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  ‘But we’ve got the disc.’

  ‘I swapped it for a different one.’

  Prentice turned and picked up the remote from the bed, then clicked onto the resort’s in-house channel. The footage was grainy, but it was possible to see an older man with a younger woman, lying on a bed. It was also possible to see that the man was the Prime Minister of Russia and the young woman wasn’t his wife.

  ‘The oligarch currently staying in the penthouse by the sea is a close friend of the Kremlin. He won’t be amused. Come, we must go.’

  36

  ‘Nikolai Primakov was an unusual case,’ Cordingley said, stopping at a disused coastguard hut to take in the view of the bay. ‘Once in a lifetime.’ They were walking west along the cliffs towards Lamorna. Cordingley was too old to go far now, but he had insisted that they should talk in the open, away from his house. His former hostility had passed, but there was no warmth, no offer of tea. ‘The initial approach was made by Stephen,’ he continued. ‘Never forget that. He’d met Primakov a few times at cultural events in Delhi, liked him on a personal level, singled him out for company. He also sensed a deep unhappiness behind all the smiles.’ Cordingley paused. ‘Primakov wasn’t the dangle, we dangled Stephen Marchant.’

  ‘And you’re still sure of that?’ Fielding asked.

  ‘More so than ever. And I think back over it often. Once Stephen had recruited him, Primakov’s true value became apparent to us. Dynamite. K Branch, First Chief Directorate. You couldn’t get better than that. And he knew much more than his rank should have allowed, particularly about KGB operations in Britain. The problem was, he kept talking about defecting, which would have been no good to us at all. To keep him useful, he needed to be promoted, not exfiltrated, so Stephen and I devised a plan for him, something to impress his superiors in Moscow Centre.’

  ‘You let Stephen be recruited by Primakov.’

  Another pause as they watched the seagulls circling below. ‘It was actually Stephen’s idea. Brilliant, even now. Moscow thought they’d turned a rising MI6 agent, giving Primakov an excuse to meet regularly with Stephen. There was just one problem: the intel we had to give Primakov to keep Stephen credible as a Soviet asset.’

  They both knew what Cordingley meant by this, but neither wanted to speak about it. Not yet. The moment demanded a respectful pause, a lacuna. Instinctively, they looked around to see if anyone might be within earshot, then walked on. On one side the coast path was overshadowed by a steeply rising hillside of gorse, pricked with yellow flowers. On the other was the Atlantic, swelling over flat black rocks far beneath them. It would have been difficult for anyone to listen in on their conversation, except perhaps if they were on a well-equipped trawler, which both men knew was not beyond the realms of Russian tradecraft. But the last boat had now slipped past them towards Newlyn, and the bay was empty, the coast clear.

  Cordingley spoke first. He had stopped again and was facing the Atlantic, his thin white hair teased by the sea breeze. ‘We couldn’t give Moscow chickenfeed. They would have been immediately suspicious. The decision to pass them high-grade American intel was never approved by anyone, never formally acknowledged. I assume it remained that way, even when the Yanks went after Stephen.’

  ‘Cs’ eyes only.’

  Fielding thought back to his first week as Chief of MI6, the evening he had spent sifting through the files in the safe in his office. It contained the most classified documents in Legoland, unseen by anyone other than successive Chiefs. They were even more invisible than ‘no trace’ files, short, unaccountable documents that read like briefing notes from one head to the next, outlining the Service’s deniable operations, the ones that had never crossed Whitehall desks. It had reminded Fielding of the day he had become head of his house at school, more than forty years earlier. A book was passed on from one head to the next, never seen by anyone else. It identified the troublemakers and bullies, in between tips on how to deal with the housemaster’s drink problem.

  ‘There’s no doubt someone in Langley got enough of a sniff to distrust Stephen, but I’m confident that Primakov’s still known only to the British.’

  ‘So why have you come here today?’

  ‘He’s back.’

  ‘In London?’ It was the first time Cordingley had seemed surprised.

  Fielding nodded. ‘Next week. I need to know if we can still trust him.’

