Games Traitors Play

96

Fielding had agreed with Armstrong that it was too much of a security risk for both of them to travel to Fairford, so she had stayed behind in London to liaise with COBRA, which was now sitting around the clock. The air show remained the most likely target, and Fielding needed to be there, even though he knew it could be dangerous. He also wanted to get out of London, away from the endless meetings, and clear his head. Ian Denton had offered to mind the shop in his absence — a little too keenly, Fielding thought afterwards.

Just outside the airfield’s perimeter fence, he asked his Special Branch driver to pull into a lay-by, where several plane-spotters had parked up in camper vans, ready to watch the display without paying. Marchant had Fielding’s personal number, and he still hoped that he might call him, give him some warning, however late, of Dhar’s murderous intentions.

If the threat was airborne, it would involve a repeat of the earlier breach of British airspace. Had Marchant asked Myers to help him out a second time? So far, Fielding had resisted talking to him about Marchant’s earlier request. The risk of being monitored by the Russians was too high. He assumed Myers must have hacked into Britain’s early-warning radar network, allowing the MiG-35s to fly over Scotland unchallenged. Now he needed to know for sure if Myers was involved again. He dialled his mobile number.

Twenty miles away in Cheltenham, Myers watched his handset vibrate on the desk next to the keyboard. He looked at his Russian minders.

‘Answer it,’ Grushko said, waving his gun at him. ‘And let us listen.’

Myers picked up the handset and switched it to speaker phone. The number was unknown, and he assumed it was someone from GCHQ. Colleagues often called him at the weekend with technical queries. He would remind them about GCHQ’s internal IT support unit, and then do what he could to help.

‘Paul Myers,’ he said, as casually as possible.

Fielding detected the tension in his voice at once.

‘It’s Marcus Fielding. Is everything OK?’

‘Fine, all fine,’ Myers said, swapping the phone to his other hand and glancing at Grushko. Fielding always made his palms sweat. The added presence of the Russians was almost too much.

‘Is it convenient to talk?’ Fielding asked. Grushko nodded. ‘I wanted to ask you about — ’

‘Could you hold on a moment?’ Myers pressed the privacy button and turned to Grushko. ‘He’s going to suspect something. I’m sorry, I’m trying to act normally but this guy always makes me nervous. And he just knows when someone’s lying. It’s his job.’

‘Then keep it brief. Does the Chief of MI6 ring you often?’

‘Yes, no, I mean…I was seconded to Six for a few months, I worked directly for him.’

‘He is an important man,’ Grushko said, waving his gun at the handset. ‘Talk to him.’

‘Sorry,’ Myers said, speaking to Fielding again. ‘There was someone at the door.’

‘Are you at home?’ Fielding asked. He had expected him to be at work. If he was about to help the Russians again, he would be preparing to do it now. He sounded even more nervous than usual, under duress. Fielding couldn’t risk asking what Marchant had requested him to do, but he still needed to give his call some purpose, a reason for Myers to be rung by a security Chief, in case he was being monitored.

‘Yeah, got the weekend off.’

‘I wanted to ask you about Daniel Marchant.’

Myers glanced up at Grushko, who leaned in towards him, listening intently.

‘Dan? Is there any news? Was he definitely the one who was taken in London?’

‘Yes. I was wondering when you saw him last, if he’d discussed anything out of the ordinary with you.’

‘Is he OK?’

‘We don’t know. How did he seem when you last met him?’

Myers thought back to the pub, when Marchant had asked him about the MiGs. He glanced up at Grushko, who shook his head. Why did Fielding suddenly want to know? Last time they spoke he had hung up on him.

‘Fine. I don’t remember anything unusual. We drank too much beer and talked a lot about Leila.’

‘We’re working on the theory that he might have defected rather than been taken.’

‘Defected? Dan?’ Myers had never been good with people, but one thing in life he was certain of was Daniel Marchant’s loyalty. He was about to say as much to Fielding when he saw that Grushko had sat back and was more relaxed. Myers had no idea what game Fielding was playing, but he did know when to keep his mouth shut.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Fielding replied. ‘Listen, if you do remember anything, give me a call, will you?’

‘Sure.’

In the lay-by outside Fairford, Fielding put down his phone. His rash impulse to find out more had nearly jeopardised everything. Myers was evidently about to repeat whatever he had done before for the Russians, and it sounded as if he was being babysat. If they were listening, he hoped he had said enough to confirm Marchant’s defection story.

Myers placed the phone back on his desk. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘Daniel Marchant defecting?’

‘Is it really such a big leap for him to make?’ Grushko asked. ‘I am only surprised that he did not come across earlier, given the way he has been treated.’

Myers checked himself. He wanted to clear Marchant’s name, tell the Russians how much his friend loved his country, but he had to shut up. Whatever was going on, Fielding and Marchant were in it together, and he didn’t want to do or say anything that might compromise them. Marchant’s defection had to be a cover story, otherwise Myers might as well pack his bags and emigrate.

‘We have ten minutes before they reach the edge of the UK’s Air Defence Identification Zone,’ Grushko said, looking at his watch. ‘Are you ready?’