Dirty Little Secret Read online

  Mousavi inserted a DVD into the player below the TV screen. He then came over and stood next to Dhar’s bed, operating the DVD with a remote. Moments later, they were watching a flotilla of fast-attack inshore craft surge across a stretch of the Strait of Hormuz. The commentary was in Farsi, but there were English subtitles. From what Dhar could tell, the footage was from a recent Revolutionary Guard exercise entitled ‘Great Prophet Muhammed Six War Games’. A stream of missiles and rockets streaked across the sky, fired from launchers mounted on the boats. When the drama was over, smoke pouring from a forlorn target vessel in the distance, Mousavi turned to Dhar.

  ‘Impressive, no? The exercise was in April. You might have seen clips on the news, or maybe YouTube. We put them up there to scare the West.’

  Mousavi smiled. Dhar thought back to their meeting when he had come to see him in Russia about a possible operation. He hadn’t gone into details, but had hinted at a waterborne attack on America.

  ‘Our navy is strong, but no match for that of the United States. The only chance to strike at the enemy is with these asymmetric swarm attacks. However many weapons systems their ships may have, what can they do if fifty – maybe a hundred – small boats speed towards them, firing missiles and torpedoes as they go. Their helicopters will take out most of them, but not all. And it only requires one, just one, to get through.’

  ‘Is this what you have brought me here for?’ Dhar asked.

  ‘Let’s talk later. It’s important you rest.’

  Dhar didn’t like Mousavi’s evasiveness. In the past, he had always controlled his own operations, down to the smallest detail. He had never been answerable to others. The Russians had let him plan the attack on Fairford, happy to provide the hardware and then stand back. The same had been true in Delhi. Iran had sourced the sniper rifle and done little else. It was how he operated. But things were different this time, a sense of impotence hanging over him. Dhar knew he was indebted to Iran for his freedom, but he preferred to be in control of his own fate.

  ‘Where am I?’ he asked.

  ‘Is the swaying not a clue?’

  Mousavi pretended he was about to fall over, then steadied himself like an unfunny clown.

  ‘I thought that was my medication. Are we on a boat?’

  ‘Not quite. An oil platform. The Revolutionary Guard has naval bases on islands such as Abu Musa, Larak and Qeshm, as well as at the Abadan oil terminal. But our most secure one is right here, in the middle of the Persian Gulf. Nobody knows about it. The Americans think we are drilling for oil.’

  Dhar was relieved to know that the cause of his unsteadiness lay outside his body. The last time he had been at sea was after he had ejected from the SU-25 and been picked up by the Russian trawler. That seemed a long time ago now.

  ‘It is earlier than we planned, but the Americans have forced our hand,’ Mousavi said. ‘There is a chance for personal greatness in the coming week, an opportunity to alter the geopolitical landscape in the manner of 9/11. These propaganda videos are all very well, but the boats are old Swedish Boghammars from the 1980s, or poor imitations from North Korea and China. They look good on YouTube, but then they sink. They are rubbish, cheap children’s toys. Half of them are on the seabed since this film was made. We need new boats.’

  Like a businessman making a PowerPoint presentation, Mousavi clicked on the remote again. Another expanse of water appeared on the screen. It wasn’t the Strait of Hormuz this time, and there was nothing military about the commentary, which was in English. A sleek, ice-blue powerboat was travelling fast around the southern coast of Britain, the white cliffs of Dover visible in the background.

  ‘It’s called the Bradstone Challenger,’ Mousavi said. ‘A fifty-one-foot long Bladerunner. Top speed is 72 knots – that’s more than 80mph. It circumnavigated the UK in twenty-seven hours and ten minutes, averaging 53 knots, including fuel breaks. A record that still stands. This boat doesn’t go over waves, she cuts through them.’

  ‘And you want one?’ Dhar asked. The side of him that had thrilled to the fighter jet enjoyed watching the boat as it powered up the English Channel. He had always enjoyed speed, ever since his gaming days at the training camps in Kashmir, where young jihadis had whiled away their downtime on counterfeit Xboxes run off car batteries.

