Dirty Little Secret

by Jon Stock

  He still couldn’t dismiss the possibility that the latest American intel was referring posthumously to Hugo Prentice. The Polish case against him had been strong. It was a tragedy that Prentice had been killed before he could be questioned. Fielding still struggled to accept that one of his oldest friends in the Service could have betrayed a network of Western agents in Poland.

  If the Americans were convinced that he himself was the mole, as Munroe had suggested, he would have to deal with those allegations as and when they arose. His closeness to Stephen Marchant had never endeared him to Washington, but that would not be sufficiently damaging, given that the case against Marchant had never been proven. Unless the real mole had managed to frame him.

  Fielding poured himself a small glass of malt, slid a Telemann cantata into the CD player and went over to his desktop Mac in the corner of the room. It was no longer possible to dismiss Ian Denton, who was now the obvious candidate to replace him as Chief. Fielding had been wrongfooted by his deputy’s ambition in recent days. Up until now Denton had seemed a born number two, happy to troubleshoot for his Chief, to complement his skills rather than challenge them. That was partly why Fielding had chosen him as his deputy.

  Denton was the Moscow man to his camel trader. Between them, they made a good pair, had the world covered with their respective areas of expertise: Denton the SovBloc, Fielding the Arab world. But something in Denton had changed. An innate wariness of Washington had been replaced by a desire to please the Americans. And any personal loyalty had vanished too, giving way to a naked determination to succeed Fielding as Chief.

  Fielding couldn’t blame Denton if he felt marginalised. He hadn’t been privy to Daniel Marchant’s fake defection or their plan to turn Salim Dhar. But it was still a long walk from disaffected deputy to traitor.

  ‘What do you reckon, Oleg?’ Fielding asked, logging into the Legoland network. ‘Is this the “unkindest cut of all”?’ Oleg raised his head from his cushion, then went back to sleep.

  Fielding called up a secure personnel file on Denton, wanting to know more about his troubled relationship with Primakov, the man who had accused him of being a traitor. According to his Developed Vetting profile, a complaint had been made against Denton shortly after he had started working for the SovBloc Controllerate, while he was helping Stephen Marchant to run Nikolai Primakov. Both men had recently returned from Delhi, Marchant settling into a short London stint, Primakov rising up the KGB’s ranks in Moscow.

  Primakov was constantly asking Denton when he could defect, something that was not in the young field officer’s gift. There was little love lost between them, and Primakov eventually requested for Denton to be replaced. His next batch of CX included information that suggested Denton was working for Moscow. The matter was discreetly investigated by MI6’s Director of Counter-Intelligence and Security, who dismissed the allegations out of hand. On this occasion, Primakov was judged to have been an unreliable source. As a precaution, though, Denton was transferred to another job. Had Primakov remained unreliable? Had Denton been falsely accused for a second time?

  Fielding’s thoughts were interrupted by his landline ringing. It was the secure link to COBRA.

  ‘I thought you should know that we’ve found Salim Dhar,’ Denton said.

  ‘Congratulations. How did he find the Cotswolds?’

  There was a pause on the line before Denton spoke quietly. ‘It would have been helpful if you’d told us.’

  ‘I think you mean it would have saved arses. It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Nothing’s changed, Marcus. They just want me to oversee the search for Dhar.’

  ‘“They”?’

  ‘The Prime Minister’s office.’

  At the request of the President, Fielding thought. ‘Will Spiro let everyone get back to work now? You’ve seen the scenes at Vauxhall, I presume.’

  ‘He’s promised to pull his men out once we’ve handed Dhar over. He thinks Marchant’s with him.’

  ‘So you haven’t actually got Dhar yet.’

  ‘Within the hour. Marchant too. Spiro wants a chat with them both.’

  ‘You remember what happened the last time they took Daniel?’ Marchant had been waterboarded at a black site in Poland, and might well have died if it hadn’t been for the intervention of Hugo Prentice.

  ‘That was before he helped to shoot down a US jet. I’m not sure we’ve got a choice. Besides, what the hell’s Marchant doing with Dhar anyway?’

  Fielding understood his deputy’s frustration. It went to the heart of their differences: the continual denial of information about Daniel Marchant and Salim Dhar. Fielding was unable to answer him; more so now than ever.

  34

  After too many toasts to their shared jihad against America, Marchant changed into some of his old clothes. They were too small, but at least they were dry. He left Dhar sitting cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom and crept back down the stairs, keeping away from the windows. He knew he had to move fast. If Dhar was right, the ‘elephants’ would be storming the house within minutes. He didn’t want to be around when they arrived, although he would like to know if it was American or British special forces that Dhar had spotted in the garden.

  He stopped in front of the fireplace in the hall and listened, holding the handgun that Dhar had insisted on giving him. Silence, only memories. It was more than twenty years since he and Sebbie had played together in the house. They used to spend hours honing a variation of hide and seek with the local farmers’ children. After being given two minutes to hide, the twins’ challenge was to get out of the house and into the garden without being seen. Every time they would emerge at the far end of the lawn, running back across the grass shrieking and laughing.

