Dirty Little Secret

by Jon Stock

  ‘My spying days are over.’

  ‘But I thought it ran in the family. Your father was a famous spymaster, Chief of MI6.’

  Again, Marchant wondered how much Dhar had told him, where the conversation was going.

  ‘It served his purposes. The CIA accused him of being a traitor.’

  ‘And was he?’

  Marchant paused before answering. ‘He betrayed America, yes.’

  ‘While remaining loyal to Britain. At the end of the day, espionage has more to do with expediency than ideology, don’t you find? Please don’t rule out working for MI6 again.’

  Christ, Mousavi was sounding him out for recruitment, Marchant thought, just as he had once done with Leila. He could picture her stretching in the morning sunshine before the London Marathon, pushing her hair out of her eyes, one hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘It may serve our purposes, too.’

  108

  Adam Southover, navigation officer on the crowded bridge of the USS Winston S. Churchill, remained calm when he saw the Iranian speedboats in the distance on the port bow. He was British, and serving on the guided-missile destroyer as part of the US Navy’s personnel exchange programme. For the past two hours he had been officer of the deck, in charge of the ship’s navigational safety as it passed through the Strait of Hormuz.

  ‘This is a United States warship,’ the radio officer said. The Americans had been trying repeatedly to make radio contact on VHF Channel 16, but with no success. ‘I am engaged in transit passage in accordance with international law.’

  The ship’s siren emitted five short blasts. Southover checked their position again, and looked up at the speedboats. The destroyer’s radar plot had been tracking them for a while, picking up small contacts at five miles out, but they had stayed north of the inbound shipping lane. Now they had cut across it and turned to close, weaving in and out of each other’s wake as they approached the Churchill.

  ‘There are five of them, sir,’ the petty officer of the watch said, looking through binoculars. ‘Single outboard engines.’

  ‘Armed?’ Southover asked.

  ‘Unconfirmed, sir.’

  Southover thought through his options as he asked over the intercom for the captain to come to the bridge. The boats were still more than three miles away, but they were closing fast. Two years earlier, five Iranian patrol boats had buzzed three US Navy warships in the Strait, not far from where they were now. The Pentagon had released video footage suggesting that one of the warships, the USS Hopper, had been close to opening fire after a voice was heard on the radio saying: ‘I am coming at you. You will explode.’ But the reality was less dramatic. The threatening voice was probably the work of ‘Filipino Monkey’, one of many anonymous pranksters (bored fishermen) who liked to heckle shipping on Channel 16 in the Gulf.

  This time there was silence on the radio. Southover didn’t believe the Iranian boats were hostile, but he could take no chances. There was always the possibility that they might be the first wave of a swarm attack.

  ‘Continue bridge-to-bridge flashing lights,’ he ordered, taking a deep breath. ‘And sound GQ.’

  It was an order usually given by the commanding officer, but time was running out. A repeated klaxon alarm pierced the air as an announcement was made over the ship’s speakers. ‘General Quarters, General Quarters. Condition One throughout the ship. All hands, man your battle stations.’

  He watched as the Phalanx Gatling gun swivelled urgently on its mount, lowering its barrels towards the incoming boats. Other weapons were brought to battle-ready, too, including single and double .50-calibre machine guns and the 5-inch lightweight gun on the foredeck. Swarm attacks were notoriously difficult to defend against, not least because multiple targets consumed so much ammunition. If the Pentagon got its way, all US warships would soon be equipped with rapid-firing lasers designed to burn through a boat’s hull with 100-kilowatt rays. No ammunition required, just a power supply from the ship’s generator.

  A minute later, the Churchill’s commanding officer appeared on the bridge.

  ‘I have the con,’ he said.

  There was no time for the usual more formal handover – not that the captain was one to stand on ceremony. Southover liked him. He was a cultured man, twenty years out of Annapolis, and they got on well. When they weren’t discussing books, they would banter about the common language that divided their two countries: ‘lieutenant’ vs ‘leftenant’, ‘soccer’ vs ‘football’, ‘aluminum’ vs ‘aluminium’. Only once had their linguistic differences nearly threatened an incident, when Southover had said ‘making a sternboard’ instead of ‘coming astern’. This time, though, the captain’s manner was businesslike, his face taut as he listened to the radio officer repeat his warning.

