed by drone strikes, but he kept his peace, preferring to make his point with a short dry cough. Spiro looked across at him for the first time.
‘They are all fine soldiers. One of them, Lieutenant Randall Oaks, served alongside me in Iraq. As things stand right now, the picture is a little confused. A jihadi website posted images this morning of the strike zone, one of which I can show you now.’
He pressed at a remote in his hand and a grab from a website appeared on a flat screen behind Spiro. It showed a group of local Afghanis waving at the camera. One was holding a damaged Marine’s helmet, its US markings just visible.
‘NSA managed to crash the site by overloading the server, but it’s fair to assume the images will soon appear elsewhere. We happen to believe they’re fake, but clearly it’s an unhelpful story. Right now, the President, whom I personally briefed yesterday, is holding back on an announcement about Dhar. He wants DNA, but that could be tricky, given the hostile location of the strike zone.’
Chadwick cleared his throat loudly enough for Spiro to pause. ‘Just supposing Dhar is still alive, is he likely to address his followers, make a video to prove he’s not dead?’
‘First up, we don’t believe Dhar’s alive. Our position remains that he was killed in the Reaper strike. Personally, I also think the Marines story is a red herring, put out to distract attention from Dhar’s death. No way would Salim Dhar, the world’s most wanted terrorist, risk being with the Marines, knowing our ongoing military efforts to find and retrieve them. But if Dhar is still alive — and that’s a mighty big if — it’s not his style to show himself.’
‘So should we be putting out rumours that he’s dead?’
‘Absolutely. Fort Meade’s already posting to that effect in jihadi chatrooms. We’d be grateful if Cheltenham coordinates the European side of things. I don’t want a repeat of Rashid Rauf. His supporters were claiming he was alive and well within minutes of the Reaper strike. It’s imperative we move quickly.’
Fielding caught Armstrong’s eye. He wondered what she was feeling as she sat there, watching the humiliation of Spiro, a man she had once so foolishly admired. She glanced away and looked at Myers. The three of them had talked earlier about the audio evidence. The head of GCHQ was not happy — Cheltenham had better relations with the Americans than MI5 and MI6 — but Fielding had reassured him that he would take the heat.
Just as Spiro was about to speak again, Fielding began, his languid body language — long legs out to one side, head bent forward like a concert pianist’s — at odds with the devastating intelligence he was about to pool.
‘Some product crossed my desk this morning that I think should be shared.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ Spiro said, managing a thin smile. Fielding savoured his rival’s fluster, the nervousness that everyone in the room would have detected in the American’s voice. ‘Go ahead. After all, sharing product is what this meeting’s all about, isn’t it?’
‘Your position, as I understand it, is that Dhar was not with the Marines at the time of the strike.’
‘No, that’s not my position. The Marines were not with Dhar when we eliminated him.’
Spiro’s voice was wavering more now, a top-end tremolo that was music to Fielding’s ears.
‘Let’s just suppose for a moment that we could prove that the Marines and Dhar were together when the Reaper struck.’
‘I hope that this evidence, whatever it is, came in to your possession after and not before we launched our attack. Because that would frickin’ upset me if you weren’t sharing intel.’
‘I can understand that. For the record’ — a nod at Chadwick, the chairman — ‘we learned about it late last night.’
‘And what exactly is this intel?’
‘Paul?’ Fielding turned to Myers, who was sitting next to him, looking more uncomfortable than usual. ‘Paul Myers has been on attachment with us from Cheltenham’ — a glance at the Chief of GCHQ, who turned away as if Fielding had just thrown up over him — ‘and last night he ran some further tests on the Dhar audio intercept.’
Fielding looked again at Myers, who appeared too nervous to take up the story, biting at what was left of his nails.
‘Some tests,’ Spiro said, not trying to disguise his disdain. ‘In addition to Fort Meade’s thorough spectrographic analysis?’
‘That’s right. And he found a fragment of sound at the end of the second intercept that I think we should all hear.’
Myers stood up and walked over to an audio console beneath the main screen. He had suddenly grown in confidence, evidently more at ease with technology than people. After checking the levels, he half turned towards the room, instinctively crouching down at the height of the console when he saw all the faces.
