Games Traitors Play

39

‘You must forgive me if I seem a little underwhelmed by the prospect,’ Fielding said, walking between the flowerbeds. Lakshmi Meena was at his side, glancing at the plants, reading labels: Catharanthus roseus (Madagascar Periwinkle), Filipendula ulmaria (Meadowsweet). ‘This one here,’ Fielding said, stopping in front of a bed, ‘is Hordeum vulgare. Barley to you and me. It led to the synthesis of lignocaine.’

‘A local anaesthetic,’ Meena said.

‘Correct.’ Fielding walked on, leaving her to look at the plant. She drew level with him again, like a schoolchild catching up with her teacher.

Fielding stopped at the junction of two paths. He was tired after his journey back from Penzance the previous night, and had hoped the peaceful surroundings of the Chelsea Physic Garden would offer comfort and solace. He had become a member soon after joining the Service, but the garden had grown too popular in recent years to be of any use as a regular meeting place. In the past, he had used it when he met players from foreign intelligence agencies who wanted an encounter on neutral ground. Tonight, a warm July evening, the director had opened it especially for him. Half an hour on his own, the garden empty except for him and Meena, a chance to reacquaint himself with its pharmaceutical beds.

‘Listen, we’ve hardly endeared ourselves over the past year or so, I’m the first to admit that,’ Meena said. ‘All I can say is that I think Daniel Marchant is a guy I can work with. And right now he’s the only one who’s gotten close to Dhar.’

Fielding turned to face her. He was struck again by how similar to Leila she looked in the soft evening sun. Perhaps that was why he had been wary of inviting her to Legoland. She brought back too many bad memories. They had all been fooled by Leila. So had the CIA, which had been out of favour with the British ever since it had renditioned Daniel Marchant.

The Agency had done little to improve its reputation in the subsequent year, wielding too much power in Whitehall. Marchant’s treatment in Morocco at the hands of Aziz had tarnished its name even further. Now, following the very public death of six US Marines at the hands of a CIA Reaper, the Agency was a full-blown international pariah. Any trust that had started to come back between it and MI6 had turned to dust. But there had been something about Meena’s call to his office earlier in the day that had made him agree to see her. A candidness that he feared he wouldn’t be able to reciprocate.

‘Do you think that Daniel was right about Dhar and the High Atlas?’ Fielding asked.

‘More right than we were about Af-Pak.’

‘A shame that the Agency didn’t let him travel earlier. Did you believe he was right when Spiro sent you to Marrakech?’ Fielding knew it was an unfair question.

‘Spiro was my superior. I did as he told me.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

Fielding had done some research since her call, walked down to the North American Controllerate and asked around. Meena had an impressive reputation for standing up to Spiro, which took courage, particularly for a woman. She had graduated from the Farm with honours, impressing with her language skills but also her integrity, which must have been a novelty for the CIA examiners. In normal circumstances, her posting to Morocco would have been a sideways career move, but her brief was to keep an eye on Daniel Marchant, which reflected her importance.

Fielding had then spoken to his opposite number in Langley, the DCIA who had famously promised his President — and Britain — to end the bad old ways and then promptly promoted James Spiro to head of Clandestine, Europe. He had been phoning London repeatedly, presumably to try to patch things up, but Fielding had let him sweat. The last time he rang, Fielding had taken the call.

Spiro, the DCIA explained, had been suspended following the drone strike, and the Agency would be apologising formally for the treatment of Daniel Marchant in Morocco, even though it was at the hands of a foreign intelligence service over which the CIA had little control. ‘And the British know all about that,’ he had added caustically. (The British courts’ decision to make public the torture of a detainee in Morocco hadn’t played well in Langley.) As a gesture of goodwill, the Agency was transferring Lakshmi Meena to London and offering her services as a liaison officer.

‘She represents the Agency’s future, Marcus,’ the DCIA had added. ‘And this time she’s above board.’

‘Did you ever meet Leila?’ Fielding asked Meena, sitting down on a bench in front of a bed of Digitalis lanata, a plant that he knew better as Dead Man’s Bells.

‘No, sir.’ Meena glanced around briefly and then sat down beside him.

‘She was a liaison officer for the Agency, too, only nobody ever bothered to tell us. We thought she was working for Six. In the end, it turned out she wasn’t working for either of us.’

‘But she saved our President’s life.’

‘Did she?’ Fielding realised that Meena would not know about Leila’s ties with Iran. That information was too classified. But had national loyalties really meant anything to Leila? Fielding couldn’t deny that at the final reckoning in Delhi, she had stepped forward and taken a bullet meant for the US President.

‘I appreciate that Leila’s case was not straightforward,’ Meena said. ‘The Agency should have declared her to London as an asset. It was wrong, but those were different times. All I can say is that I’m not Leila.’

No, but you look like her, Fielding thought. Has anyone ever told you? That in a certain light, your hair falls over your eyes in a way that would have confused even your mothers.

‘How did you get on with Daniel Marchant in Morocco?’

‘Getting along might be stretching it. I don’t blame him. I should have done more to stop Abdul Aziz.’

‘Daniel’s coming back to London today. Quite a toothache, I gather. With respect, can you give me one good reason why he would want to work with you?’

‘Listen, we were wrong about Salim Dhar, and we’ve got six dead Marines to prove it. I don’t know what happened in the High Atlas, but I think the DCIA now accepts that the only person who might be capable of finding Dhar is Daniel Marchant. And to that end, I’m here to help him, to help you.’

‘I suppose we don’t really see your arrival in London in terms of international aid. From where we stand, all the help would seem to be coming from our side. I’m not quite clear what you can give us in return.’

‘I think our Delhi station has just found Dhar’s mother.’

‘Where?’ Fielding struggled not to let his interest show. Dhar had always been very close to his mother, who had been identified by MI6’s profilers as a possible weakness. Once it became clear that it was her son who had tried to assassinate the US President in Delhi, she had gone into hiding, unlike her husband, who had very publicly disowned his wife and son, and reiterated his love of all things American.

‘They’ve traced her to a temple in south India. Madurai. Given your progress with Dhar and our own catastrophic failure, Langley would like it to be a joint operation. They’re closing in on her now.’