  It was their first shared secret: the priest hole beside the fireplace, and the passage that led out to the garden. Their father had shown it to them on their sixth birthday, when they were brave enough to crawl down the tunnel with torches, but not old enough to understand why Catholic priests had once needed to hide.

  Marchant didn’t have a torch now, and there was no time to look for one. After checking on the pilot, who was still tied to the stool, head bowed, he closed the kitchen door and went back to the fireplace. The pilot wouldn’t have much longer to wait before he was released. The fireplace was surrounded by oak panels, one of which, on the right-hand side, could be opened. He felt along the bevelling. At first he couldn’t find the latch, but then his fingers lifted a small wooden peg and the panel gave way, swinging back into the dark.

  His father had always encouraged their games, and was particularly proud of this one. He had even joked once that the priest hole might come in handy when the men in white coats came to take him away. Now it was saving his son’s life. Marchant climbed into the cramped space and pulled the panel closed behind him. It didn’t feel right to be leaving Dhar on his own, but there was no other way. If he came with him, they would survive on the run for a few days at the most. The only chance for him to be free again was to be taken alive.

  Marchant stayed still for a few moments, crouching in the confined space as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His sense of balance had gone. One sip of vodka would have been enough to placate Dhar. He should have taken a single slug and passed the bottle back. Instead he had gone down to the cellar for the Bruichladdich.

  The oldest parts of the house dated back to the sixteenth century, when it had been built by a wealthy Catholic family that was fearful of being caught at prayer. There used to be a concealed chapel in the loft, linked to the priest hole in the hall by hidden stairs that ran up the outside of the chimney block, but a fire in the early 1900s had destroyed the roof, which had subsequently been rebuilt.

  He felt his way forward, crawling over the damp, mud-like floor. He had always gone first, Sebbie following behind, both trying not to be frightened. Their fear was usually outweighed by the thought of running down the lawn towards their startled friends, except for one time, whe
n their torch had died. Sebbie had panicked and started to sob in the darkness. Marchant had kept going, his own fear rising. He should have stopped to comfort his brother, and he felt guilty again now as he moved slowly down the sloping tunnel, wondering what was happening above.

  35

  Dhar knew it was a gamble, but he had run out of options. It felt strange being unarmed, but by giving Marchant his gun he hoped he might prolong both their lives. The first few seconds would be crucial. He had to look as passive as possible, hands clear of his body. The cowardly kuffar were terrified of suicide belts, so he stood up from the cushions, and almost fell over as his leg collapsed beneath him. He told himself it was the wound, but he knew it was the alcohol. It had tricked the winch man on the cliffs and kept the pain at bay for a time, but opening the whisky had been a mistake. Never would he let such vile liquid cross his lips again.

  Leaning against the bed, he unzipped the flying suit and turned it down at the waist, revealing his bare, skinny torso, thin wisps of black hair on his chest. He caught sight of himself in a mirror by the door, and saw that his shoulders were red and bruised. Then he moved closer to the mirror and looked at his eyes, which were tired and bloodshot. Had there really been no other choice but to come here? He cursed himself again for the drink and tried to clear his head, thinking through the choices that had been open to him.

  But he knew, as he heard the first sounds of an approaching helicopter, that there had never been any choice. The decision to come here hadn’t been about his future but his past, over which he had no control. His need to see his father’s house, to feel the security of a family home that had been denied to him, had been overwhelming.

  He turned and sat down in the middle of the floor, putting a hand out to stop himself from falling. Then, ignoring the pain, he crossed his legs, closed his eyes and rested his hands on his knees, pressing his thumbs and index fingers together, just as his mother had taught him. Samyama meditation had helped them both get through the darkest days in Delhi, until he had finally had enough and fled for Kashmir.

  This time there would be no running away.

  36

  Marchant saw the helicopter before he heard it. He had been scanning the horizon to the west, more out of habit than anything else. It was where he and Sebbie used to look for the Hawker Hunters taking off from Kemble. His instinct was to get as far away from the house as possible, but he knew that ground troops were already in position in the garden and would see him. He was lucky they hadn’t spotted him already.

  The passage from the priest hole had brought him up into a group of tall conifers at the back of the garden, forty yards from the house. He had managed to open the hatch without noise or difficulty, even though a thick layer of rotting grass cuttings had been dumped on it by the old gardener who still came once a month. It might have been safer to stay in the tunnel, but Marchant had decided to take the risk. He needed to see the moment when the troops stormed the house. The noise and confusion of those few seconds would provide him with his only opportunity to escape.

  As the helicopter swept in low over the fields and hovered above the roof of the house, the tops of the trees swaying in its downdraught, Marchant saw that it was an unmarked Eurocopter Dauphin. At least that was something. The Eurocopter was the SAS’s chopper of choice, which meant the British were running the show. Dhar would have a marginally better chance of not being shot dead on sight. But he began to wonder as a series of loud explosions cut through the noise of the helicopter. Ground troops had emerged from the orchard and hedges and were storming the house from the front and back, throwing stun grenades in through broken windows. At the same time, men were fast-roping down from the helicopter, landing on a flat-roofed extension at the rear of the house and smashing their way in through the top- and first-floor windows. It was time to break cover.

