Games Traitors Play

by Jon Stock

  ‘The gallery will be crawling with SVR,’ Prentice said. ‘Armstrong’s fixers tried to get a wire in there last night, but security’s been like a convent’s dormitory for the past three days.’

  ‘So I’ll be on my own,’ Marchant said.

  ‘I’ll be wired, but it’s too risky for you,’ Prentice replied, glancing behind him. Two technicians with headphones were sitting at a table, fine-tuning a bank of audio units. ‘The whole area will be flooded with jammers, but we must expect them to be able to communicate with each other. And to hear us, despite the best efforts of Five,’ Prentice added, glancing again at the technicians. ‘Primakov has been given the codename “Bacchus”.’

  Two minutes later, Marchant was turning into Cork Street. It was easy to see which gallery was hosting the opening. People were spilling onto the pavement outside the Redfern, glasses of wine in one hand, catalogues in the other. He checked the street – Harriet Armstrong had provided a team of watchers at Fielding’s request – and recognised an agent sitting at the wheel of a black cab with its light off, thirty yards down the road. He wasn’t reassured. The Russians would not make contact if they saw he had company.

  Inside the gallery, Marchant nudged through the crowds, declining a glass of wine. A tray of sushi canapés looked more tempting, but there was always a risk with the Russians that it might come with a side order of polonium-210. He headed downstairs, where there were fewer people. He was familiar with the gallery’s layout, having studied the floor plans, but something told him that the artist would be lurking in the basement, and he wanted to see him. Sure enough, he was holding court with a couple of younger men, both of whom had notepads. Marchant assumed they were journalists, and tucked in behind them to hear what was being said.

  The artist must have been in his seventies, short with a full but close-cropped head of dyed-black hair that had been wetted down in jagged edges. He was wearing a bright pink open-necked shirt and socks with sandals. His face was angular, chiselled like a rough-hewn bust, and he had a fidgety, eccentric manner, massaging the top of his head with both hands as he explained his art.

  ‘This is one of my favourites,’ he said in a thick Russian accent, gesturing towards an abstract nude, all spatchcocked limbs and vibrant colours. His hands moved back up to his head. ‘Lots of cunt.’

  Both journalists visibly flinched. Marchant glanced at the painting, the patch of cross-scratched charcoal. Even he was startled by the word, still hanging awkwardly in the air. Then everyone remembered that artists were meant to shock and the mood settled, more questions were asked. Besides, he was from South Ossetia, and might not even know what he had just said. Marchant doubted it. The old man’s moist eyes were dancing.

  Upstairs, Marchant looked at some paintings (more nudes, more scratching), making his way around in reverse order towards number 14. He recognised the nude model as Nadia and felt a flicker of unease, particularly as the naked figure next to her bore a striking resemblance to himself. He glanced around instinctively, wondering for a moment if someone might recognise him. The Russians sometimes had a warped sense of humour.

  A half-sticker had been stuck next to the price, indicating that the picture had been reserved – and that his meeting with Primakov was still on. But he hadn’t spotted anyone at the opening who matched the latest photos Fielding had shown him of the Russian. He looked around the crowded room again, and then he saw Valentin through the main window, smoking on the pavement outside.

  Hidden by the surging crowds on the tube platform, Marchant had pulled Valentin back a moment after pushing him towards the oncoming train. He hadn’t caught the Russian’s curse, but he saw his blood-drained face as he turned around.

  ‘So sorry,’ Marchant had said. ‘Everyone was pushing from behind.’

  To his credit, Valentin had maintained his composure. ‘In that case, I must thank you for saving my life.’ There was no acknowledgement that they had met before, just the same shiftiness in the Russian’s small blue eyes.

  ‘London’s a dangerous city,’ Marchant had said as the train doors opened. ‘I’ll catch the next one. Less crowded.’

  Valentin squeezed into the crowded carriage, and Marchant waved to him as the train pulled out, the Russian’s pale face pressed close to the glass. A warning had been served. Next time, Marchant would push him under.

