Games Traitors Play

55

The Hotel Supreme was not Madurai’s finest, but their room did apparently have a view of the temples, which was what Marchant and Meena had asked for when they checked in unannounced at the wood-panelled reception desk. Too many staff were standing around, some in dark suits behind the desk, others in baggy brown bellboy uniforms waiting by the lift, hands behind their backs. Guests seemed to be a mixture of businessmen and Indian tourists. Meena had made an advance booking at another place across town, but switching hotels reduced the chance of their room being bugged.

‘The view is there, but it is only partial,’ the manager explained, at the same time indicating to two staff to carry their suitcases to the lift. He picked a brass key off a row of hooks behind him and handed it to Marchant.

‘Meaning?’ Meena asked, raising her eyebrows at Marchant.

‘They are painting the temples at this time. You will see.’ The manager wobbled his head from side to side, smiling like a child with a secret.

‘But we’ve come a long way to be here. A view of them at sunrise would be nice,’ Meena said, sticking to her legend. As she had explained to passport control at the airport, she and Marchant were a couple. They were visiting India for a traditional wedding in a village near Karaikudi, about eighty miles east of Madurai, where one of Meena’s distant cousins was marrying an accountant from Chennai. First, they were doing some sightseeing in Madurai, where the main tourist attraction was the Sri Meenakshi temple, with its brightly painted towers, or gopurams, and ornate carvings.

As soon as they looked out of the window of their top-floor room, the view of the temple became clear. At least, the manager’s explanation did. As he had promised, it was possible to see the tallest gopuram from the room’s balcony, if you leaned over the side of the crumbling wall. But every inch of it was covered with scaffolding and organic sheeting made out of matted palm fronds. From a distance, it looked like a giant papier-mâché structure.

‘I think that’s what he meant by partial,’ Marchant said. Meena was walking around the double bed, checking the light switches and wall hangings for audio devices.

‘I was hoping for twin beds,’ she said.

‘We’re married, remember?’

‘I know. I’ll sleep over there, on the sofa.’

‘It’s OK. I will.’

There was silence for a few seconds as Marchant watched her go through her suitcase. She was wearing white trousers and a cream-coloured shirt with long sleeves. On the plane, she had been in tight jeans, but she had changed in the lavatory, explaining about temple etiquette. Marchant had reminded her that he used to live in India, promising he wouldn’t wear shorts and a T-shirt, however hot it was.

‘Thanks for not making all this any harder than it is already,’ she said quietly, her back to him as they stood on either side of the bed. ‘Blame my strict upbringing.’

Ever since they had boarded their flight to Chennai in London, Marchant had done only the bare minimum that was required for them to appear as a couple. In his experience, intelligence officers the world over usually took husband-and-wife cover as an opportunity to flirt with colleagues, a brief and unconditional escape that often led to more, but he could see how much Meena struggled with it. She seemed troubled, not her usual sparring, confident self. Her sexual poise had disappeared. She hadn’t spent long with Fielding on her own, but whatever the Vicar said had left her even quieter. Marchant suspected he had laid down a few ground rules, reminded her about Leila.

‘Come on. Let’s go and be ignorant Western tourists together,’ Marchant offered, trying to lighten the mood.

Meena seemed to rally at the thought of the task that lay ahead of them. She found the map she had been looking for in her suitcase and spread it out on the glass coffee table in front of the windows.

‘We think Dhar’s mother is working in the centre of the temple complex, near the main shrine to Shiva,’ she said, pointing at the map. ‘We’ve got two of our people inside, posing as temple staff, and two more outside.’

‘Indian origin?’

Meena gave him a sarcastic smile. ‘Yeah. It kind of helps them to blend in.’

‘I didn’t know Langley was so enlightened.’

‘We’re getting there. And there’s someone from our Chennai sub-station — OK, white guy, redneck — who’s hanging around Madurai as a tourist. Have you been inside a temple like this before?’

‘Not since my gap year.’

‘Believe me, it’s one big crazy city in there. Shops, animals, ponds, people, food. Worship is just a part of it.’

‘Did you used to come here when you were younger?’

‘As a little girl, yes. We moved to the States when I was seven. I grew up near Karaikudai, where we’re meant to be going for my cousin’s wedding.’

‘So this was your local big temple.’

‘I guess so. I don’t remember a lot about it. Just that it was very full-on inside. Let’s go,’ she said, hooking her arm through Marchant’s and heading for the door.