  He darted to the stone wall that ran along the back of the conifers, jumped over it and ducked, turning to see if anyone had noticed him. The house was now shrouded in smoke, the early-morning air thick with adrenaline-charged shouting and barked orders. British orders. The helicopter had moved away from the house and was banking around to the south. Marchant assumed it would be used to take Dhar away when he had been captured. In which case it would soon be touching down in the field he was in, the only clear space in the area.

  He ran north, keeping his head down and using the wall as cover. After a hundred yards he jumped back over the wall and cut across a paddock where two ponies stood anxiously, frightened by the noise. His sudden appearance scared them even more, and they bolted away from him as he headed for the lane that ran down from Tarlton to Rodmarton.

  Crossing the road would be risky – Marchant guessed that the village would have been sealed off before the raid – but there was a covered footpath on the other side that would get him out of the area quickly. He also hoped, as he climbed through a hole in the hedge, that he was far enough out of Tarlton to be beyond any roadblocks. He was wrong.

  37

  Dhar felt very close to his mother as the first window shattered and smoke swirled all around him. He remained calm, sitting in the position she had taught him, knowing that any sudden movement would cost him his life. And he felt close to his real father too, here in his house.

  The British – he was sure the soldiers now swinging in through the windows were British – were attacking the home of one of their own, a former Chief of MI6. However well trained they were, that would make them tread more carefully, pause a fraction of a second longer before squeezing the trigger. At least, that’s what Dhar told himself as the two men kneeling a few feet in front of him trained their weapons on him.

  ‘Hands above your head!’ one of them shouted. His voice was muted by the gasmask he was wearing, but Dhar could still hear the anger in his voice, fear mixed with aggression. He was wearing full body armour, his face blacked out, darting eyes unnaturally white.

  ‘Neptune located,’ the other one said into a radio mike. ‘Top floor, room two.’

  ‘Higher!’ the first one shouted, almost screaming now.

  Dhar raised his bare arms, wondering what weapon the kuffar thought he might be about to reach for. The vodka bottle? Moments later, the second soldier took a flash photo of Dhar with a small digital camera. Dhar could hear more soldiers running up the stairs. He began to choke on the fumes, and realised that it was a gas of some sort. The last words he heard were spoken by the second soldier: ‘ID confirmed. It’s Dhar.’

  38

  Marchant paused in the hedgerow, cursing his luck. There was a roadblock – two army vehicles, a police car and an Audi – thirty yards to his right. A group of soldiers standing in the middle of the road had a clear view of where he had hoped to cross the lane. He would have to keep going to the end of the paddock, parallel with the lane, and cut across the next field once he had passed the roadblock. There was less cover there, but he could pick up another footpath at the far end of the field that would eventually take him down to the Tetbury road. It was further, but he had no choice.

  Keeping his head low, he ran along the edge of the paddock, hidden from the lane by the hedgerow and trees. As he drew close to the roadblock, out of sight on the other side of the hedge, he slowed down, trying to minimise any noise. His breathing was heavy, more from fear than exercise. The flashing blue light of the police car was visible through the trees, but the foliage provided enough cover for him not to be seen. The soldiers were talking on a radio. Marchant stopped to listen.

  ‘Neptune’s located, sir.’

  ‘Any sign of Marchant?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Keep looking.’

  Marchant froze. It was Ian Denton’s voice. If the deputy Chief of MI6 was heading up the hunt for Dhar, it meant that Fielding was already finished. And so was he. There were already too many unanswered questions about what an MI6 officer was doing in a Russian plane that had shot down a US jet. He could see where it was all heading: Denton would take the credit
for Dhar’s capture; the Americans would anoint him as Fielding’s successor; and the world would never know that he was working for Moscow.

  No one could help him now. He crept past the roadblock and climbed over the paddock fence. Checking behind him, he set off across the field, accelerating into a sprint. There was only one thing he could do that might save him and Fielding: prove that Ian Denton was a Russian mole. For as long as Marchant had been with MI6, the Americans had suspected the Service of being penetrated at the highest level by Moscow. At one point they had thought it was his father. He had nailed that lie. Now Denton would make sure that the suspicion fell on Fielding, and by implication himself.

  By the time he reached the cover of the footpath, the helicopter had touched down in the field. Marchant turned to watch, hidden behind trees. A group of soldiers was escorting a bare-chested Dhar towards the helicopter. Dhar was stumbling, barely able to walk, and had a black hood over his head. Marchant wondered what the deal was. Would he be handed over secretly to the Americans, or would the British make some political capital out of his arrest? There would be a price to pay if they went public: ‘There are many brothers who wish to destroy this country. I can only do so much to stop them. They will be angry when I am taken – the talk is of a nuclear hellstorm – and only my freedom will bring you peace.’

  As Marchant watched the helicopter rise into the sky, drop its nose and head south, he considered his options. The search for him would already be widening. Airports, stations and ports would be on full alert. He was small fry compared to Dhar, but Denton – no doubt supported by Spiro – would be on a roll after Dhar’s capture, and wouldn’t stop until both of the men who had been in the cockpit of the Russian jet were captured.