Dead Spy Running (26 page)

Marchant stood outside Legoland, on the Thames path, looking across the water to the Morpeth Arms. It was where he and Leila had sometimes gone after work in the early days, after they had graduated from the Fort. He had had time to think about her betrayal, about when the deception must have started, whether he had missed any obvious clues. It was easier to assume that her treachery had begun as something small, pieces of information here and there in return for her mother's safety in Tehran, but that slowly it had gained an unstoppable momentum of its own, ending with the Americans recruiting her too, providing perfect protection against the hunt for a mole in MI6.

Leila was certainly right to have feared VEVAK's threats to her mother. The day before the President's visit to the Lotus Temple, a mob in a poor suburb of Tehran had dragged an old Bahá'í woman outside and stoned her. She had died in the night. Had VEVAK begun to suspect that Leila was losing her nerve?

Marchant turned away from the river and looked behind him, distracted by a noise. A yellow London Duck was coming down the slipway. The amphibious vehicle rumbled to a stop beside Marchant, who spotted Fielding sitting in the bow.

‘Hop on,' he called down to Marchant.

Two minutes later, Marchant was sitting at the front of the Duck as it made its way towards Westminster, too low in the water for his liking. But he had his own particular reasons to fear water, and tried to take comfort from the other passengers, sitting towards the stern, who seemed untroubled.

‘I've always wanted to go on this bloody thing,' Fielding said. ‘Hear what they tell the punters about Legoland.'

‘And?'

‘The usual Bond nonsense, M's office. Although he did point up to the right windows. I must have a word afterwards. Are you all right? That was quite a meeting to fly into today.'

‘The Americans are sticking to their story, then?'

‘It's the most convenient lie for everyone. And it's bought us some leverage on the subject of your father.'

‘Sometimes I wonder if Dhar did know Leila was the mole.'

‘And that's why he shot her? I doubt it.'

‘There was a real bond between Dhar and my father. Dhar spoke very fondly of him, even though they only met the once. That attack on the US Embassy in Delhi – I checked the dates again. It was just after my father died. Dhar was an angry man that day.'

‘Shooting the President of the United States would have been a far greater act of revenge than killing Leila.'

Marchant wasn't so sure, but he knew that his own emotions were still too raw and confused for him to make a clear judgement of what had happened and why. Leila had betrayed a father; now she was dead, killed by a son. Greater forces seemed to have been at work.

‘I had a call this afternoon from Paul Myers, down at Cheltenham. He wanted to tell you himself, but he was wary of bypassing official channels.'

The Duck was passing the London Eye, sinking even lower into the water as it turned around and started to head upriver again.

‘How is he? He used to have quite a thing about Leila.'

‘Bruised. Armstrong's people were a little heavy-handed with him. He's come across an email account, thinks it's Leila's.'

‘Anything in it?' For a moment Marchant hoped she had written him a message explaining everything, but he knew there was no simple answer.

‘Empty inbox, nothing sent. But he found this in the drafts folder, attached to a blank email addressed to you.'

Fielding reached into his jacket breast pocket and handed Marchant a pixellated A4 printout of a photo. It was of a small Indian boy, staring at the camera, holding a woman's hand. Both figures were a little stiff, unsmiling.

‘The image is dated,' Fielding said. ‘In the bottom corner. The Jpeg was called “Pradeep's son, safe and well”.'

Marchant looked at it for a moment, grateful that the marathon bomber's son had survived. VEVAK had clearly decided that Pradeep had done enough, dying so publicly on Tower Bridge. He was grateful to Leila, too, for letting him know. She must have tracked the family down when she was in Delhi, using her VEVAK contacts.

‘There's something else you should know,' Fielding said. ‘Armstrong got quite a lot out of the Iranian we brought in. Personal stuff we didn't want to air in the meeting. We've all wondered why Leila didn't tell us, or the Americans, as soon as she was compromised. It would have saved a lot of trouble, but not, it seems, her mother. They had someone outside her house twenty-four hours a day, ready to kill her the moment Leila told anyone she was working for them.'

‘She had no choice, you mean.'

‘She was close to her mother, as you know.'

‘When did the Iranians first make contact?'

‘Even before she turned up at the Fort, I'm afraid. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Harriet asked the Iranian a lot of questions, for your sake. She must have warmed to you in Delhi.'

‘Like a mother.' Marchant managed a smile.

‘Initially, when she was working at the Gulf Controllerate in London, the Iranians just asked Leila for general information. It was only at the end that they asked her to target you personally, once they realised how close the two of you had become.'

‘Very comforting. Except that the “general information” she provided led to my father's departure. It's hard to forgive her for that.'

‘She couldn't go through with the marathon attack, you know that. It was her one weakness as a traitor, her strength in other ways. We think she was meant to kill you, frame you at the very least. It was when they increased their demands that she insisted they stopped all attacks against Bahá'ís, not just against her mother. A courageous call.'

‘And they agreed?'

