Games Traitors Play

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 there 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.