Games Traitors Play

38

‘The beauty of their relationship was that it was seemingly out in the open, beyond reproach,’ Cordingley continued.

They were walking back to the farmhouse now, pursued by charcoal clouds tumbling in over Land’s End. Cordingley had become increasingly animated as he recalled the past, almost breathless, and Fielding was starting to worry about his health. ‘It was no secret that they were good friends. People expected to see them together at embassy parties, first nights at the theatre. Primakov reported back to Moscow Centre that Stephen had tried to recruit him and that he had refused. Stephen did exactly the same. At first, Moscow was suspicious of their closeness, even ordered him to stop seeing Stephen, but Primakov had always believed in friendship rather than blackmail as the best way to recruit someone, and for a while Moscow let him do things his way.’

‘Did you ever doubt Stephen? Personally?’

‘You knew him better than most. You were his protégé, his biggest fan.’

‘I was. I still am. I was wondering where you stood.’

Fielding remembered how Cordingley had been the only Chief not to turn up at Stephen Marchant’s funeral.

‘If you’re asking me whether Stephen sometimes passed on US intel to the Russians a little too enthusiastically, with too much relish, then the answer is yes.’

‘But that only made him more credible, reassured the Russians he was the genuine article.’

‘Of course. Everyone knew Stephen was more wary of Langley than the rest of us, so we built on that for his cover story, turned a healthy scepticism of America into deep-rooted loathing. There were times, it’s true, when I looked at the books and worried about the flow of information, the net balance of betrayal. We were getting the most extraordinary insight into KGB activities in the UK, but in return we were of course betraying our closest ally.’

‘Would you run Primakov again?’

‘Tomorrow. And if you’re right and he’s about to approach Stephen’s son, then maybe there’s a way. From what I’ve heard, Daniel shares many of his father’s traits, not least a troubled relationship with our cousins across the pond.’

‘I think it’s fair to say that Daniel Marchant more or less ended the special relationship single-handedly.’

‘The Russians will like what they see in him — a chip off the old Marchant block. But could you run the risk of giving them American intel again?’

Fielding paused. ‘I think they’re after something else this time.’ He didn’t want to mention Salim Dhar, the possibility that the Russians might have recruited him, too.

Cordingley was too seasoned to miss Fielding’s reticence, knew he was holding something back. In his younger days he would have protested, but he didn’t care any more. He was too old, too tired. Besides, they were at the house now, and he had done his duty.

‘Just remember one thing, Marcus: Primakov had a cause, a genuine reason to betray his country. When his only child fell ill in Delhi, he asked Moscow if he could fly her to London. They refused. What was wrong with Russia’s hospitals? She died on an overcrowded ward in Moscow. I don’t think we ever upset Stephen that much, do you?’

Marchant didn’t know how long he could keep running across the hot sand. The resort’s private beach had already come to an end, and he was now amongst hordes of ordinary Sardinians on holiday: extended families gathered under umbrellas, toddlers paddling in the surf, teenage girls flirting, boys in shades keeping footballs in the air. Women of all ages were in bikinis, as if one-piece costumes were banned.

He glanced behind him to see if he was still being followed, and saw one of the Moroccans gliding along the path through the pine trees, set thirty yards back from the beach. He was momentarily hidden behind the wooden shacks serving espressos and ice cream, then he appeared again, looking across at him. If the man was armed, Marchant thought, he wouldn’t attempt a shot while the beach was so crowded. And Aziz probably wanted to take him alive, book him in for a follow-up appointment.

He looked at the beach curving around the bay ahead of him. A fine spray hung above the surf in the late-afternoon sun. His body was no longer aching. The medication had cleared, and he felt the way he had on his morning runs through the souks of Marrakech, his body purged of alcohol, his mind disciplined by trips to the library. With each stride he felt stronger, dodging toddlers, jumping over towels. But he knew the real reason for the extra spring in his step, and it wasn’t the glances from Italian women in shades. The Segway’s electric battery was fading fast.