  ‘One? I would like fifty. Sadly, this is a sports model, and only two were ever made, by a British company, with help from a US defence contractor. But one is up for sale, and if we buy it we will reverse-engineer fifty copies. As you can see, it remains stable in rough water, even at high speeds. It doesn’t bounce up and down like our current boats, making it a perfect firing platform.’

  ‘Why can’t you buy it?’

  ‘We’re trying, but there’s a hitch. The US Commerce Department’s Office of Export Enforcement’ – he almost spat out the words – ‘has discovered our intentions and is attempting to block the sale. The boat is currently in Karachi. We thought the deal had been concluded in Durban, but delivery has been held up. It is on board an Iranian vessel under a Hong Kong flag. When it docked at Karachi, the Pakistanis said there was something wrong with the paperwork – the Americans had obviously put pressure on them.’

  Mousavi paused, watching the Bladerunner scythe through the waves. Then he turned to Dhar. ‘We need someone on the ground in Karachi who can sort it, a Westerner. Someone who can convince Pakistan that the end user is a godless playboy in the Gulf, and not the Revolutionary Guard.’

  ‘Our British friend?’

  Mousavi nodded. Both sides were still treading carefully around the subject of Daniel Marchant, unsure how much to reveal. Earlier, Dhar had confirmed that Marchant must have been the one who was instrumental in delaying the GCHQ intercept, explaining that he had long been waging his own secret war against America.

  ‘But are you sure you can trust him?’ Dhar asked. It was still a big leap for the Iranians to make. Until recently, Marchant had worked for the foreign intelligence service of the Old Fox, Iran’s historic enemy.

  ‘You do.’

  ‘He’s my half-brother.’

  ‘Without his help, we might not have got you out of Bagram.’

  ‘But he’s British.’

  ‘And not welcome at home. I gather he’s wanted by MI6 as well as the CIA. And not for the first time.’

  ‘Just like his father – my father – Marchant’s quarrel is with America. He still loves his own country.’

  ‘We have many quarrels with the British, but today our fight is with the US. Will he help us?’

  ‘If he thinks he’s doing it for me – and acting against America.’

  ‘Then we must bring him to you.’

  91

  Marchant slipped the internet-café owner five hundred dhirams and sat down in front of the computer. He had looked at four cafés before choosing this one. It was in a quiet street off rue Sidi Mohamed ben Abdullah, where he was staying, and had a small booth at the back for private use. The owner was also happy to close for twenty minutes. It was just before 9 a.m., and trade was always slow in the morning.

  Marchant didn’t want to dwell on what the booth was used for. Watching hardcore porn downloads, he guessed, or explicit live webcams. All he knew was that it suited his purposes. The computer had a working camera mounted above it, and the background behind him – a pale blue wall – was anonymous.

  According to Armstrong, COBRA would be reconvening in five minutes. It had been sitting on and off ever since the terrorist strikes began a week ago. Marchant had been the subject of a few COBRA meetings in his time, but he had never attended one, virtually or in person. He tried to picture the scene around the table. It was unfortunate that the VOIP video connection would only be one-way. He would like to see Denton’s face.

  Marchant knew it had been a risk taking Harriet Armstrong into his confidence, but it was a calculated one, based on her dislike of Denton. It would also allow her to bank some of the credit for identifying Denton as a Russian mole, which MI5
had so far failed to do. Marchant hoped she would return the favour. Already she had arranged for extra Special Branch officers to be on standby in the building, and she had agreed to oversee the patching through of Marchant to COBRA’s video-conferencing bridge.

  All he had to do now was download Tor, the anonymous routing network, and choose a suitable proxy server to mask the internet café’s IP address. To keep Myers happy, he would use a botnet too.

  After Tor had downloaded, Marchant checked the lock on the door – he had insisted on a key – and dialled up a VOIP address for COBRA that Armstrong had given him. COBRA used its own secure video-conferencing network, but it could receive VOIP calls from the outside world. As he waited for a connection, he ran through the precautions he had taken, hoping they would be enough to conceal his location. All COBRA’s incoming internet traffic was submitted to Deep Packet Inspection, technology that was being increasingly used by the NSA and GCHQ for online surveillance, filtering and intercepts. Iran and China were big users of DPI too.

