Dead Spy Running

43

There was something about the network of cave-like huts on the hillside that reminded Marchant of Tora Bora. He’d never been to Afghanistan, but he had seen the satellite images, the route Osama Bin Laden had taken when he had given the Americans the slip. Each of the wooden shacks had been built deep into the red Konkan hillside. The one he was now sitting in went back twenty feet, although from the outside it looked like a small, single-room shack. There was no one else inside it apart from Salim Dhar, who had a restless energy about him as he brewed up a saucepan of milky cardamom chai on a small gas stove. Outside the door, a man sat on a plastic chair with an AK47 across his knees, smoking a cigarette.

‘We have so much in common, you and I,’ Dhar said in perfect English.

‘Except that I put the milk in afterwards, and you boil it all together, along with a couple of kg of sugar.’

‘And who has the better teeth?’ Dhar said, turning to hand Marchant a stainless steel beaker of tea, holding it by the rim. His smile was perfect white.

Marchant was struggling to understand the warmth of Dhar’s welcome. From his Africa days he was used to the hospitality of enemies, that polite respite from hostilities while warring factions broke bread together before the slaughter. But there was something different going on here, and he didn’t know what it was.

From the moment Dhar had greeted him at the bottom of the hill with a wide smile and a warm embrace, Marchant’s mind had raced with possibilities. The taller of his two escorts had been dispatched up the hill, where Marchant noticed a number of men dotted around the rocky ridge. The second fisherman had accompanied Marchant and Dhar down through a deep valley of coconut groves and dense jungle, at the other side of which was the collection of huts. At least ten men were sitting around, some smoking, all with guns.

Marchant clocked a mix of nationalities: North African Arabs, Middle Eastern. No one seemed too bothered by his arrival. He wondered whether Dhar had concocted a cover story to reassure them about his presence. But did Dhar really know who he was? Was he aware that, until a month ago, his visitor spent his days and much of his nights working for an organisation dedicated to eliminating people and places like this? But Dhar had appeared relaxed, asking about his journey, the Westerners on the beaches, how he found the climate — the small-talk of casual acquaintances.

Now, though, as Dhar sat down at the flimsy table opposite him, his head beading with sweat, Marchant sensed that the conversation was about to change. Possibly his life, too. He thought of his father visiting Dhar in jail, and felt the pit of his stomach tighten. Had he been welcomed equally warmly? Were the Americans right to question his father’s loyalty to the West? Marchant reminded himself that Dhar had attacked two US embassies in cold blood, killed many US Marines.

‘You look a bit like him, you know,’ Dhar said in English. ‘A family likeness is there — the good looks.’ Marchant sipped his tea, grateful for its spiced sweetness. Dhar was wearing a T-shirt cut off at the shoulders, revealing muscles that could only have been toned in a gym. He was tall, his face long and angular, with a skin colour much lighter than that of the local Karnatakans. The nose was prominent, the eye-sockets deep, but none of it seemed out of proportion or surprising. Perhaps it was habit, but Marchant kept glancing at Dhar’s low, distinctive earlobes. They were the hardest parts of a face to disguise.

‘It’s good of you to see me,’ Marchant said.

‘My fight is not so much with the British, although your government’s support for the infidel is craven.’ At a flick of a switch, Dhar’s voice had hardened into the familiar tones of the jihadi. ‘I received a message that you might be coming.’

‘Who from?’

‘An old family friend.’

Marchant assumed it must have been Uncle K. ‘I need to know why my father visited you in Kerala.’

Dhar smiled at Marchant again, in a way that disarmed him. He was holding all the cards.

‘He wanted a name. Someone in London.’

At last, Marchant thought. He had come a long way to hear this. ‘Why did he think you would tell him?’

Dhar paused, glancing out of the door at the guard. His voice became quieter.

‘Because I had once — foolishly — agreed to assist our family friend.’

‘And did you give my father a name?’

‘No. I couldn’t help him.’

‘Couldn’t?’

‘I didn’t know it. He said someone in London was destroying all that he had worked for. From the inside. I couldn’t help him.’

‘Do you know the name now?’

‘No. These things are kept separate.’

Marchant was suddenly very tired, even more tired than he had felt in the marathon. The hike had been bearable in the heat, knowing that ahead lay a chance, however slim, to restore his father’s reputation. But now he was finally here, sitting opposite Salim Dhar, one of the world’s most wanted, and it had all been a waste of time. Dhar didn’t know a damn thing.

‘My father lost his job shortly afterwards,’ Marchant said, angry now. ‘Then he died, of shame.’

‘Some say it was the infidel Americans. Doing our job for us. Someone in MI6, close to the Chief.’

Marchant looked up at him. ‘But you don’t have a name.’ He paused. ‘Why did you agree to see me?’

‘Why?’

‘You had no choice with my father. You were in prison when he visited. But with me, you could have had me killed.’

‘Because there’s something you need to know. Something Stephen told me.’ Marchant flinched at the use of his father’s first name, his mouth turning dry. Dhar’s liquorice eyes had begun to glisten. ‘He was my father too.’