Games Traitors Play Page 27

  Denton might be right – perhaps the MiGs were just a distraction – but Fielding doubted it. He’d been weighing up the possible options ever since Armstrong had alerted him to the air show. Marchant had been asked to help with the MiGs, an involvement that nobody else around the COBRA table knew about. Now he had been taken to join Dhar, wherever he was. In Fairford, with its American hosts and Georgian guests, Dhar and the Russians had found a mutual target.

  93

  ‘You are only carrying two Vympel and two LGBs, so we’ve loaded you up with four 1,500-litre drop tanks, two under each wing,’ Sergei said over the r/t to Dhar, who was in the rear cockpit of the SU-25, where the instructor normally sat. It was raised a little, giving him a good view of Marchant, who was strapped into the seat ahead, listening in on the conversation. The avionics and weapons suites were identical in both cockpits – full dual control – but Sergei had disabled them in the front.

  Marchant had met Sergei only briefly. Dhar spoke warmly of him, but the Russian had shunned eye contact as he had inspected the plane’s undercarriage in the hangar. Afterwards, when he handed Marchant an ill-fitting flying suit and helmet, he had again avoided his gaze. There was a haunted look about him, Marchant had thought.

  ‘Distance to target is 2,875 kilometres,’ Dhar said, reading from a sheet of waypoints in the clear-panel leg pocket of his flying suit. ‘And the Grach has a ferry range of approximately 2,500 kilometres. “Do the math,” as our American idiots like to say.’

  ‘The extra fuel and a good tailwind should get you there,’ said Sergei.

  Should? Marchant could have done without the mordant banter. He closed his eyes and tried to picture what lay ahead. Dhar had finally agreed to let him fly with him. Marchant wasn’t sure if it was a reflection of how much he trusted or distrusted him. Either way, it had bought him precious time in which to work out what to do.

  ‘We can be martyrs together,’ Dhar had joked, making no mention of a return journey.

  Earlier, Dhar had revealed their route – north into the Barents Sea, south-west down the coast of Norway into the North Sea, and then west into UK airspace – but there had been no talk of the target. Whatever it was, timing was evidently crucial. Dhar had checked and double-checked windspeeds on the journey, going through the waypoint ETAs several times with Sergei.

  Marchant had already clocked the two missiles on the wings’ hard points. Air-to-air suggested that Dhar expected airborne company, but why not a full complement? And now Sergei had mentioned two laser-guided bombs for a ground target. It was a tailor-made suite of weapons. But for what?

  Marchant glanced around the cramped cockpit at the array of dials. The Jet Provost he had once flown in had been privately owned by an ex-RAF friend of his father. Taking off from Kemble airfield, near the family home in Tarlton in the Cotswolds, had felt like rising into the sky on rails: surprisingly smooth and steady. He suspected the SU-25 would be a rougher ride.

  As the plane began to roll forward, Marchant peered through the mist at the godforsaken scenery. Dhar had taxied to the far end of the main runway. A light drizzle was falling. All Marchant could see was pine trees. The control tower was a long way off, barely visible in the murky distance. Halfway down the runway on the right were two MiG-29s. He guessed that they must be on permanent standby, like the Typhoons at RAF Leuchars and Coningsby that would be scrambled if Dhar showed up on the radar. Then he noticed the armed guards, dotted about on the periphery of the trees, out of sight of any US reconnaissance satellites. He had only spotted the two guards outside the hangar door before. Security had been ramped up for their departure.

  Marchant thought again about Primakov, the sharp intake of breath just before he fired, as if the Russian was bracing himself. After the shooting, Dhar had not wanted to talk, preferring instead to spend time on his own behind the curtain. Marchant assumed that he was praying, not for the Russian’s soul but for a successful jihad. As far as Marchant could tell, no one else seemed to be running the show or telling Dhar what to do. He was very much his own man, ignoring the guards and talking only with Sergei before climbing into the cockpit. There was a quiet confidence about Dhar, a self-assurance that gave him an air of authority.