  ‘Incoming small craft, you are approaching a United States warship operating in international waters. Your identity is not known, your intentions are unclear. You are sailing into danger and may be subject to defensive measures. Request you establish communications now or alter your course immediately to remain clear.’

  Silence. A burst of Filipino Monkey might have relieved the tension, Southover thought. Or a Horse’s Neck, with brandy, not bourbon. The one thing he missed on board the Churchill was alcohol. On a Royal Navy ship, an incident would be dissected over a drink or three in the wardroom next time they were alongside, and they would have risen the following day with splitting headaches and eyes like gundogs’ bollocks. US Navy ships were dry.

  He looked across at the speedboats again, dancing across the waves, seemingly without a care in the world. Each one must have cost $10,000 tops, versus $1.8 billion of US hardware. On paper there was no contest, but they were at sea, in one of the most volatile stretches of water in the world.

  ‘Incoming unidentified small craft, you are sailing into danger and may be subject to defensive measures,’ the radio officer repeated. ‘Request you establish communications now or alter your course immediately to remain clear.’

  The crew had rehearsed endlessly for such scenarios, most recently in a ‘swarmex’ exercise off Canada’s Pacific coast involving remote-controlled fast-attack craft, but a ball still tightened in Southover’s stomach. The Churchill was the lead ship in a convoy passing through the Strait. Behind her was the USS Normandy, another guided-missile cruiser, and behind her, the aircraft carrier USS Harry S. Truman, flagship of Carrier Strike Group 10.

  ‘Prepare to fire warning shots, 250 yards in front of target,’ the captain said. The information was relayed to the single .50-calibre machine gun on the port side. ‘Let’s give them one more roll of the dice.’

  Moments later, there was a buzz of interference on the ship radio, and then an Iranian voice spoke clearly.

  ‘American Warship 81, this is Iranian Navy patrol boat on Channel 16, come in, over.’

  The captain raised his eyebrows.

  ‘This is American Warship 81, over,’ the radio officer said.

  ‘American Warship 81, this is Iranian Navy patrol boat. Request shift to Channel 11, over.’

  ‘This is American Warship 81 shifting to Channel 11, out.’

  There was a pause before the Iranian spoke again. ‘Request present speed and course, over.’

  The captain shook his head. ‘Wrap it up.’

  ‘This is American Warship 81,’ the officer said. ‘I’m operating in international waters, out.’

  The whole bridge listened as the radio crackled, but there was no more contact.

  ‘They’ve turned around, sir, heading north,’ Southover said.

  ‘Question is,’ the captain said, ‘was that the main dish, or just an amuse bouche?’

  109

  ‘Thank you for my freedom,’ Dhar said, embracing Marchant. ‘We can talk freely here,’ he added, whispering in his ear.

  Dhar was pleased to see his half-brother. Although he was used to living in isolation, life on an oil platform in the Persian Gulf was not for him. It w
as not so much the swaying as the sense of being physically apart from the rest of the world, as if he was on his own small island. In his case, it was exaggerated by the need to keep him apart from the other workers on the rig. His only company had been Ali Mousavi, whose Americanisms were starting to grate. He was bored, too, with the windowless room, which was too closely associated in his mind with his recovery from anaphylaxis.

  ‘You asked me to help in your escape from Bagram,’ Marchant said, sitting down in the chair again. Dhar walked across the room and sat cross-legged on the end of his bed, resting his chin on his hands.

  ‘And in return I promised to do what I could to protect Britain’ – a glance at the closed door – ‘a family arrangement that there is no need to share with our hosts.’

  ‘The address in Greenwich was very helpful,’ Marchant said. ‘A cell was arrested, and the attacks have stopped – at least for now.’ Dhar sensed that his visitor’s gratitude was qualified.

