Games Traitors Play

83

Marchant knew his defences would drop if he had any more alcohol. Meena was looking more beautiful than he could remember, wearing the same embroidered Indian salwar that she had worn in Madurai. Her body language then had been diffident, hard to read. Tonight she was radiant, the mirrorwork on her neckline reflecting the candlelight, lightening her whole demeanour. He just wished they were meeting in different circumstances, where they could be true to themselves rather than to their employers’ agendas. The last time he had felt like this was when he had said goodbye to Monika at the Frederick Chopin airport in Warsaw, hoping that she would step out of her cover and into his life.

‘My mother used to read me a new tale every night,’ Meena was saying as they sat at the small bar in Andrew Edmunds, a restaurant in Lexington Street. Her mask was slipping too. Marchant stuck to his script, trying to stay sober behind the miasma of Scotch. Soon they would be moving from the bar to the cramped dining area, where the lines of sight were less good. In his current position he had a clear view of the main entrance and the door to the kitchen. Tonight he needed to see everyone who came in or out.

‘After each story, I would ask if Scheherazade had done enough, if King Shahryar would spare her,’ Meena continued. ‘I was more worried about her dying than anything else. And each time, the King let her live for another night. I was so relieved.’

‘And this all took place in Reston? In between trips to the mall?’

Marchant had eaten a meal in Reston once, as part of a visit to the CIA’s headquarters down the road, in the days before the Agency had become too suspicious to allow him on campus. All he could remember was the piazza at the Reston Town Center, an open-air mall that had boasted Chipotle, Potbelly Sandwich Works and Clyde’s, where he had been taken for lunch by a gym-buffed field agent who swore by its steaks. It was strange to think of Meena living in such a sterile suburb in Virginia.

‘Our home was a little corner of India. At least, my bedroom was. Wall hangings, incense, my own pooja cupboard. Mom didn’t want me to forget.’

Marchant signalled to the barman for another drink.

‘I don’t want to sound like your mom, but haven’t you had enough?’

She was right. Marchant was at the very edge of what he could consume and still be able to react quickly when it happened. There were only a few more hours, maybe less, of playing the drunk. A coded text from Primakov had told him it would be sometime tonight. It wouldn’t be pretty. The American presence had made sure of that. He looked again around the small, candlelit room, scanning the punters. Someone had followed him to the restaurant, but he was confident that they were still outside.

‘I don’t blame you for Madurai,’ he said. ‘You had your orders.’

‘That didn’t make it any easier.’

He wanted to ask if Shushma was OK, but he knew he couldn’t. It was better that he could still entertain the possibility that she was with Spiro. The thought of her in CIA custody, the genuine anger the thought stirred, was central to his imminent defection. It might even save his life when he finally met Dhar.

‘I’m going away,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve had enough.’

‘Of me?’

Marchant managed a smirk. ‘Of the West.’

‘Was that why you helped to give the MiG breach so much publicity?’

He struggled to conceal his surprise.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Dan, we met here tonight because I’ve got orders to bring you in.’

‘Spiro’s?’

‘With the Vicar’s blessing.’

Marchant paused, weighing up the situation. He was pushing it to the limit, and hoped that Primakov would move soon. Meena knew how to look after herself, but he was still concerned for her. And for the first time he felt that she was being straight with him. He wished he could reciprocate, but he knew that he couldn’t, not yet.

‘Are you going to ask me to come quietly?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m not going to do anything.’

‘Nothing?’

‘I just want you to tell me what’s really going on.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘If you did, then maybe I’d know how best to help you.’

Marchant studied her eyes, calculating the implications. She was speaking too freely to be wired, which made him believe her. ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’

‘I want to do one worthwhile thing while I’m still with the Agency, and I’m not sure bringing in a drunken MI6 agent with a penchant for rare Russian seabirds is what I had in mind.’

‘The Steller’s eider breeds in Alaska, too, you know.’

‘Spiro’s fallen for it, hasn’t he?’ Meena said, turning the wine-glass in her hand. ‘He’s seen you go off the rails, but he’s forgotten to ask why. Well, I know what makes a British MI6 agent try to be recruited by the Russians. Because he knows they have someone he desperately wants to meet. Fielding knows it too, which is why he asked Spiro and me to take Dhar’s mother away. You hated the West for that, didn’t you? And it made the Russians love you even more. That helicopter in Morocco — I know now that it was Russian. You were right all along. Tell me what I need to do, Dan. You’re the only person who can stop Dhar.’

Marchant hesitated before speaking. ‘How many people have you got outside?’

‘Two vehicles, six people.’

‘Do you know any of them?’

‘Some, yes.’

‘Good friends of yours?’

‘Decent colleagues.’

‘Walk out into the street and tell them I’m leaving in five. Then go home. All of you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

But he already knew it was too late. He heard the car before he saw it, a black Audi pulling up outside. Two men wearing balaclavas got out from the back and ran into the restaurant while a third stood by the front passenger door, a handgun aimed into the dark street.

‘Don’t touch her!’ Marchant shouted, as several diners screamed. The men grabbed him by both arms and frogmarched him out of the restaurant, barking orders at each other and at the diners, and waving a gun at Meena. The men were Russian, and it wasn’t subtle, just as he had predicted. A moment later, the shooting started. The third man fired down Lexington Street towards Shaftesbury Avenue, where a black SUV had stopped at a diagonal, blocking the road. As Marchant was bundled into the back of the car, he looked back at the restaurant. The front window had been shot out, and the noise of the screaming diners was sickening. There was no sign of Meena.