Games Traitors Play Read online

  ‘Don’t do it, Salim. It’s too crowded. Too many innocent lives will be lost.’

  Marchant knew he had to keep talking, try to sow seeds of doubt. Despite his self-assurance, Dhar would be questioning his own actions. Marchant had read enough intelligence reports from Guantanamo. Even the hardest jihadis deliberated about the legitimacy of targets, wrestled with how to determine the innocent.

  ‘The dirty bomb is not for now,’ Dhar said, flicking the weapons select switch on the stick. He opted for the conventional LGB and locked onto the marquee with his gunsight, letting the Klyon laser range-finder retain the target as he approached. Then he closed his eyes and thought again about his father. Deep down, below the layers of prayer and wishful thinking, he knew that Marchant had spoken the truth. It had been too much to hope for the Chief of MI6 to betray the West. At least, in his father’s anti-American stance, there had been some evidence of their shared blood. Stephen Marchant would have approved of the swaggering Raptor’s destruction, the silencing of the hysterical commentator and the incessant rock music.

  ‘This is not what our father would have wanted,’ Marchant said, scanning the skies. ‘You’ve made your point, given America a bloody nose, screwed the arms deal. Now let’s get out of here.’

  Dhar was determined to release the bomb as the plane flew fast along the display line. He had rehearsed it so many times on the simulator in Kotlas and above the ranges of Archangel with Sergei. Please, if you can spare the lives of twenty-three civilians, then do it. For me, for the Bird. Innocent lives would be lost, but the military target was legitimate. Generals, Georgian and American, chests blooming with medal ribbons, plotting their next assault on the Muslim world.

  But as he looked down at the marquee, his mind surging with thoughts of Sergei, his father, Daniel, he pulled up at the last moment into a steep climb, the G-forces pushing him back into his seat as if in reprimand for the destruction he had been about to unleash.

  ‘If I am to retain any credibility,’ Dhar said quietly, as he levelled out at one thousand feet and turned towards the north-west, ‘I must go through with my final target.’

  101

  Fielding had watched with horror from the lay-by as the Raptor was engulfed in a fireball and fell from the sky. His thoughts were with the pilot, but he was also trying to calculate the damage to Britain’s relationship with America should it ever be known that Daniel Marchant, a serving MI6 officer, was with Salim Dhar in the cockpit of the other jet, as he now suspected was the case.

  He had to redo those calculations as he saw the SU-25 turn and begin a second approach. If Dhar attacked the marquee where the American Secretary of Defense was holding court with the Georgians, Fielding knew his career was over. But as the aircraft drew close to its target, he began to sense that his faith in Daniel Marchant had not been misplaced. Dhar was leaving it very late to strike at the marquee. Had Marchant talked him out of it?

  His phone rang as the aircraft passed low over the control tower and pulled into a steep climb. It was Harriet Armstrong.

  ‘Is it true? Dhar’s just taken out an American fighter jet?’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘And Marchant’s with him?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Jesus, Marcus, what the hell do I tell COBRA? And the Americans?’

  ‘Tell them that Marchant’s just saved the life of the US Secretary of Defense, as well as a tent full of American and Georgian top brass.’

  He hung up as he watched the SU-25 disappear into the distance, wondering why Dhar was now heading north-west towards Cheltenham.

  The Russians had left Paul Myers shortly after he had begun to corrupt the Recognised Air Picture. He didn’t know how many jets would attempt to violate the UK’s airspace while its defences were compromised, or what their mission was. All he knew was that Daniel Marchant was involved in some way.

  ‘I suggest you keep the window open for as long as you can,’ Grushko had said, just before he departed with his colleague. ‘Unless you want your friend Daniel Marchant to be shot out of the sky.’

  Myers was suspicious that they weren’t remaining with him. It was true that he didn’t want to do anything that might put Marchant in more danger than he was in already. Again he tried to think what Marchant would want, and decided to interfere with the Recognised Air Picture for as long as he could. But the Russians had been in an unseemly hurry to leave.

  ‘Have you lived in Cheltenham long?’ Grushko had asked just before he left.

  ‘Ten years, maybe longer.’

  ‘It’s strange. The poorer parts remind me of Chernobyl, where I grew up. Before the accident, of course.’