‘Until they began to doubt her commitment in Delhi. The Americans found a Bahá'í declaration card in her room. She converted on the day she died. The Indian press have picked up on it. The plight of the Bahá'ís in Iran is getting a big play around the world: “Brave Bahá'í woman saves US President from an evil, Iranian-backed assassin.”'

But Marchant wasn't listening any more. His staff phone, a new TETRA unit, not his old one, had buzzed in his pocket. No one had his number yet. He assumed that it must be a routine test message from Legoland, but it wasn't.

‘Are you all right?' Fielding asked, as Marchant read a text.

‘Fine,' Marchant said. ‘It's good to be in London again.' They were near the Houses of Parliament, coming alongside the Embankment. ‘A chance to catch up with old friends.'

‘The captain's letting me off here,' Fielding said. ‘I have a meeting at the Travellers with the new head of Clandestine Europe.'

‘Who's that?'

‘James Spiro, God help us. Sadly, his predecessor, Carter, resigned. Took a job in the private sector. Look, why not stay on board, enjoy the trip. You're not expected back at your desk today.'

‘I will. Thanks.'

Fielding stood up, putting his hands to the small of his back, then steadied himself on the railing as the Duck bumped against the pontoon. ‘It's good to have you back, Daniel. You should never have been suspended.'

‘And Armstrong's pleased, too?'

‘Harriet? She's a pussycat these days, ever since she realised we were right about Leila. Five and Six have become allies. Almost.' He paused. ‘When do you think Dhar will try to make contact? Six months? A year? You know there's no hurry.'

Marchant glanced again at his mobile and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. The two men looked at each other for a moment, an unspoken knowledge passing between them. Then Fielding was gone, lost in the crowds of tourists, as Marchant headed out to the middle of the river, the low yellow bow pushing against a racing tide.

There are some people I can't openly thank, but MF, DM and HA know who they are. Ditto DB in America and AM in Iran. In India, C. Sujit Chandrakumar offered his usual wise counsel and, along with Kinjal Dagli, oiled my rusty Hindi. Mammen and Philip Matthew welcomed me to Kerala almost fifteen years ago and have been incredibly supportive ever since. The Dominic family, too, have been generous hosts over the years. Thanks also to Ramachandran Nair and Chandar Bahadur, wherever they are now, and to Vivek Kumar, who emerged out of the blogosphere to help with Stephen Marchant's detention.

In Britain, Nick Wilkinson, a fellow Wiltshire man, took time off from writing his history of the D Notice Committee to shed warm light on the darker recesses of Whitehall. Mark Mangham, David Robson, Justin Morshead and Judith Stephenson all read early drafts, offering invaluable advice and suggestions. Thanks too to Doug and Jane, Neil Taylor, Peter Foster, Chris Yates, Tor and Ed, and to Giles Whittell for the bet – won by him but on me.
The Big Breach
, Richard Tomlinson's classic account of life as an MI6 officer, remains a unique and recommended read. And David Cornwell reassured me on a Cornish clifftop that times might change, but spying will always remain the same.

The
Daily Telegraph
kindly sent me to India a few years ago and subsequently gave me the security of a great day job in London, allowing me to pursue the far riskier business of writing fiction. The Weekend team (Casilda Grigg, Stuart Penney, Jenny Martinez and Jodie Jones) have been particularly supportive.

At HarperCollins, my editor, Robert Lacey, spared many blushes with his razor-sharp eye, priceless notes and high intelligence standards. Any mistakes that remain are mine. Thanks, too, to Ilsa Yardley. I have been lucky enough to know Patrick Janson-Smith since long before he agreed to publish me. His early interest in
Dead Spy Running
, first as an agent and then as a publisher, kept me going on the FGW train to London, where most of this book was written. Six years earlier I had signed a copy of my second novel: ‘For Patrick, one of these days…' and now it has happened. I couldn't think of a better home than one with a Blue Door.

Janklow & Nesbit, my agents, have been the epitome of friendly professionalism. Thanks to Kate Weinberg for the introduction and to Rebecca Folland, Kirsty Gordon, Tim Glister, Lucie Whitehouse and particularly to Claire Paterson, unquestionably the best agent in town (and, sadly, a quicker marathon runner than me). I'm grateful for her editorial insights, cool head and chutzpah. I'd also like to thank Sylvie Rabineau in Los Angeles, Jeanne Allgood and McG at Wonderland Sound and Vision, and Ollie Madden at Warner Brothers in London.

It's my family, though, who deserve the biggest thanks of all: my late, loyal father, Peter Stock, for showing the way; Andrea Stock for her encouragement; Stewart and Dinah McLennan for the London eyrie; Andrew Stock for marathon tips (he's quicker, too); Felix, for his unbridled enthusiasm for this story in its early days; Maya for watching the sun rise with me; Jago for his sheer joyfulness; and most of all, my wife, Hilary, who has made it all possible with her patience, understanding, humour and love. This book is dedicated to Hilary because without her, it simply wouldn't have happened. Thank you.