have tracked your call, you know that.’
‘And you will protect me.’
‘That wasn’t the deal.’
Christ, Marchant thought. He really does expect the UK to offer him sanctuary.
Dhar smirked. ‘The Russians weren’t so pleased to see me.’
‘I can’t do anything, Salim. It’s too late.’
‘It’s OK, I know. I don’t expect you to. Not now. Maybe later. Share a drink with me.’
Dhar passed the unusually shaped bottle to Marchant, who glanced at the label, trying to get his head around the situation. Binekhi was a brand of Georgian chacha, or grape vodka, that Nikolai Primakov used to give his father. Dhar must have found it in the drinks cupboard downstairs. For the past year, Marchant had stayed off the booze, except on his final night in Marrakech. It had been easy to stay sober in Morocco, a Muslim country. Now he was being offered a drink by Salim Dhar, of all people. To refuse would cause tension. He closed his eyes and let the vodka slip down smoothly.
‘There was nowhere else for me to go,’ Dhar said, taking the bottle back. ‘Besides, I have always wanted to see this place for myself.’
Marchant watched Dhar take in the bedroom as if it was his own, a rare smile on his drawn face. He had missed the drink, despite the trouble that inevitably followed.
‘Have you had a look around?’ he asked. For a moment, Dhar reminded him of his father. He had never noticed it before, but when Dhar smiled, one of his cheeks dimpled in the same way, creasing the skin around his hollow eyes. His father had been a drinker too. Bruichladdich whisky. Maybe they would move on to that when the vodka was finished. Already he was feeling less concerned, adjusting to their dangerous predicament.
‘I’ve seen your brother’s bedroom,’ Dhar said. ‘It must have been a painful loss. I’m sorry.’
Marchant didn’t want to go down that route, not now, but he suddenly felt Sebbie’s presence, here in the house they once shared. He gestured for the bottle again, and drank long and deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘We were close. Mates, brothers. The twin thing. He died in Delhi. 1988. A government bus hit us at a crossroads, shunted our jeep thirty yards. Sebbie was in the front seat, didn’t stand a chance. My mother survived, but never really recovered. I’m over it now.’
Dhar seemed happy to buy into the lie. ‘I found a photograph of my mother,’ he said, changing the subject.
‘Shushma?’ Marchant asked.
‘It was in our father’s bedroom, hidden behind a photo of your mother.’
Marchant didn’t like the idea of Dhar snooping around his father’s possessions, but then he checked himself. He was Dhar’s father too. In similar circumstances, he would have done the same.
‘I also visited our father’s grave.’
Marchant glanced across at the window that overlooked the tiny church. Always secret, always loyal. He knew the grave was not as well tended as it should have been. When all this was over, he would come back and cut the grass, maybe plant some flowers.
‘Tell me something about him,’ Dhar said. ‘What he was like when you were growing up.’
‘Our father?’ Marchant paused. He took another swig and passed the bottle back to Dhar. ‘Well, because of his job, we didn’t see him so much, but when we did, he made up for it. Spoilt us rotten. Drove us too fast through the countryside in his old Lagonda, took us wild swimming in the Thames, up near Lechlade. He’d grown up in Africa, you see, always liked big open spaces. The great outdoors.’
‘We all do.’
‘And he used to take us camping in Knoydart.’
‘Where?’
‘The remotest place he could find on mainland Britain. No creature comforts. Just moss to wipe our bums, fish he’d caught in the loch, and a mouldy old canvas bell tent. He always bought us kippers at Mallaig after the ferry back. Sebbie hated them.’ Marchant paused, remembering how his father used to pinch Sebbie’s nose with one hand and spoon in kipper with the other. ‘We were very young when we lived here, before we moved to Delhi. After we came back, things were different.’
‘No Sebbie.’
There was a long silence before Dhar continued. ‘When they take me, I want you to promise something. You must help with my escape.’
Was it the vodka talking, Marchant wondered. What was he thinking? That the Americans would send him on community service? ‘That might not be so easy.’
‘The kuffar will take me to Bagram. Maybe later they will transfer me to Guantánamo.’
‘Two of the most secure prisons in the world.’
‘You will find a way to help. The Iranians want me to work for them again. We share a dislike of America. If it’s Bagram, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps will secure my freedom – they have many friends in Afghanistan. And it’s been done before – four brothers escaped in 2005. But they might need assistance. And if it’s Guantánamo, I’m sure your female American friend will help you.’
Marchant tried not to react, but Dhar’s comment took him by surprise. How did he know about Lakshmi?
‘And when I’m free –’ Dhar said. He paused, looked around the room and then lowered his head, speaking more quietly. ‘I will keep my promise, and do all I can to protect Britain.’
Marchant closed his eyes, his head beginning to spin. It was the first time he had heard Dhar confirm their arrangement: he was prepared to work for MI6. That was what he couldn’t tell Lakshmi when she had asked why he hadn’t killed Dhar. And it was what Fielding hadn’t been able to tell anyone either. Between the two of them, they had agreed that Dhar would be more valuable as an MI6 asset than dead. ‘A back channel into the global jihad,’ as Fielding had put it.
So Marchant hadn’t killed Dhar when they had met in Russia. He had tried to turn him as they had approached Britain, flying at five hundred feet. It had been an incalculable gamble, but now it was worth it. Seeking refuge in Tarlton had seemed suicidal for Dhar, but his confident talk of freedom had given the operation new life. Marchant just had to figure out a way to honour his side of the deal.
‘Bagram isn’t exactly an open prison,’ Marchant said. ‘I can’t see a way to help if they take you there.’
‘The West’s senses have been sharpened by technology. Maybe all I’m asking for is a blind eye, a deaf ear.’
Marchant watched Dhar as he became lost in thought, studying the Binekhi label on the vodka bottle. Did he mean GCHQ?
‘When you first told me our father was not working for Moscow, I was shocked, angry,’ Dhar continued. ‘I had wanted to believe he was a Russian agent.’
Marchant thought back to the terrifying moment when he had broken the news to Dhar in the Russian SU-25 jet. Up until that point, Dhar had believed – hoped
