not there.’
‘He’s not,’ Denton said. ‘And even if he was, the Americans wouldn’t find him. Fielding’s locked down the building.’
‘That could be interpreted as the actions of a Chief with something to hide.’
‘Just pride.’ Denton paused, looking around the room at his pale, flabby colleagues. Most of them had been up for twenty-four hours. ‘Dhar’s not in London. He’s gone to his father’s house. Stephen Marchant had a big place in the country, in a hamlet called Tarlton, just outside Cirencester.’
A murmur swept around the room, followed by shuffled papers and disbelieving asides.
‘I know it’s been a long night, but are you seriously telling me that Salim Dhar is hiding in the Cotswolds?’ the PM asked. ‘Wouldn’t he want to be as far away from here as possible?’
‘It would explain the MI6 number. As Chief, Stephen Marchant’s home was installed with a secure landline. My guess is that it was never downgraded after he died.’ Denton turned to the Chief of Defence staff. ‘How long would it take for the Increment to reach Tarlton?’
24
Dhar stood by the grave in the half-light, reading the words that had been carved into the stone. ‘Stephen Marchant 1949–2009. Semper occultus.’ He didn’t know what the words meant. If Marchant showed up, he would ask him. Time, though, was running out – for both of them. He had left the pilot in the house, tied up and gagged. He still wasn’t sure why he had chosen to keep the man alive. Perhaps it was for his own self-preservation. One kidnapped kafir wouldn’t be enough to barter with when they came for him, as he knew they would, but it might stop him being killed.
He glanced around and knelt awkwardly, trying to ignore the pain in his leg. His father was buried at the back of a small and ancient church, separated from the main house by a gravel drive. It was the first time he had been to a Christian burial site, and he began to recite the last verses of the Surat al-Baqarah, the second chapter of the Holy Qur’an.
‘… Our Lord! Lay not on us what we have no strength to bear. Pardon us, forgive us and have mercy on us. You are our Protector; give us victory over the disbelievers …’
Tears pricked his eyes as he prayed in the early-morning stillness. A gossamer mist hung over the surrounding fields, and his knees were wet with dew. He was here to honour his real father, whom he had only met once, at a black site in South India, but images of another man kept rearing out of the shadows.
Life had been hard when he was growing up on the fringes of Chanakyapuri in New Delhi, where his parents had worked at various foreign embassies. The man who claimed to be his father used to beat him regularly with a wooden baseball bat: back of the legs, arms, soles of his feet when he slept late. His mother had suffered terribly too, hiding when her husband returned from yet another party at the American Embassy, drunk on bourbon and Coke. Dhar couldn’t blame her for turning to another man.
He leant forward and kissed the top of the gravestone, the sound as his lips touched it exaggerated in the quietness. Silence at dawn felt alien to him. Where was the muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer? Where were the mosques in this sterile land they called the Cotswolds? That was the hardest thing for Dhar to accept: that his father had been an unbeliever. It was painful enough that he had worked for an infidel intelligence agency, but he had come to terms with that. Now, though, he had to deal with the kuffar, whom he could feel closing in all around him.
25
Fielding walked briskly along the south side of Grosvenor Road. Oleg was at heel, surprised but happy to be on a night-time walk. They had slipped out of the Dolphin Square flat unnoticed by the Special Branch guard down on the street, which gave Fielding a kick. He might not be Chief for much longer, but he hadn’t lost any of his old field skills.
He wanted to see for himself if Spiro had really parked his tanks on MI6’s lawn. The threat, relayed by the PM, had sounded real enough, and as he turned south onto Vauxhall Bridge, dawn beginning to break over London, he knew his career with the Service would soon be over. They weren’t tanks, but two large US military lorries were positioned across the road, stopping what little traffic there was at that time of the morning. He could see more US military vehicles down by the bus station, closing off all approaches to the usually busy junction. It was a scene not unlike the ones that had recently caused Fielding to wake in the middle of the night, dripping in sweat: tangible proof of Britain’s submission to America.
Up in front of him a solitary car was turning around, followed by a motorbike, both being instructed by a helmeted US Marine waving a gun. A gust of wind blew up from the river. Fielding tugged at his coat collar and considered turning around too, but he wanted to see if Spiro was there, tell him to his face that he was making a fool of the United States, and not just MI6. He was certain now that Dhar had made his way to Tarlton, the Marchant family home, from where he had rung Daniel on an old secure line. It was a desperate decision for a man on the run, but perhaps he had nowhere else to go.
There was nothing Fielding could do about it. What power he still had was slipping through his fingers like desert sand. It was up to Marchant now. He would find a way out of the Fort, and make his way to Tarlton. That was what he was best at: kicking out against his own system. Like Fielding, Marchant would want to know what the hell Dhar was playing at. He just hoped that others wouldn’t get to Tarlton first.
He kept walking, tugging at Oleg, who seemed less eager to confront the scene up ahead.
‘No access, sir,’ the Marine said as Fielding approached the roadblock.
‘Is Jim Spiro around?’ Fielding asked. ‘Tell him it’s Marcus Fielding, Chief of MI6.’
The Marine looked him up and down, then got on his radio mike. Two minutes later, Spiro was sauntering over as if he had just conquered London. Fielding was surprised he wasn’t smoking a stogie.
‘Nobody seems to be at home,’ Spiro began, looking over his shoulder at Legoland. The lights were all out and the windows shuttered. ‘We knocked on the front door, like the polite people we are, but there was no answer. Don’t suppose you’ve got a key?’
‘If I had more time, I’d gladly show you around.’
‘Where is he, Marcus?’
‘He’s not in Legoland, for Christ’s sake.’
‘I kinda figured that. Not even the Brits would be that dumb.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Wanted a drive through London without the traffic. And our trucks are cheaper than those open-topped buses. Or them crazy Yellow Duck tours. We’re bringing Marchant in too, by the way. He took the call. He’ll know where Dhar is.’
‘And when you find him, what then? Will our problems be over?’
‘I reckon the world will be a safer place with a dead Salim Dhar, don’t you?’
Fielding didn’t answer. Without realising it, Spiro had gone to the core of what had been troubling him ever since he and Marchant had signed off on their deal. Would their plan lead to a safer world? It didn’t matter now. The operation was in pieces, shattered before it had begun.