  Valentin still seemed anxious now, glancing up and down Cork Street in expectation. Marchant wondered where Prentice was. He had points to prove, and he wished he was operating on his own. Besides, Prentice had not been given the full picture about Primakov. According to Fielding, all he had been told was that the Russian had expressed an interest in making contact with Marchant. Primakov had known his father, and Marchant would use the meeting to sound him out for possible recruitment. Prentice knew nothing about Primakov’s past role as a British asset.

  Marchant looked across at the picture again, and was about to walk over and stand in front of it when he heard a commotion at the entrance. A loud group of Russians strode in: dyed-blonde women weighed down with make-up and designer labels, middle-aged businessmen in blue jeans and chalk-striped jackets. A few steps behind them was a short, overweight man in his late fifties whose gnomic smile and wine-flushed cheeks exuded bonhomie. He was dressed differently from the others. The cord jacket, open shirt and silk scarf suggested a man of culture rather than commerce. Primakov, no question.

  Hugo Prentice slipped into the gallery a few moments after Primakov. A Russian waitress greeted him with an offer of wine. Instinctively, Prentice checked himself. He didn’t drink on duty, but he needed to blend in, and there was only one glass of orange juice on offer. He took a red wine from the middle of the tray and smiled at the waitress.

  ‘Za vashe zdorov’e,’ he said, raising his glass and moving into the crowded room.

  He recognised a couple of Primakov’s babysitters, but the sight of Primakov in the flesh caught him off guard. Despite his experience, he struggled not to look at him twice. It was like seeing a reclusive celebrity come out of hiding for the first time in years. Prentice had read the files, watched film footage of him and studied various photos, but for some reason their paths had never crossed, which was unusual, given their respective Cold War careers.

  He knew all about him, of course. Stephen Marchant used to talk to him of their public sparring, how he had tried in vain for many years to recruit the Russian. Everyone in Legoland had heard about his spats with Britain and America in the 1980s. Primakov seemed to love and despise the West in equal measure, teasing with his friendships, annoying his own superiors. And now he wanted to meet Daniel Marchant, the son of his oldest adversary, who was going to try where his father had failed.

  ‘Bacchus has arrived,’ Prentice said into his concealed lapel wire, moving towards the bar at the back of the gallery, where the crowds offered more cover.

  Before Marchant could do anything, Primakov had placed both hands on his shoulders and was admiring him as if he was one of the canvases on the walls.

  ‘It’s so true, you look just like your father,’ he beamed, standing in the middle of the gallery and making no effort at discretion. His accent was almost completely Westernised, more American than English, with only a hint of Russian. ‘I can’t believe it. Can you believe it?’ He turned towards one of his babysitters, who shuffled awkwardly. ‘This boy’s father was my very dear friend,’ Primakov said, ‘and a lifelong enemy.’

  The group’s entrance had silenced the gallery. Still smiling, Primakov leaned in towards Marchant and kissed him on both cheeks before hugging him. Marchant caught the strong smell of garlic, and for a moment he was back in Delhi. Just before Primakov pulled back, he whispered into Marchant’s ear. ‘Goodman’s, Maddox Street, ten minutes. I’ve a letter from your father. We’ll take care of the Graham Greene joker.’

  Marchant glanced across at Prentice standing by the bar, chatting up one of the waitresses, who topped up his glass as they flirted. He then turned to the gr
oup of Russians, who were now being introduced to the artist. A letter from his father? The room suddenly felt very hot as Marchant headed for the door. He had no time to warn Prentice. Not much inclination either.

  Outside in the street, he hailed the parked taxi he had seen earlier. Its light came on as it drove towards him. Marchant met it halfway and climbed in.

  ‘A friend of mine in there needs a cab, too,’ he said, nodding at the gallery window. ‘Now.’

  ‘He’s left the gallery,’ Prentice said, walking down a side corridor and back into the main gallery.

  ‘Get yourself out of there,’ Fielding ordered, glancing at Armstrong. They were in his fourth-floor office in Legoland, watching a bank of CCTV screens relaying images from the West End. In one of them, a black taxi was making its way down Conduit Street.