  ‘Primakov only dealt with Stephen. Refused to be handled by anyone else. He must have been frightened when the Americans removed Stephen from office, and upset when he died. It’s whether he’s bitter that counts. For almost twenty years, we kept promising him a new life in the West.’

  ‘I think Primakov’s about to approach Stephen’s son.’

  37

  Marchant and Prentice waited until the police had led the Russian couple away to reception before they stepped out of the villa. Giuseppe Demuro had sent a small golf buggy to pick them up, and the driver was waiting patiently in the shade, trying not to show any interest in the police activity. Discretion at all times, Giuseppe had told him. That was why, perhaps, he didn’t spot the two suited men moving fast and silently along the tiled path that cut behind the villa, only their heads and chests visible above the privet hedge. But Marchant saw them, and wondered how they could be travelling so fast with their upper bodies remaining still. They weren’t on bikes, their posture was too upright. Then he recognised one of them, and didn’t care about the laws of physics any more. It was the man who had ushered him onto the plane at Agadir.

  ‘We need to go,’ Marchant said to Prentice, nodding towards the two men, who were closing in on them quickly. Marchant jumped onto the back of the buggy with Prentice, who had a small hold-all with him. Marchant had nothing other than his phone, which Prentice had managed to retrieve from the Russians’ villa.

  ‘Giuseppe’s arranged a taxi, back entrance, where the staff live,’ Prentice said, looking at the two men, who were now less than fifty yards away and arcing around towards them. ‘Friends of yours?’ He had fixed the Russians, but hadn’t anticipated another threat.

  ‘Let’s move,’ Marchant said to the driver, ignoring Prentice, taking control. ‘Pronto.’

  The driver sensed the urgency in Marchant’s voice and accelerated away across the smooth tiles, glancing back at the two men, who were looking across the hedgerows, their speed still a mystery.

  ‘They work for Abdul Aziz,’ Marchant said, holding on to the side of the buggy as it rounded a corner. ‘Gave me a free upgrade in Morocco.’

  ‘And they appear to have perfected the art of low-level flying,’ Prentice said. It was then that the path the Moroccans were on joined the main thoroughfare, revealing their means of transport. They were riding on Segway Personal Transporters, their big rubber wheels rippling across the tiles. Marchant had seen a member of the resort’s staff passing the pizza restaurant on one during lunch, thinking at the time that it was travelling faster than normal. They were meant to have a top speed of 12.5 mph, but the two Moroccans were travelling at least twice as quickly as that, leaning on the T-bars to propel themselves forward. The resort’s machines must have been customised, making them much quicker than Marchant and Prentice’s electric-powered golf buggy. Marchant had heard that the police in Britain had made similar changes to their own fleet of Segways.

  ‘Turn left up here, to the beach,’ Marchant said. The Moroccans were thirty yards from them now, and closing. ‘Pick me up in the car, further down the coast. I can outrun the Segways on sand.’

  Before Prentice could say anything, Marchant had jumped off the buggy and was sprinting down to the beach, kicking off his flip-flops. Prentice turned around just in time to see the two men passing him. Without pausing, he swung his hold-all up and out of the buggy, knocking the nearest Moroccan off his Segway. He hit his head hard on the tiles and rolled over. The other man stopped, pulling hard on the T-bar, looked down at his colleague and then across to the beach, down which Marchant was running
away from them. For a sickening moment, Prentice thought the Moroccan was going to pull a gun on him, but he just cursed and accelerated off on his Segway, staying on the smooth path that ran parallel to the coast.

  38

  ‘The beauty of their relationship was that it was seemingly out in the open, beyond reproach,’ Cordingley continued.

  They were walking back to the farmhouse now, pursued by charcoal clouds tumbling in over Land’s End. Cordingley had become increasingly animated as he recalled the past, almost breathless, and Fielding was starting to worry about his health. ‘It was no secret that they were good friends. People expected to see them together at embassy parties, first nights at the theatre. Primakov reported back to Moscow Centre that Stephen had tried to recruit him and that he had refused. Stephen did exactly the same. At first, Moscow was suspicious of their closeness, even ordered him to stop seeing Stephen, but Primakov had always believed in friendship rather than blackmail as the best way to recruit someone, and for a while Moscow let him do things his way.’