‘I was looking for something else when I found it,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘Often the way.’ A nervous laugh, immediately regretted. ‘It’s only a few milliseconds, but I’ve slowed it down so you can hear.’ He pressed a button, and there was silence. Then a deep, distorted, drawn-out call, like a wounded animal’s, filled the room.
‘And what in God’s name was that?’ Spiro said, suddenly more confident. He had seen his enemy’s best shot, and he could live with it. He stood up, as if to defend himself better, knuckles pressed into the oak table.
Myers stood up, too, and looked across at Fielding for guidance. Fielding nodded.
‘It’s a scream,’ Myers began. ‘An American scream.’
Fielding watched as the ensuing silence sapped Spiro of all his bravura, his large frame collapsing like a punctured tyre.
‘An American scream,’ Spiro managed to repeat, more as a statement than a question. Fielding had to give him credit. He was trying to put on a brave face.
‘I’ve compared it with the audio IDs sent over by Fort Meade.’ Myers paused, fiddling with his ponytail. ‘It’s a perfect match with one of the Marines.’ He paused again. ‘Lieutenant Randall Oaks.’
21
It was as Marchant was taking his seat in the departure lounge that he first sensed security at the airport had been raised a level. Two men in charcoal suits had appeared at the gate and were standing by the entrance to the airbridge that led down to the plane, a twin-turboprop ATR 42. Marchant knew that the aircraft was used by courier firms, but it also flew short-haul passenger flights.
The two men, badges on their jackets, scrutinised the group of people waiting for the flight, then glanced down the list of passengers with a member of the ground crew. One of the officers caught Marchant’s eye, checked the list, and then looked at another passenger. They didn’t appear to be interested in him, but he was on edge now, searching for anything that might suggest he was a target.
Earlier, after he had taken a few photos of Hussein Farmi and joked with the other photographers, he had passed through passport control without a problem. Not even a second glance at his photo. He hadn’t been worried that the cobblers’ work wouldn’t be up to scratch; he was more concerned that Meena might have called in a favour, asked Moroccan intelligence to keep a lookout for him.
There were no more than twenty passengers in total, and they started to form an orderly line when their flight was finally called.
Marchant was about to get up from his seat when one of the suited men came over to him, smiling.
‘Mr McLennan?’
‘That’s me,’ Marchant said, keeping it upbeat. He followed up with what he hoped was a cheeky smile. ‘Is there a problem?’ He wouldn’t have asked if he had been Daniel Marchant, but he felt Dirk McLennan was the sort of man who liked to put his cards on the table.
‘Not at all. The flig
ht is less than half full, and we are upgrading today. Please, follow me.’
‘Great, sounds a blast,’ Marchant said, assessing the risk. He was instinctively worried. The badge on the man’s suit indicated that he worked for the local airline, but Marchant didn’t believe it for a second. ‘Terrific, in fact. But what about these good people here?’ He glanced at the other passengers.
‘I should say it is because you are a guest of our country and we have a long and honourable tradition of hospitality, but I would be lying.’ He paused. Marchant thought for a moment about running, but he returned the man’s steady gaze as a bead of sweat rolled down his back. ‘We upgrade randomly from the passenger list, and providing the individual is what we call SFU — suitable for upgrade — we invite them to enjoy their flight in the comfort of business class. Come.’
Marchant shrugged at the other passengers and walked to the front of the queue, sprinkling apologies as he went. He showed his boarding card to a member of the airline crew and tried to flirt with her, but she was having none of it. He mustered a swagger as he walked down the airbridge towards the aircraft. It was tempting to look back, but he knew it would be inappropriate. Dirk McLennan was a chancer, and would be loving every minute of this. If only he felt the same. Something was very wrong, but how could he protest about an upgrade?
‘Please, enjoy your flight, Mr McLennan,’ the man said, ushering him on board the plane.
Marchant nodded at the two cabin crew who greeted him at the door. They steered him left into the small business-class area, where there were eight seats in total. He eased across to a window and sat down with his camera bag on his lap, his limbs heavy with adrenaline. Trying to control his breathing, he considered his options, but the sense of imminent danger was overwhelming. The plane would have been claustrophobic even if he hadn’t felt out of control of the situation. The only exit point was the door he had just entered, and his last opportunity to escape was now. But how far would he get? The boarding gate, if he was lucky.