  ‘Repeat please,’ Prentice said. His voice was being broadcast in the office, but it was barely audible, breaking up.

  ‘Marchant’s flagged a code red alert,’ Armstrong said. She had never liked Prentice, but the message had been given to one of her officers, so she felt obliged to pass it on. ‘You need to move now.’

  Prentice hadn’t heard Armstrong’s words, but he caught her tone of anxiety just before his comms dropped. He had also noticed Valentin, the tall Russian from Sardinia, who had peeled away from the group around Primakov and was coming towards him, blocking his exit from the gallery.

  ‘You caused me a lot of embarrassment with your little home movie,’ Valentin said, his body language at odds with his thin smile. ‘It was a fake, of course.’

  ‘Of course. But a good one, no? An Oscar, surely, for best foreign film.’

  ‘Our politicians don’t like to be ridiculed.’

  ‘And Her Majesty’s agents don’t like to be compromised.’

  ‘The boy seemed to be enjoying himself. At least, that’s what Nadia said. Where is he now? I thought I saw him earlier.’

  ‘No idea. I must go, though. It’s been a pleasure.’

  But Prentice knew already that he was going nowhere. With a taut smile, Valentin took the glass of wine from him and handed it back to the waitress, just as the gallery began to spin and blur.

  45

  Marchant was shown by the female maître d’ to a back room of Goodman’s, separated from the main restaurant by a screen.

  ‘A drink while you’re waiting?’ the woman asked, ushering him to a table that had been made up for two. She let her hand linger on his shoulder a moment longer than was appropriate. There were four other tables in the room, but they were empty. ‘Nikolai will be here in a few minutes.’

  ‘A whisky, thanks,’ Marchant said. ‘Malt.’ He had drunk a glass of wine at the gallery once he had seen others being served from the same tray, but he had declined a top-up, despite the persuasive charms of the waitresses. He wouldn’t drink his malt until he had heard what Primakov had to say.

  The taxi from MI5 had dropped him off in Maddox Street, outside the restaurant, where the parked cars were a wealthy mix of Porsches and Bentleys. He needed to talk to Primakov on his own, but it was no bad thing if Armstrong’s people knew where he was. He thought for a moment about Prentice. He had looked tired tonight, too old for street work.

  Goodman’s served American steaks, but it was owned by a Russian who ran a chain of similar restaurants in Moscow. To judge from the main room, at least half the clientèle was Russian too. Marchant had seen few female diners when he was shown through to the back room.

  He glanced at the starters on the menu – sweet herring with hot mustard – and listened to the subdued hubbub of conversation on the other side of the panel, which must have been more solid than it appeared.

  Then suddenly Primakov was in the room, quieter now, taking a seat opposite him, leaning back to whisper something to the maître d’, who had reappeared with two crystal glasses of whisky. Marchant thought how at home he looked in a restaurant, his natural habitat. The waitress put the glasses down on the table then left the room, closing the sliding door firmly. They were alone.

  ‘I presume you’ve had the “big talk” with the Vicar,’ Primakov began, burying the corner of a linen napkin under his chins and spreading the rest out across his chest as if he was hanging out the washing. His breathing was thickened by a slight wheeze. ‘Let MI6 believe what they want. Your father and I were very close, it is true – unnaturally so, I suppose. But I never once considered working for him. Please remember that.’

  Marchant tried not to blink at the Russian’s bold opening gambit. If Primakov was lying for the sake of Moscow Centre’s ears, he was making a good job of it. For a split second, Marchant doubted everything – his father’s judgement, his own, Fielding’s. Maybe the Americans had been right to suspect the house of Marchant. Then he recalled the Vicar’s words. Betrayal requires faith. Don’t expect the smallest sign that Primakov is one of ours. He’ll give you nothing. Marchant’s immediate task, he told himself, was to be recruited by Primakov.

  ‘So why do you want to see me?’ Marchant asked. ‘I don’t really have the time or the desire to sit around discussing old times.’