  ‘Did you ever doubt Stephen? Personally?’

  ‘You knew him better than most. You were his protégé, his biggest fan.’

  ‘I was. I still am. I was wondering where you stood.’

  Fielding remembered how Cordingley had been the only Chief not to turn up at Stephen Marchant’s funeral.

  ‘If you’re asking me whether Stephen sometimes passed on US intel to the Russians a little too enthusiastically, with too much relish, then the answer is yes.’

  ‘But that only made him more credible, reassured the Russians he was the genuine article.’

  ‘Of course. Everyone knew Stephen was more wary of Langley than the rest of us, so we built on that for his cover story, turned a healthy scepticism of America into deep-rooted loathing. There were times, it’s true, when I looked at the books and worried about the flow of information, the net balance of betrayal. We were getting the most extraordinary insight into KGB activities in the UK, but in return we were of course betraying our closest ally.’

  ‘Would you run Primakov again?’

  ‘Tomorrow. And if you’re right and he’s about to approach Stephen’s son, then maybe there’s a way. From what I’ve heard, Daniel shares many of his father’s traits, not least a troubled relationship with our cousins across the pond.’

  ‘I think it’s fair to say that Daniel Marchant more or less ended the special relationship single-handedly.’

  ‘The Russians will like what they see in him — a chip off the old Marchant block. But could you run the risk of giving them American intel again?’

  Fielding paused. ‘I think they’re after something else this time.’ He didn’t want to mention Salim Dhar, the possibility that the Russians might have recruited him, too.

  Cordingley was too seasoned to miss Fielding’s reticence, knew he was holding something back. In his younger days he would have protested, but he didn’t care any more. He was too old, too tired. Besides, they were at the house now, and he had done his duty.

  ‘Just remember one thing, Marcus: Primakov had a cause, a genuine reason to betray his country. When his only child fell ill in Delhi, he asked Moscow if he could fly her to London. They refused. What was wrong with Russia’s hospitals? She died on an overcrowded ward in Moscow. I don’t think we ever upset Stephen that much, do you?’

  Marchant didn’t know how long he could keep running across the hot sand. The resort’s private beach had already come to an end, and he was now amongst hordes of ordinary Sardinians on holiday: extended families gathered under umbrellas, toddlers paddling in the surf, teenage girls flirting, boys in shades keeping footballs in the air. Women of all ages were in bikinis, as if one-piece costumes were banned.

  He glanced behind him to see if he was still being followed, and saw one of the Moroccans gliding along the path through the pine trees, set thirty yards back from the beach. He was momentarily hidden behind the wooden shacks serving espressos and ice cream, then he appeared again, looking across at him. If the man was armed, Marchant thought, he wouldn’t attempt a shot while the beach was so crowded. And Aziz probably wanted to take him alive, book him in for a follow-up appointment.

  He looked at the beach curving around the bay ahead of him. A fine spray hung above the surf in the late-afternoon sun. His body was no longer aching. The medication had cleared, and he felt the way he had on his morning runs through the souks of Marrakech, his body purged of alcohol, his mind disciplined by trips to the library. With each stride he felt stronger, dodging toddlers, jumping over towels. But he knew the real reason for the extra spring in his step, and it wasn’t the glances from Italian women in shades. The Segway’s electric battery was fading fast.

  39

  ‘You must forgive me if I seem a little underwhelmed by the prospect,’ Fielding said, walking between the flowerbeds. Lakshmi Meena was at his side, glancing at the plants, reading labels: Catharanthus roseus (Madagascar Periwinkle), Filipendula ulmaria (Meadowsweet). ‘This one here,’ Fielding said, stopping in front of a bed, ‘is Hordeum vulgare. Barley to you and me. It led to the synthesis of lignocaine.’

  ‘A local anaesthetic,’ Meena said.

  ‘Correct.’ Fielding walked on, leaving her to look at the plant. She drew level with him again, like a schoolchild catching up with her teacher.

