Games Traitors Play

72

‘It’s a bloody mess,’ Fielding said, walking through the graveyard of the small Norman church at Coombe Manor. ‘Officially, we’re mourning the passing of one of the Service’s finest officers. Unofficially, we’re burying a traitor.’

Marchant looked out on the idyllic English setting, down the valley across fields dusted with poppies. It was the sort of pastoral scene his father had loved: rolling hills dotted with small pubs where eighteenth-century cartoons hung on deep red walls and cool slate floors offered respite from the somnolent heat of summer. At the far end of the valley the land rose steeply to Coombe Gibbet, where a group of cyclists was silhouetted against the blue skyline.

The secluded setting was on the borders of west Berkshire, in a green pocket of Albion that was thick with retired ambassadors and politicians. Many of them had turned out today, their dark suits jarring in the July sunshine as they gathered around the grave. Prentice’s younger brother, who worked in the City and lived in the hamlet, had helped to carry the coffin, which was now being lowered into the ground.

‘The Polish evidence is strong?’ Marchant asked as the two of them dropped back from the main group.

‘Incontrovertible. It’s just a pity she took matters into her own hands. A debrief would have been helpful.’

Fielding nodded at a small gathering of people under the trees, at the far end of the graveyard. Monika was flanked by two bulky men in suits, one of whom was handcuffed to her. Marchant hadn’t seen her inside the church, and assumed that she had just arrived. He would talk to her later, when his own feelings had settled. Prentice was dead, unable to justify himself, explain why he had crossed the divide. He couldn’t forgive Monika for that, for ending the treachery but not the confusion. She had denied them all an answer, a taste of the forbidden fruits of defection.

He caught up with Fielding, who was heading over towards Ian Denton, a lean presence in the shade. Marchant knew that the deputy’s attendance at the funeral was purely for appearances’ sake. Most people assumed he had only turned up to make sure Prentice was dead. Denton had been sympathetic to Marchant, though, acknowledging that he had lost a close friend.

It was more complicated for Fielding. The news of Prentice’s betrayal had aged him. Late nights at the Foreign Office defending his officers had left him gaunt and withdrawn. It wasn’t just the security implications, it was the personal humiliation. Everyone knew that in Prentice he had finally found someone he could trust. He had dropped his guard. The D-Notice committee had done what it could to limit the media fallout, while Fielding had called in personal favours with security correspondents, but there was little disguising that the Service was reeling. A High Court injunction was out of the question, as national security was not at risk. Just MI6’s reputation. I/OPS had set to work planting exaggerated press stories of Prentice’s gambling habits, but the damage had been done.

‘The one mercy is that Warsaw’s not going public,’ Fielding said. ‘They can’t afford to. Hiring gangland hitmen isn’t part of the AW’s charter. Hugo was in debt. He liked to gamble, owed bad people money. End of story.’

Marchant knew that Prentice had often rolled the dice. Even in death, his cover story was based on truth.

‘Were our own networks compromised?’

‘We’re still checking. Did you manage to tell Prentice that you were resigning?’

Marchant thought back again to the restaurant, a scene his mind was keen to erase. He had relived the details too many times already for the police and MI6’s own counter-intelligence officers: the unusual Benelli TNT motorbike, the silence before the screams, as if no one could quite believe what they had seen.

‘It was the last thing I said before he was shot.’

‘Then there’s hope that the Russians still believe in you.’

‘You’re sure they were listening?’

‘Moscow asked Argo to sound you out when you arrived back at the airport. And I bloody sent him.’ Fielding shook his head and walked on. ‘I’m sorry about Madurai and Spiro, but for a time they had their doubts.’

‘And now they don’t?’

‘Let’s hope not.’

‘Where is she now? The mother.’

Fielding paused before answering. ‘You tell me.’

Marchant stared at him and then turned away. He knew what he was meant to say. ‘Bagram.’

The very name made him flinch. The airbase’s notorious theatre internment facility was not for the faint-hearted. Up to five hundred enemy combatants could be housed there at any one time. Marchant was sure Shushma was safe, in a secure location somewhere in Britain, not at Bagram, but Fielding wasn’t prepared to break the spell, not yet. It was a reminder of what lay ahead, the mindset he needed to adopt if he was to convince Salim Dhar of his treachery.

‘And still with Spiro,’ Fielding added. ‘Don’t resign just yet. You’ll be of more use to them in the Service. Dissemble, rebel, fall apart. Remember how you felt in India, how you feel now. They’ll be watching.’

Marchant deeply resented the way he was being handled, but no doubt that was the point. It wasn’t the time to challenge the Vicar about tactics, his lack of faith in him.

‘They’ve asked me to do something,’ Marchant said. ‘A final test before they exfiltrate me.’

‘Then make sure you pass it. I can’t help any more. You’re on your own now.’

Fielding was about to move to join the main group in the churchyard, but he hesitated, knowing there was something else that Marchant wanted to ask. They both knew what it was. The wider implications of Prentice’s treachery stretched like poison ivy back into the Service’s past as well as out across Europe’s network of agents.

‘Hugo was like family,’ Marchant said, watching a red kite wheel in the sky above the church. He felt his eyes begin to moisten, and turned away from the bright sun. ‘My father trusted him.’ Trusted a traitor. If Prentice could betray his country, then so could my father, his oldest friend.

‘I know. Use it. Embrace your worst fears. They may be the only thing to keep you alive when you meet Dhar.’