  He glanced at his watch. It was 9 a.m. The line began to ring.

  92

  Ian Denton had left Myers’s body out of shape but intact. He needed more time, something he didn’t have. Circumcision had failed to break him. On the drive back up from Fairford to London the previous night, he had begun to doubt whether Myers had talked to Marchant and whether, between the two of them, they had helped in any way with Dhar’s escape. It was a wild allegation for Spiro to have made, but Denton was happy to pursue anything that might further discredit Marchant. Spiro’s talk of him staying with a DGSE agent in France had been unnerving, particularly if it was the same agent who had followed him around London.

  He would wait to see what others had to say at the morning COBRA meeting that was convening now. Dhar was top of the agenda, and security was tight. More Special Branch officers than usual had been present downstairs, checking bags at the entrance to the Cabinet Office building. There had been another attack this morning, on a small technology firm in Edinburgh that made hydraulic parts for America’s nuclear submarines. Nobody had been killed, but the premises had been destroyed by fire. The attack had badly damaged morale. It was the first for a few days, and the British public had begun to believe the wave of terror was over.

  Just as proceedings were about to get under way, Spiro walked into the low-ceilinged room and sat down beside Denton. Denton thought he looked a mess, unshaven, his sunken eyes heavy with exhaustion. It wasn’t normal for the Americans to attend COBRA meetings, but Spiro’s presence was a sign of the times. Despite Dhar’s escape, the US’s influence in Whitehall remained as pervasive as ever.

  Denton acknowledged Spiro, wondering how long he would remain in London. Earlier, he had told him about the lack of progress with Myers. Spiro had sounded weary, almost resigned. He was a shadow of the man who had ordered his Marines to surround Legoland. If he went, Denton must take care not to be dragged down with him. He wouldn’t go quietly, and Denton suspected he had come here today to point the finger at Britain for Dhar’s escape.

  ‘Welcome, everyone,’ the PM began. ‘We’re pleased to have Jim Spiro with us – and particularly pleased that he’s alive and well after the horrific events in Bagram. Jim will update us on Salim Dhar’s current status, then we’ll focus on the new and specific threats to Britain and how we’re combatting them.’

  But moments after Spiro began to talk – ‘To cut to the chase, we believe Salim Dhar is currently hiding in Iran’ – the distinct, insistent sound of an internet call was heard in the room. Spiro fell silent as others stopped shuffling papers to listen.

  93

  Harriet Armstrong looked at her watch as the PM welcomed everyone. Marchant was due to ring in two minutes’ time, at 9 a.m. She glanced up at the screen at the end of the room, top right of a grid of eight. It was here that Marchant would appear if he called. Before the meeting had started, she had spoken to the member of staff who looked after COBRA’s communications, explaining that she was expecting an important call from an officer in the field. The young woman had agreed to patch it through on the speakers and up on screen four.

  The PM had eyes only for Armstrong as he talked. Responsibility for Britain’s safety seemed to rest on her shoulders alone. She didn’t think her job could get any worse, but the bomb in Edinburgh had proved her wrong. It was a miracle that nobody had been killed. She felt an acute sense of personal failure – she always did whenever a terrorist managed to get through. The PM had remained civil when she had briefed him, but it was clear that he felt she was failing too.

  The phone call from Marchant yesterday had only added to her problems. She didn’t know whether to trust him, but mention of Fielding had offered some reassurance. She missed the former Chief’s measured authority, his lapidary asides, particularly at COBRA meetings like this one. After listening to Marchant’s allegations about Denton, she had invoked the Regulation of Interceptions Act to retrieve archive CCTV footage from the Clapham Junction branch of Waitrose. Sure enough, the acting Chief of MI6 was there, just before closing time, shopping for one.

  It was a faintly tragic scene, one she could relate to. She had been buying single portions ever since her husband had left her. But there was no evidence of any exchange of information using barcode scanners. No Russians, either. But Denton was too experienced to operate within the sightlines of security cameras. She would have to see what Marchant came up with.