  ‘But?’ he asked. Marchant looked up at him. ‘You don’t think I’ve kept to my side of the deal.’

  ‘The attacks were extensive, and you have a big following in Britain,’ Marchant replied. ‘I’d be surprised if there was only one cell. And I doubt that they know you’re no longer a prisoner in Bagram.’

  ‘I did not authorise these attacks. Britain is not a priority of mine, despite its many failings. But they were carried out in my name after I was arrested by the British. That’s why I gave you the address in Greenwich. I wished for the assault on my father’s country to stop.’

  ‘And will it?’

  ‘Inshallah. But you’re right, many brothers will still be angry at my capture. And there’s a second cell in London. Unlike me, it does not choose to discriminate between civilian and military targets. Nor does it see any difference between America’s foreign policy and Britain’s.’

  ‘I need the address, Salim.’

  ‘And you will have it. I presumed that’s why you came. But first I need your help with another operation against the infidel.’

  Dhar saw the faintest twitch under Marchant’s left eye. Would he object, protest that the terms of their agreement had been breached? America was already trying to arrest Marchant for his apparent role in the downing of the F-22. Participating in another strike against the US would make him almost as wanted as he was.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ Marchant asked, a smile beginning to form. ‘I enjoyed our last airborne outing.’

  Dhar remembered why he liked Marchant – his coolness under pressure, a trait they shared. It was no surprise, of course, that they had so much in common.

  For the next ten minutes he told Marchant about Mousavi’s need for high-speed boats, his belief in asymmetric swarm attacks when faced with a more powerful enemy. They talked, too, about his escape from Bagram, the giant hornet cocooned in a warm chapatti, his desire to work for the Iranians again. And they agreed that Russia would not be happy with either of them after the aborted attack on the Georgian generals at Fairford. Finally, they discussed the mocked-up Bladerunner in the oil platform’s boatyard, the real Bradstone Challenger in Karachi and how every fleet, even a swarm, needed a flagship, a queen bee.

  ‘If you can secure the boat’s release and bring her here, I will give you another address. But you don’t have long. The second cell will not have taken kindly to the arrest of their brothers in Greenwich. I do not trust these people. They have been talking for some time of attacks that will result in the death of hundreds, maybe thousands.’

  ‘A nuclear hellstorm.’

  He noted that Marchant had remembered his words. ‘I do not wish to blackmail you, but it is important you deliver the boat.’

  110

  At 5 a.m., Harriet Armstrong gave up trying to sleep. She had been driven back from her office at Thames House at midnight, and had hoped for a few hours’ rest before returning at 6 a.m., but it wasn’t to be. She had tried Shabad Kriya, a form of bedtime meditation she had learnt after her trip to India, two hot toddies and the latest le Carré, but none of them had helped. Her mind refused to slow down, too troubled by the prospect of a second wave of attacks.

  She had never shared the Prime Minister’s relief following the arrests in Greenwich. The bombings had stopped, but the prospect of other cells remained very real. The coalition, however, had an electorate to consider, and made as much political gain out of the arrests as it could. She couldn’t blame them. They hadn’t experienced the sickening feeling she had felt on 21 July 2005, when it had suddenly seemed that the 7 July bombings were part of a bigger pattern.

  It was against protocol, but after taking a shower she decided to walk into work rather than be driven. Her Special Branch protection officers would appreciate the break. They had been feeling the pressure in recent days, too. Her apartment was near Victoria Station, around the corner from where Daniel Marchant kept a ground-floor flat. Special Branch insisted that she take a different route home each day from Thames House, but she often seemed to drive down his street.

  She decided to go that way now, for no other reason than that Marchant was on her mind and had been all night. Wherever he was, he held the key to a peaceful Britain. Fielding was right. There was only so much pressure Marchant could put on Dhar to reveal more intel, but she hoped he appreciated the gravity of the situation.

