Games Traitors Play

54

The lights were off in St George’s Chapel, but Marchant could make out the tall figure of Marcus Fielding sitting quietly at the back of the airless room, in front of the font. It was Heathrow’s only chapel, built into the basement like a vaulted crypt. Marchant had found it quickly. Its location between Terminals 1 and 3 was well signposted. He was sure he had been here before, a long time ago, coming from or going to India. His father had sat outside with him in the memorial garden, where he could picture a large wooden cross. It must have been not long after the death of his twin brother, Sebastian.

Fielding didn’t look up as he entered the room, and for a moment Marchant wondered if the Vicar was praying. His eyes were closed. Marchant hesitated by the door, looking at a plaque that commemorated the crew of Pan Am Flight 103, who had died 31,000 feet above Lockerbie. Then he walked over and sat down on the brown padded seat next to Fielding. Still the Vicar said nothing, his eyes closed behind his rimless glasses. Finally, he spoke.

‘Did he give you anything?’

‘Nothing. He told me he’d passed information to my father, low-grade product, but that it was the least he could do in return for the quality of RX my father was giving to the Russians.’

Fielding’s face creased into a smile as he opened his eyes.

‘And did you begin to doubt him?’

‘Who? My father?’

‘Yes.’

Marchant didn’t say anything. Instead, he tried to read the words on another plaque, by the font, which had been put up by Dr Jim Swire, whose daughter had died over Lockerbie, too.

‘Moscow was all ears,’ Fielding said. ‘I told you he’d give you nothing.’

‘Were you able to listen?’

‘I heard enough to be worried.’

‘About Primakov?’

‘About you. Perhaps it was asking too much. No one likes to hear his own father being branded a traitor.’

Marchant bridled at the implied criticism. Did Fielding think he wasn’t up to the job? ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Please.’

‘Did you ever doubt him?’

Fielding paused, long enough for Marchant to look up, for more thoughts to ferment.

‘Your father always talked about this country as an island, our sceptred isle. It wasn’t shared democratic values with America that made him go to work in the morning. It was the mist rising from fields at dawn in the Cotswolds.’

‘I take it that’s a “no”, then.’

Fielding didn’t answer, closing his eyes instead. For a moment, Marchant wondered if he hadn’t heard. He hated it when Fielding did this. The ensuing silence unnerved him enough to keep talking, just as Fielding intended. It was how he got people to reveal more than they wanted to.

‘I still thought Primakov might give me something — a look in his eye, a scribbled note on a napkin, the smallest hint that we both knew. But nothing. Just a letter.’

Fielding opened his eyes. ‘From whom?’

‘My father. It told me to trust Primakov as if he was family.’

‘Well, there’s your sign. If you trust your father, then you must trust Primakov, too.’

‘And if I don’t trust Primakov? If I don’t believe he’s one of ours?’

Then you must accept that your father was a traitor. It didn’t bear thinking about. Fielding clearly thought the same, as he chose to ignore Marchant’s question.

‘Did Primakov mention Dhar?’ Fielding asked.

‘He wants me to meet him.’

‘That’s good. But you mustn’t appear too keen. Not yet.’

‘Which is why you’re sending me to India with Lakshmi Meena, the delightful dental assistant.’ Fielding had met Meena in the chapel before Marchant. She was now waiting in departures.

‘Our new Leila. At least this time we know she’s working for the CIA.’

‘And for anyone else?’

‘She’s different, Daniel. You can trust her.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’ The Vicar as agony aunt, Marchant thought. God help us all.

‘I want Dhar’s mother brought back to the UK. It won’t be straightforward. The Russians have got wind of her too, and will try to bring her in.’

‘What about the Americans?’

‘I’ve spoken to the DCIA. Provided we pool everything, he’s happy for her to be brought here for questioning, given their recent track record with Dhar. But they want Meena to run the operation. That’s the deal.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘They won’t try anything with you on board. They need you.’

‘That didn’t stop them in the past.’

‘That was before they killed six of their own Marines in a drone strike. The truth is, it’s too dangerous for us. We can’t jeopardise London’s relationship with Delhi. An unauthorised flight into Indian airspace is a risk the Americans can afford to take. We can’t.’

Fielding stood up and walked towards the door, stopping to read the names of the Pan-Am crew. Marchant followed him.

‘Tell me, Daniel, do you think Salim Dhar still wants to make contact with you?’ Fielding asked.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Why?’

It was a question Marchant had been wrestling with ever since Dhar had failed to make contact in Morocco. In the early days, he had genuinely believed that Dhar might be turned, persuaded to work for Britain, the country his real father had served. But now he was less sure.

‘Why does Dhar want to see me? Because we’re lonely half-brothers? I doubt it. I think he wants to meet up because he believes I’m a traitor, just as he believes our father was.’

‘At the moment it’s more a case of hope than belief. Primakov will have told Dhar exactly what he told you about your father: that he was a Soviet mole at war with the West. And he will also have told Dhar about your treatment by the CIA, your growing disaffection with the West. Dhar sees you as a potential ally, which is a good start.’

‘Is it?’

‘Primakov can only do so much. He can bring two brothers together with tales of their father’s treachery, but it’s up to you to persuade Dhar that you’re a traitor too.’

And if you don’t, Fielding thought, Dhar will kill you. But he said nothing as he walked out of the chapel into the harsh neon lighting of the airport.