  The PM had turned to introduce Spiro, who had the haunted look of a prisoner of war, hands bandaged, a face that had not slept. Compared to him, the others around the table appeared strong and healthy, which Armstrong knew was not true. The airless room was like a morgue, staffed by the dead. She hoped to God the bombings would stop soon. Britain and those appointed to protect her couldn’t take much more. But there were few leads, and no sign of respite.

  As Spiro began to talk she heard the sound of an internet call. She nodded at the female member of staff, glanced at Denton and took a deep breath.

  94

  Spiro knew the voice as soon as he heard it, but it was still a shock when the image of Daniel Marchant flickered into life on one of the screens behind him. He turned his leather-backed chair around to take a proper look, realising he had lost his audience to a bigger act.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt the war on terror, but there’s something I need to share with you,’ Marchant began. His voice was clear, but the image was buffering.

  There was a flurry of activity to Spiro’s left, where the Director of GCHQ was now on his feet. At the other end of the table, an adviser whispered urgently in the Prime Minister’s ear.

  ‘Who put this through?’ the Director asked. ‘Which address did he dial into? DPI will track it, work out where he’s calling from.’

  ‘I didn’t quite catch that, but it’s a waste of time if you’re trying to establish my location with Deep Packet Inspection,’ Marchant said. ‘I’m using an anonymous network via a proxy server in Lichtenstein – oh yes, and I accessed it through a botnet.’

  The Director hesitated for a moment before sitting down. Like Spiro, he knew there was no chance of getting any authorities in Lichtenstein to help track down the call. Marchant could be anywhere. And even if IT forensics did manage to trace the call back to a computer, which might take days, the botnet meant they would probably kick down the wrong door and arrest a spotty teenager in Poland playing World of Warcraft.

  ‘It’s been painful viewing to see my country under attack and not be able to do anything about it,’ Marchant continued. His image had now stabilised on the screen and was synced with his voice, which was being relayed through speakers on either side of the bank of screens. ‘But I think the attacks will stop now that Salim Dhar’s out of jail.’

  Now that you’ve sprung him, Spiro thought. He considered standing up, telling everyone what Lakshmi had overheard, that Marchant was a fraud, but it wasn’t clear if the microphones on the table were working. Not that anyone would be lis
tening. The room was mesmerised by the sight of Marchant on the screen. He looked like a backpacker who had crashed a dinner party. His straw-blond hair was tousled, his collarless shirt unbuttoned too far.

  ‘There are those, I know, who think I am in some way responsible for the attacks,’ Marchant said. ‘The Americans, for example.’

  ‘Too damn right.’ Spiro could contain himself no longer. To his surprise, Marchant appeared to have heard him.

  ‘Things are worse than I thought if the CIA is running COBRA,’ he said.

  ‘Hand yourself in, Marchant,’ Spiro heckled. ‘Myers has told us everything.’

  It was a lie, of course. Denton had failed to get a single frickin’ word out of Myers down at Fairford. Marchant continued speaking, unfazed. Perhaps the audio link had dropped.

  ‘But it’s not just Jim Spiro who’s trying to frame me,’ he said. ‘It’s also Ian Denton, who I hope is present.’

  Everyone turned to the acting Chief of MI6, who remained motionless in his seat next to Spiro. The temperature in the airless room was rising. There was no Whitehall protocol for this sort of thing. It had never happened before. Only Harriet Armstrong seemed relaxed, watching the screen with interest rather than alarm. Spiro wondered what she knew.

  ‘We should patch this call through to Fort Meade,’ he whispered to Denton, loud enough for the Director of GCHQ to hear. ‘Their DPI would track it in seconds.’

  Spiro knew this was another lie, but he said it to reassure himself. He didn’t like the way Marchant had rounded on Denton. The Ambassador’s words were still ringing in his ears, along with all the other noises in his ears: Don’t get too close to Denton.

  ‘As you all know, my old Chief, Marcus Fielding, had to leave the country in a bit of a hurry,’ Marchant continued. ‘He wasn’t defecting – of course he bloody wasn’t. He was forced out of office by a bitter deputy who saw an opportunity to discredit him – and me.’