  There was no sign of life in Marchant’s flat as she walked past in the grey dawn. Wooden-panelled shutters kept out the light, and the lavender in the windowbox was wilting. Checking the street in both directions, she rang the doorbell. If someone had asked her why, she wouldn’t have been able to give a rational answer. Perhaps he was hiding in London, under everyone’s noses, but she knew he wasn’t.

  Chiding herself, she walked on, wondering if she should drop in on medical services when she arrived at the office. Her brain felt slippery, ideas and images sliding in and out as if at will. Nothing stuck. Her body was out of kilter too, as if it was overflowing with adrenaline. At the slightest provocation, her scalp tingled: the slam of a door, a car backfiring. All night she had lain in bed, her muscles tensing. Whenever she did drift off, she would wake with a start after a few seconds, her heart racing, blood pounding in her ears.

  She tried to breathe deeply as she cut down onto the Embankment at Vauxhall Bridge Road. Across the water, a few lights were on in Legoland, but the Chief’s ramparted office was dark. She was grateful that Fielding had told her the truth about Marchant and Dhar. One day she would repay his loyalty.

  It was just as she passed the Morpeth Arms that she noticed a figure down by the river, on the north side in the shadow of the bridge. She had glanced back to see if anyone was behind her, and a sudden movement below had caught her eye. The tide was out, and it was still barely light, making it hard to see the figure against the mud, but she was certain that someone was there. She leant over the wall to get a better look, but the muddy foreshore was deserted.

  She walked on, admitting to herself for the first time that she was failing to deal with the crisis before her. It happened more often than people acknowledged in her line of work, where success was invisible and failure all too apparent. She tried to focus on patterns, in the hope of anticipating the terrorists’ next targets.

  The first wave of bombs had hit critical national infrastructure with American links. So far, civilian casualties had been mercifully few. The explosion at the Murco oil refinery had killed four workers, as well as the bombers, and there had been one death at the Skewjack cable terminal in Cornwall – an office receptionist who had re-entered the evacuated building. It was a miracle that no one else had been killed, but the extent of the bombings, the geographical spread, had created a heavy fear among the public. It would not easily lift if there were more bombs, particularly if they targeted people rather than infrastructure.

  Her phone began to ring. It was Fielding.

  ‘I didn’t know you walked to work.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said, glancing across the
river at Legoland. Being watched wasn’t a pleasant feeling. ‘Your lights were off, otherwise I would have waved.’

  ‘I think better in the dark. I was going to ring you at a more respectable hour.’

  ‘Have you heard from Marchant again?’

  She tried to conceal her desperation, but it was no good. She sounded pathetic.

  ‘No, but he’s on the move. I’ve just had word that he’s flying to Karachi. He’s got a minder with him, but if he reaches Pakistan, he may get a chance to make contact.’

  ‘Ring me if he calls in. Please.’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know. And Harriet?’ She didn’t say anything. ‘Don’t overdo things.’

  But she knew she already had. She was shot through to the core, seeing threats where none existed, missing others. She took a deep breath and walked on.

  111

  Marchant waited in the humid foyer of an office overlooking the port of Karachi, flicking through a copy of Containerisation International. Outside it was dark and overcast, another monsoon downpour imminent. His Iranian minder was still with him, and still not smiling. He had accompanied Marchant on the supply vessel from the oil platform back to Bandar-Abbas and on the flight to Karachi, via Dubai, sticking to him like gum on a shoe. Once again, there had been no opportunity to make a call to Fielding, but this time the frustration had been greater, given what he had to share with London.

  It had been a massive gamble to assist with Dhar’s escape from Bagram, but the stakes were far higher for Marchant now. He was helping the Revolutionary Guard to acquire a high-performance powerboat that could alter the balance of power in the Gulf. This went well beyond the terms of his original deal with Dhar, but he had no choice. If he didn’t deliver the boat, Dhar wouldn’t give him the address of a second cell that was planning to kill hundreds, possibly thousands, of innocent people. And protecting Britain from terrorist attacks was why he and Fielding had agreed to run Dhar in the first place.