  Fielding stopped at the junction of two paths. He was tired after his journey back from Penzance the previous night, and had hoped the peaceful surroundings of the Chelsea Physic Garden would offer comfort and solace. He had become a member soon after joining the Service, but the garden had grown too popular in recent years to be of any use as a regular meeting place. In the past, he had used it when he met players from foreign intelligence agencies who wanted an encounter on neutral ground. Tonight, a warm July evening, the director had opened it especially for him. Half an hour on his own, the garden empty except for him and Meena, a chance to reacquaint himself with its pharmaceutical beds.

  ‘Listen, we’ve hardly endeared ourselves over the past year or so, I’m the first to admit that,’ Meena said. ‘All I can say is that I think Daniel Marchant is a guy I can work with. And right now he’s the only one who’s gotten close to Dhar.’

  Fielding turned to face her. He was struck again by how similar to Leila she looked in the soft evening sun. Perhaps that was why he had been wary of inviting her to Legoland. She brought back too many bad memories. They had all been fooled by Leila. So had the CIA, which had been out of favour with the British ever since it had renditioned Daniel Marchant.

  The Agency had done little to improve its reputation in the subsequent year, wielding too much power in Whitehall. Marchant’s treatment in Morocco at the hands of Aziz had tarnished its name even further. Now, following the very public death of six US Marines at the hands of a CIA Reaper, the Agency was a full-blown international pariah. Any trust that had started to come back between it and MI6 had turned to dust. But there had been something about Meena’s call to his office earlier in the day that had made him agree to see her. A candidness that he feared he wouldn’t be able to reciprocate.

  ‘Do you think that Daniel was right about Dhar and the High Atlas?’ Fielding asked.

  ‘More right than we were about Af-Pak.’

  ‘A shame that the Agency didn’t let him travel earlier. Did you believe he was right when Spiro sent you to Marrakech?’ Fielding knew it was an unfair question.

  ‘Spiro was my superior. I did as he told me.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

  Fielding had done some research since her call, walked down to the North American Controllerate and asked around. Meena had an impressive reputation for standing up to Spiro, which took courage, particularly for a woman. She had graduated from the Farm with honours, impressing with her language skills but also her integrity, which must have been a novelty for the CIA examiners. In normal circumstances, her posting to Morocco would have been a sideways career move, but her brief was to keep
an eye on Daniel Marchant, which reflected her importance.

  Fielding had then spoken to his opposite number in Langley, the DCIA who had famously promised his President — and Britain — to end the bad old ways and then promptly promoted James Spiro to head of Clandestine, Europe. He had been phoning London repeatedly, presumably to try to patch things up, but Fielding had let him sweat. The last time he rang, Fielding had taken the call.

  Spiro, the DCIA explained, had been suspended following the drone strike, and the Agency would be apologising formally for the treatment of Daniel Marchant in Morocco, even though it was at the hands of a foreign intelligence service over which the CIA had little control. ‘And the British know all about that,’ he had added caustically. (The British courts’ decision to make public the torture of a detainee in Morocco hadn’t played well in Langley.) As a gesture of goodwill, the Agency was transferring Lakshmi Meena to London and offering her services as a liaison officer.

  ‘She represents the Agency’s future, Marcus,’ the DCIA had added. ‘And this time she’s above board.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Leila?’ Fielding asked Meena, sitting down on a bench in front of a bed of Digitalis lanata, a plant that he knew better as Dead Man’s Bells.

  ‘No, sir.’ Meena glanced around briefly and then sat down beside him.

  ‘She was a liaison officer for the Agency, too, only nobody ever bothered to tell us. We thought she was working for Six. In the end, it turned out she wasn’t working for either of us.’

  ‘But she saved our President’s life.’

  ‘Did she?’ Fielding realised that Meena would not know about Leila’s ties with Iran. That information was too classified. But had national loyalties really meant anything to Leila? Fielding couldn’t deny that at the final reckoning in Delhi, she had stepped forward and taken a bullet meant for the US President.

  ‘I appreciate that Leila’s case was not straightforward,’ Meena said. ‘The Agency should have declared her to London as an asset. It was wrong, but those were different times. All I can say is that I’m not Leila.’