  ‘You share a family look, and the same taste in whisky.’ Primakov took a sip from his glass, ignoring Marchant’s insolence. ‘Your father liked Bruichladdich, too. I ordered it in specially. It takes me back, just sitting here across the table from you. We shared many happinesses together, your father and me. They were good times.’

  ‘Different times. The world’s moved on.’

  ‘Has it?’ Primakov paused, raising a silver lighter to his cigarette.

  Marchant wondered if his father might have been friends with the cultured Russian even if there hadn’t been an ulterior motive. In Delhi, they had both enjoyed going to the theatre, visiting galleries, attending concerts, which had made meetings easier. And Primakov had an undoubted warmth about him: a camaraderie that drew people in with the promise of stories and wine, the stamina to see in the dawn.

  ‘When we were both first posted to Delhi, we used to argue late into the night over local whisky – Bagpiper in those days – about the Great Game, what our countries were doing there. Your father was an admirer of William Moorcroft, an early-nineteenth-century East India Company official who was convinced Russia had designs on British India.’

  Marchant knew the name well. ‘He wanted to publish a book about Moorcroft,’ he said. ‘It was going to be his retirement project. Unfortunately, he found himself retired earlier than expected, and wasn’t ready to write it.’

  ‘No.’ Primakov paused, lost in thought. ‘Moorcroft was also dismissed earlier than he intended. He took it badly, felt betrayed by his own country, just like your father, but he continued on his great quest to buy horses in Bokhara. Turkomans. He was a vet by training. He tried to reach Bokhara through Chinese Turkestan, but was held up in Ladakh, where he discovered he had a rival.’

  ‘A Russian?’

  ‘Persian-Jewish, a trader called Aga Mehdi. But he impressed our Tsar so much with his shawls that he was given an honorary Russian name, Mehkti Rafailov, and was sent to talk with Ranjit Singh, ruler of the Punjab kingdom, on behalf of Russia.’

  ‘So Moorcroft was right.’

  ‘Rafailov’s orders were to open up trade routes, nothing more.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What intrigued your father was the relationship between Moorcroft and Rafailov, who was due to arrive in Ladakh while Moorcroft was there. The British spy was keen to meet his Russian enemy, but Rafailov died in the Karakoram pass before he reached Ladakh.’

  ‘So they never met.’

  ‘No, but Moorcroft made sure that Rafailov’s orphaned son was provided for and educated. He was an honourable man, respected his adversaries.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why my father wanted to write about him. He respected you.’

  ‘And he had a son whom I promised to look after.’ Primakov hesitated, but not long enough for Marchant to decide if he meant him or Salim Dhar. ‘I’m sure th
ere would have been a market for the book,’ he continued. ‘Maybe you should write it?’

  ‘I don’t think you came here tonight to offer me a publishing deal.’

  Primakov sat back, looked around and finished his whisky. ‘We are free to talk in here. The room was swept before we arrived. So tell me. How much did the Vicar explain to you? About your father?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Fielding said, removing his headphones. The live feed had deteriorated until he could hear little more than white noise. He had heard enough, though. Marchant was being swept out of his depth.

  ‘The entire area’s been jammed,’ Armstrong said, putting one hand over her mobile. ‘Our best people are on it.’

  That was what worried Fielding, but he didn’t say anything. He wished MI6 was running the show, but London was Armstrong’s patch and he needed her support, particularly as his own man, Prentice, had uncharacteristically messed up.

  ‘What about your officer in the restaurant?’ he asked.

  ‘Shown the door after his starter.’

  Fielding turned away and looked out onto the river, glowing in the evening sun. The encrypted feed from the restaurant was being relayed to his office and to no one else, given the extreme sensitivity of Primakov’s case. Armstrong was one of the few who knew that Primakov had once been a British asset, and Fielding trusted her. It was Marchant who was starting to worry him.

  46

  Marchant glanced at Primakov, trying to read his face for more. His nose was big, slightly hooked. It was a strange question to ask. How much did the Vicar explain to you? What did the Russian want him to say? He told me everything, that you betrayed Mother Russia and worked for my father? The room might have been purged of British bugs, but Moscow would be listening in on their conversation.