  After twenty minutes of delaying and corrupting the RAP, Myers had left his flat and driven to work. He wasn’t due in until Monday, but the experience of being held hostage in his own home had left him feeling shaken and vulnerable. He also needed a change of scene after being cooped up in his airless bedroom for twelve hours. GCHQ was bright and airy and, as the director often reminded staff, one of the most secure work environments in the country. He would walk the Street, buy some food and sit out on the grassy knoll in the sunny central enclosure. Then he would ring Fielding back and tell him what had happened, although he suspected that the Vicar already knew.

  ‘Just so you know,’ Armstrong said, back on the phone to Fielding, who had ordered his driver to head at speed for Cheltenham, ‘there are now six jets closing in on Dhar with orders to shoot him down. I’ve stressed to the Chief of Defence Staff that an officer of MI6 is also on board, but he has been deemed expendable. In your absence, Ian Denton has signed off on it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you could pass on my objections to COBRA,’ Fielding said. Denton’s decision surprised him. His deputy should have rung him first. ‘Salim Dhar doesn’t do things by halves. He didn’t try to assassinate the American Ambassador in Delhi, he pointed his rifle at the President. He thinks big. Before we take out the jet, it’s worth considering the payload it might be carrying. There’s a chance Dhar’s armed with a nuclear weapon, or possibly a dirty bomb, which would rather spoil the Gloucestershire countryside if we shoot him down. The Russians are behind this, remember. The difficulty of sourcing radioactive isotopes isn’t a factor here.’

  ‘Are you saying we should just hold fire and watch while a state-sponsored terrorist flies around Britain attacking targets at will?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody not. But we need to establish contact with Marchant first, before we risk triggering a major nuclear incident.’

  102

  ‘There it is,’ Marchant said, looking down at the circular silver roof of GCHQ, shimmering like an urban crop circle on the outskirts of Cheltenham. Its grassy centre was surrounded by the ring of the main building and, further out, radials of parked cars. The town was to the east, and the M5 to the west. It had taken two minutes to fly the twenty miles from Fairford. For a moment, Marchant thought the building would make an excellent substitute for Wimbledon’s Centre Court.

  ‘So this is the place that has led the global hunt for me and many of my brothers,’ Dhar said. ‘It is smaller than I thought.’

  Marchant was thinking fast now, measuring opportunities against risks. His priority was to persuade Dhar not to drop a dirty bomb on a densely populated area. But it was also evident that Dhar was willing to consider working for MI6. This was a hope that Marchant had held onto ever since he had first met Dhar in India more than a year ago, when he had found out they were half-brothers. It was why he had travelled to Morocco, chased leads into the High Atlas, flown to Madurai and faked his defection to Russia. And it was why Nikolai Primakov had died in a draughty hangar in Kotlas. He owed it to his father’s old friend to turn Dhar.

  The risks of running him would be considerable, not least the problem of London’s relationship with Washington, which would want his head more than ever after the attack at Fairford. Dhar would never stop waging his war against America. If he did cho
ose to share information with Britain, spare the land of his father from the full wrath of his jihad, the rest of the world must never know.

  But would Dhar’s stock have risen after taking out the US Air Force’s pride and joy at an air show? It was brave and spectacular, in a Top Gun sort of way, but not exactly another 9/11. If Dhar was to be an effective British asset, he would have to do more. Which was why Marchant was desperately trying to think through the implications of an attack on GCHQ.

  A dirty bomb dropped into the middle of the doughnut would partially disable the facility for months, if not years, and would be a massive propaganda victory for jihadis everywhere. Air filters and life-support systems in the underground computer halls were designed to ensure that basic services continued in the event of a surface nuclear attack, but the disruption to the offices above ground would still be considerable. Caesium was particularly difficult to clean off metal surfaces such as the building’s aluminium roof.

  Then there was the population of Cheltenham to consider. It was too late to evacuate the town, even if it was possible. The panic as people fled after an attack would cause chaos as well as deaths; and then there would be those who died later from radiation-induced cancer.

  ‘A conventional thousand-pound bomb would do it,’ Marchant said. It seemed that it had been Dhar’s plan to drop the standard LGB on Fairford and the dirty bomb on Cheltenham: one for the SVR, one for himself, both sides happy. Marchant had talked him out of the first; now he had to do the same with GCHQ.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Give you front-page headlines around the world and destroy much of the building.’

  ‘But I hate this place, and the people who work there,’ Dhar said, banking the plane around to the south. ‘They are the foot-soldiers of Echelon. Do you know how it feels to be hunted day and night, searching the skies for satellites and drones, not knowing if you can breathe at night for fear of being heard?’

  ‘You tricked them easily enough about your location in North Waziristan,’ Marchant said. He was surprised to hear Dhar namecheck Echelon, the Western computer network that sorted and analysed captured signals traffic. The hunted had finally found the hunter.

