Dead Spy Running

48

Marchant lifted his head towards the cell door and listened to the bolts being pulled back. Both of his eyes were heavily swollen, and he could hear better than he could see. As far as he could tell, he was in the basement of the American Embassy in Delhi. He had been hooded on the Seahawk flight, his wrists shackled, and then beaten by two men he took for Seals.

There was an avenging energy about their assault that made Marchant wonder if they were the same two who had waterboarded him in Poland. But they didn’t speak, either to him, or to each other, so it was hard to tell. Perhaps they were just venting their frustration that they hadn’t found Dhar, knowing that their own butts would be whipped for having returned empty-handed on the eve of a presidential visit.

Marchant went with the blows as much as he could, but it was a cowardly assault, and his anger stopped him from slipping into unconsciousness as quickly as he would have liked. Instead, he rolled around the cold floor of the helicopter, trying to protect himself by tucking up his knees, and spitting out as much blood as he could to stop it congealing later in his throat.

He was lying on the floor again now as the cell door swung open, letting in a cool draft from the air-conditioned corridor outside. He steeled himself for another beating, but the blows never came.

‘Daniel?’ It was the same voice he had heard on Dhar’s mobile: Harriet Armstrong’s.

He heard her walk towards him as the heavy cell door was closed and bolted behind her. She came over to where Marchant was lying.

‘I was going to ask if you’re OK. Can I get you some water?’

Marchant didn’t know what to say or think. This was the woman who had helped to drive his father from office, and had led the calls for his own suspension. What was she doing here? And why had she phoned him in the jungle?

‘I wasn’t expecting your call,’ he managed to say. Armstrong passed him a plastic bottle. He held it up to his lips with both hands. They were bound together in front of him now, rather than behind his back. He dropped the bottle after a few sips, and Armstrong picked it up, holding it to his lips again. Then she put it on the ground and helped him sit up against the back wall of the cell.

‘Thanks,’ he said. Armstrong said nothing. He heard her walk away from him and knock on the cell door. After a few moments the two bolts were pulled back. Another rush of cool air.

‘Get me some warm soapy water, a cloth and a doctor,’ her voice echoed down the corridor. ‘And if anyone questions you, tell them to call William Straker in Langley.’

‘Sir, I’ve got Carter on the line,’ the junior officer said, standing like a bellboy at the door of the Maurya Hotel’s Presidential Suite.

‘Carter?’ Spiro asked, walking across the main room, his mind on other things — Leila’s ass, when he could be with her again. ‘Is he back at Langley, or still showboating in London?’

He glanced around at the desk, the deep leather armchairs, the plasma screen on one wall and the large glass bowl on the low Rajasthani coffee table. A single lotus flower was floating on the water. Monk Johnson had asked him to take one final look at the suite. Everything seemed to be in order.

‘He’s here, sir, in Delhi.’

Spiro spun round to face the junior officer. ‘Here? What the hell’s he doing here?’

‘He’s at the airport, sir. Flew in on a Gulfstream this morning. The Indians are awaiting our authorisation before allowing him to disembark.’

The last thing Spiro needed was to have Alan Carter in Delhi. He would call Straker, find out what was going on. Carter had been pulled off the Marchant case when he went soft on the British renegade. This was Spiro’s shout now, an opportunity to rehabilitate himself after Poland. The DCIA had charged him with coordinating the Agency’s role in the presidential visit — his last chance, Straker had said. He wasn’t about to let Carter embarrass him again.

‘That’s the first sensible thing they’ve done in days. Let Carter fry. Tell the Indians there’s a problem with the paperwork. I’m sure they’ll understand.’

Salim Dhar pushed his way through the crowded alleyways of Old Delhi, thinking about his contact. Would he be a farangi, or dark-skinned, like his target? All Dhar knew was that he worked at the infidel’s embassy in Delhi. He turned into Kinari Bazaar, sidestepping a woman with a wicker basket of baby aubergines balanced on her head. On either side of him as the lane became narrower, sparkling wedding gear lit up the shop windows: grooms’ turbans, brides’ bangles, embroidered jackets glistening with thick silver thread, garlands made from rupee notes, lace tinsel, giant rosettes.

He felt at home here, reassured by the warren of lanes and Mughal doorways, the call of a nearby muezzin, the teeming company of Muslim brothers. He turned into Dariba Kalan, the street of pearls and precious stones in Shah Jahan’s day, now famous for its gold and silver jewellers. To his left a jalebi wallah scooped out bright orange strands of syrup-soaked batter from a pan of oil and shook sugar over them. On a normal day, Dhar would have stopped to buy some, but today wasn’t normal. He glanced at his watch and moved on towards the Jama Masjid, looking out for a cycle rickshaw.

The arrangement had been designed to mirror the chaos of Chandni Chowk. His contact would pass by the mosque’s main entrance at around midday. More important than the exact time was the person in the back seat of the rickshaw, who would be wearing a black baseball cap. The rickshaw would stop outside the mosque, where its passenger would step out and pay off the driver. Dhar would then climb in and ask to be taken to Gadodia Market, just off Khari Baoli. Before the rickshaw set off, however, his contact would approach and ask if he was going anywhere near the town hall. Dhar would confirm that he was, and they would set off together in the rickshaw through the back streets of Chandni Chowk while he was briefed on the evening’s itinerary.

Dhar liked the plan, because the noisy crowds offered good cover and the congestion would make it impossible for anyone to follow them without being noticed. But he was becoming anxious when, at 12.15 p.m., no cycle rickshaws had stopped outside the mosque. He looked at the people around him, one of whom must be his contact. To avoid attention he had agreed to have his shoes shined, the ‘semi-deluxe’ service.

Then he noticed a rickshaw appear in the distance, in the midst of a sea of people flowing up Dariba Kalan. The scene reminded him of the television images he had seen of the London Marathon, heads bobbing up and down, everyone focused on the road ahead. As the rickshaw drew near, zigzagging through the crowd, he could see someone wearing a baseball cap in the back. He paid off the shoe boy and glanced around. Still there was no one he could identify.

The rickshaw driver was now outside the mosque gates. Dhar stepped in closer, keeping an eye out for similar movement around him. The passenger climbed down from the rickshaw, not looking up. Dhar nodded at the driver, letting him know that he was his next fare, then asked for Gadodia Market. The driver gestured for him to get in. Not a flicker of recognition from anyone. Dhar settled back on the thin plastic cushion.

‘Chalo,’ he said to the driver, already admiring the coolness of his unseen contact. And then a figure appeared from nowhere at the side of the rickshaw.

‘Are you going near the town hall?’ The question was asked in perfect Urdu.

Dhar smiled. ‘Get in,’ he said, making room next to him. He hadn’t been expecting a woman.