  ‘Comrade Marchant?’ It was Sergei’s voice on the r/t.

  ‘Yes?’ Marchant said, taken by surprise.

  ‘Talk to comrade Dhar about collateral. He will understand.’

  Marchant was about to ask for an explanation, but Sergei had already signed off.

  ‘Did you get any of that?’ he asked Dhar over the intercom.

  ‘We can talk more later. Our flying time is more than three hours. Now we must prepare for take-off.’

  94

  Paul Myers had given up trying to make conversation with the Russians. They had sat motionless in his room throughout the night, waking him with a prod at first light. He had stumbled out of bed, forgetting that his hands were still tied, and they had accompanied him to the bathroom, where he managed his ablutions with difficulty.

  It was only when they sat him down in front of the computers that he persuaded them to untie his wrists. If it had been a working day, he would have been missed by now, as he liked to work the early shifts at GCHQ in the summer, getting in at 7 a.m., sometimes earlier. It gave him longer in the park afterwards to fly his model planes. But today was a Saturday, and no one would miss him. He had made a loose arrangement to meet a couple of colleagues in the pub in the evening, but otherwise his diary was free, as it was most of the time.

  The Russians wanted him to do exactly what he had done for Marchant: delay High Wycombe’s real-time Recognised Air Picture feed. He had already told them that it would be hard to repeat the trick, but the Ministry of Defence’s IT experts, many of whom he knew, had yet to trace the source or cause of the Link 1 breach.

  Of more concern to Myers was what Marchant and Fielding would want him to do. Marchant was clearly party to the planned second violation of UK airspace. Would he want Myers to help him, or to stop him? His instinct told him to let the Russians run with it, whatever they were planning.

  Nursing a hangover, he logged in to his GCHQ account and prepared once again to tamper with the Tactical Data Links that were meant to keep the skies above Britain safe.

  ‘All I need is a start time,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘I can’t delay the RAP for long. A few minutes at most.’

  ‘This time we need a little longer,’ Grushko said.

  95

  The morning had dawned bright and clear in the Cotswolds, and the ground staff at RAF Fairford were already busy laying out the tables and chairs in the private enclosure towards the eastern end of the runway. It was a big day for the base, and General Glen Rogers, head of the United States Air Forces in Europe, was taking his run around the airfield early, before the VIPs began to arrive. The USAF would shortly be pulling out of Fairford, leaving it as a standby facility that could be reactivated at short notice for the use of B-2 Spirit stealth bombers and U2s.

  All the usual merchandise stands were present. Jogging at a steady pace, Rogers passed the Breitling Owners’ Club, a dogtag stamping stall for wannabe GIs, and a stand that would later be selling Vulcan memorabilia. Now that was a plane he wished he had flown. This weekend, though, was all about modern military hardware, and in particular the global export market for the F-16 Fighting Falcon, one of America’s finest fourth-generation jet fighters, otherwise known as the Viper.

  The delegation from Georgia had spent the night on the base, drinking too much of their own Kakhetian wine in the officers’ mess, but he couldn’t blame them. Today marked the official beginning of a new era for the Georgian air force. Six F-16Ds had already been delivered to Alekseevka Military Airbase, but the deal between Washington and Tbilisi would be formally signed off in the private enclosure. To mark the occasion, the F-22 Raptor, a plane that was strictly not for export, would make its debut at Fairford with a breathtaking display of fifth-generation manoeuvrability.
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  Rogers used to fly jets himself in the mid-1980s, briefly serving with the Thunderbirds F-16 display team, and he was particularly looking forward to the Raptor show. Today’s pilot, Major Max Brandon, would demonstrate its vast air superiority over an old Russian SU-25 ‘Frogfoot’, the current mainstay of Georgia’s air force, in a mock-up of a Cold War dogfight that promised to be one of the highlights of the weekend.

  The only blot on the Gloucestershire landscape was the arrival of Jim Spiro, the CIA’s Head of Clandestine Europe. He had turned up in the middle of the dinner with the Georgians, wanting an urgent talk about a perceived security threat that was making the Brits jumpy. (Fairford always made the Brits nervous. A few years earlier, a B52 had flown in low over the runway as part of the display, only for the pilot to be told by ATC that he had got the wrong airfield. So much for precision bombing.) Rogers had not met Spiro before, and he hoped their paths would never cross again. Marines had that sort of effect on him, particularly ex ones who had featured in the infamous CIA torture memos.

  If the Agency had its way, the contract with the Georgians would be signed in a reinforced bunker five hundred feet underground, and there would be no Royal International Air Tattoo at all. He had told Spiro to relax and enjoy the day, reminding him that it did much to reinforce the special relationship between Britain and America. That was the problem with the spooks – they saw threats everywhere.

  96

  Fielding had agreed with Armstrong that it was too much of a security risk for both of them to travel to Fairford, so she had stayed behind in London to liaise with COBRA, which was now sitting around the clock. The air show remained the most likely target, and Fielding needed to be there, even though he knew it could be dangerous. He also wanted to get out of London, away from the endless meetings, and clear his head. Ian Denton had offered to mind the shop in his absence – a little too keenly, Fielding thought afterwards.

  Just outside the airfield’s perimeter fence, he asked his Special Branch driver to pull into a lay-by, where several plane-spotters had parked up in camper vans, ready to watch the display without paying. Marchant had Fielding’s personal number, and he still hoped that he might call him, give him some warning, however late, of Dhar’s murderous intentions.

  If the threat was airborne, it would involve a repeat of the earlier breach of British airspace. Had Marchant asked Myers to help him out a second time? So far, Fielding had resisted talking to him about Marchant’s earlier request. The risk of being monitored by the Russians was too high. He assumed Myers must have hacked into Britain’s early-warning radar network, allowing the MiG-35s to fly over Scotland unchallenged. Now he needed to know for sure if Myers was involved again. He dialled his mobile number.

  Twenty miles away in Cheltenham, Myers watched his handset vibrate on the desk next to the keyboard. He looked at his Russian minders.

  ‘Answer it,’ Grushko said, waving his gun at him. ‘And let us listen.’

  Myers picked up the handset and switched it to speaker phone. The number was unknown, and he assumed it was someone from GCHQ. Colleagues often called him at the weekend with technical queries. He would remind them about GCHQ’s internal IT support unit, and then do what he could to help.

  ‘Paul Myers,’ he said, as casually as possible.

  Fielding detected the tension in his voice at once.

  ‘It’s Marcus Fielding. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Fine, all fine,’ Myers said, swapping the phone to his other hand and glancing at Grushko. Fielding always made his palms sweat. The added presence of the Russians was almost too much.

  ‘Is it convenient to talk?’ Fielding asked. Grushko nodded. ‘I wanted to ask you about –’

  ‘Could you hold on a moment?’ Myers pressed the privacy button and turned to Grushko. ‘He’s going to suspect something. I’m sorry, I’m trying to act normally but this guy always makes me nervous. And he just knows when someone’s lying. It’s his job.’

  ‘Then keep it brief. Does the Chief of MI6 ring you often?’

  ‘Yes, no, I mean…I was seconded to Six for a few months, I worked directly for him.’

  ‘He is an important man,’ Grushko said, waving his gun at the handset. ‘Talk to him.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Myers said, speaking to Fielding again. ‘There was someone at the door.’

  ‘Are you at home?’ Fielding asked. He had expected him to be at work. If he was about to help the Russians again, he would be preparing to do it now. He sounded even more nervous than usual, under duress. Fielding couldn’t risk asking what Marchant had requested him to do, but he still needed to give his call some purpose, a reason for Myers to be rung by a security Chief, in case he was being monitored.

  ‘Yeah, got the weekend off.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Daniel Marchant.’

  Myers glanced up at Grushko, who leaned in towards him, listening intently.

  ‘Dan? Is there any news? Was he definitely the one who was taken in London?’

  ‘Yes. I was wondering when you saw him last, if he’d discussed anything out of the ordinary with you.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘We don’t know. How did he seem when you last met him?’

  Myers thought back to the pub, when Marchant had asked him about the MiGs. He glanced up at Grushko, who shook his head. Why did Fielding suddenly want to know? Last time they spoke he had hung up on him.

  ‘Fine. I don’t remember anything unusual. We drank too much beer and talked a lot about Leila.’

  ‘We’re working on the theory that he might have defected rather than been taken.’

  ‘Defected? Dan?’ Myers had never been good with people, but one thing in life he was certain of was Daniel Marchant’s loyalty. He was about to say as much to Fielding when he saw that Grushko had sat back and was more relaxed. Myers had no idea what game Fielding was playing, but he did know when to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Fielding replied. ‘Listen, if you do remember anything, give me a call, will you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  In the lay-by outside Fairford, Fielding put down his phone. His rash impulse to find out more had nearly jeopardised everything. Myers was evidently about to repeat whatever he had done before for the Russians, and it sounded as if he was being babysat. If they were listening, he hoped he had said enough to confirm Marchant’s defection story.

  Myers placed the phone back on his desk. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘Daniel Marchant defecting?’

  ‘Is it really such a big leap for him to make?’ Grushko asked. ‘I am only surprised that he did not come across earlier, given the way he has been treated.’

  Myers checked himself. He wanted to clear Marchant’s name, tell the Russians how much his friend loved his country, but he had to shut up. Whatever was going on, Fielding and Marchant were in it together, and he didn’t want to do or say anything that might compromise them. Marchant’s defection had to be a cover story, otherwise Myers might as well pack his bags and emigrate.

  ‘We have ten minutes before they reach the edge of the UK’s Air Defence Identification Zone,’ Grushko said, looking at his watch. ‘Are you ready?’

  97

  The American Raptor took off before the Russian SU-25, accelerating down the runway to the thumping soundtrack of ‘I Don’t Want to Stop’, by Ozzy Osbourne. It lifted off the ground and flew past the private enclosure at twenty feet, before pulling up into a vertical climb that had the crowds gasping. A pugnacious American had taken over the commentary box, his wild WWF style of delivery in stark contrast to the clipped tones of the ex-RAF pilot who had introduced the earlier aircraft.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I present the most feared combat aircraft in the world, the fifth-generation F-22 Raptor,’ the commentator said, rolling out the Rs. ‘This awesome aircraft enjoys superiority in every conceivable dogfight scenario. It has no rivals. There is no battlefield that the Raptor cannot dominate. There is no batt
lefield that the Raptor will not dominate. Designed without compromise to sweep our skies of all threats, keeping the peace through strength.’

  The Georgian delegation had been joined by a posse of US military top brass and senior executives from the global arms industry. Acting against the CIA’s advice, the US Secretary of Defense had also flown in to join the celebrations. Not everyone was pleased to see him, as he had halted future production of the $155-million Raptor, but his presence was a sign of the strategic importance of the Georgian deal.

  After the Raptor came the SU-25, taking off without a soundtrack and eliciting barely disguised disdain from the American commentator.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, a plane from another era, a mudfighter from the past, a relic of the Cold War, the SU-25, known without affection in the West as the Frogfoot. In a moment, the two planes will pass from left to right along the display line, where the quantum difference in technology will be plain for all to see.’

  ‘Frogfoot One, time for your farewell tour,’ Major Bandon, the American pilot, announced over the r/t as both planes banked at the far end of the runway.

  ‘Copy that, Raptor One,’ the young Georgian pilot replied, peeling away. The plan was to put the Raptor through its paces, while the SU-25 took a sanctioned tour of southern Britain before returning for the mock dogfight. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you, Frogfoot. Only sorry you won’t be here to see the fun and games.’

  ‘Doing anything special while I’m away? To please our generals?’

  ‘A few tail slides, paddle turns and muscle climbs, the usual. Maybe a power loop or two. If you take your time, I might even pull a Pugachev cobra at the finish. There’s been too much talk in your neck of the woods that we Americans can’t get it up.’