  ‘That was the fools at Fort Meade. They are easier to shake off. The people down there have been on my tail for years. I will never have a better opportunity.’

  ‘We’ll be shot out of the sky any second now, trust me. But if they know we’ve got a dirty bomb on board, they might just think twice before firing.’ Marchant paused. ‘Drop the conventional bomb on GCHQ.’

  Dhar seemed to hesitate, long enough to give Marchant encouragement. It was so frustrating to be sitting in front of him and not face-to-face. A conventional bomb was the lesser of two evils. Marchant knew that the GCHQ building had been built to withstand a plane crashing into its roof. The glass was bombproof, too. With a bit of luck, a thousand pounds of explosive dropped into the central garden would cause only minimal damage. Again, it was about finding common ground.

  Dhar would get his headlines, and it might buy them some time to escape, although the SVR’s exit strategy did not inspire confidence. The plan was to head south-west after Cheltenham and eject in the Bristol Channel, where Dhar would be picked up by a Russian-manned trawler. Marchant would have to make his own way in the water.

  ‘I need to use the radio, tell traffic control we’re carrying a dirty bomb,’ Marchant said, but he was interrupted by an alarm signal in both cockpits. The aircraft’s internal and external fuel tanks were almost empty. ‘And I need to ring my friend at GCHQ, get everyone to move away from the windows.’

  ‘No warnings.’

  Before Marchant could argue, Dhar had banked again and was flying straight towards the building.

  ‘I need to call traffic control,’ Marchant insisted.

  ‘Afterwards,’ Dhar said, as he locked his gunsight onto the grassy heart of GCHQ.

  103

  Paul Myers heard the jet overhead, and thought its engine sounded different from the Typhoons and Tornados that were a regular sight in the skies above Gloucestershire. He glanced up as he walked past the smokers’ pagoda and headed back into the main building, but the sky was bright and he couldn’t see anything. Besides, he was still hungry, and he needed to buy something else to eat from Ritazza.

  A moment later, he was lifted up and thrown through the open door with enormous force. His crumpled body landed in a heap on the smooth tiles of the Street as the sound of broken glass cascaded behind him and thoughts of Chernobyl faded from his mind.

  Marchant didn’t know until later whether the bomb dropped on GCHQ was conventional or radioactive. Events moved fast after Dhar banked the aircraft towards the Bristol Channel. Amid the noise of the fuel alarm, Marchant persuaded him to switch the r/t back on, and a warning came over the emergency military frequency almost immediately that their aircraft was about to be shot down.

  ‘We have a dirty bomb on board!’ Marchant barked back in reply, looking around frantically as he tried to spot the RAF jets that he assumed must be approaching. He hoped to God he was right. Even if Dhar had already released it, the threat might save their lives. ‘Repeat, we are carrying a thousand-pound radioactive dispersal device.’

  The pilots of the two Typhoons closing in on the SU-25 from the west heard Marchant’s words. Surprised by the English accent, they referred upwards to Air Command for confirmation that they had permission to destroy the aircraft. They added that the SU-25 was losing speed and altitude, and appeared to be about to ditch in the Bristol Channel. After a brief pause, during which Air Command consulted COBRA, the order came back to hold fire. Marcus Fielding had finally managed to get through to the Chief of the Defence Staff.

  In the event, there was no need for the Typhoons to deploy their missiles. Dhar had been battling to keep the aircraft airborne, and it had now become a lost cause. He had managed to reach the Bristol Channel, but they were a mile short of the planned rendezvous with the Russian trawler.

  ‘Prepare to eject,’ Dhar said calmly. Marchant realised that his ejection seat was controlled by Dhar. He could have removed him from the plane at any time. It gave him hope that Cheltenham had been spared too.

  ‘I promise I’ll take care of your mother,’ Marchant said, as he closed his eyes and braced himself.

  104

  ‘Are you telling me that Daniel Marchant should be regarded as a hero?’ Jim Spiro said incredulously, looking around the table. The Joint Intelligence Committee was at full strength, with senior intelligence officials from Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Britain and America in attendance.

  ‘Salim Dhar was on a mission to Britain to destroy three targets,’ Fielding began. ‘The F-22 Raptor because it was a symbol of American military might; the delegation of Georgian and US military personnel as a thank-you to the Russians for protecting him; and GCHQ as part of his own personal crusade.’

  ‘And he achieved two of the three,’ said Spiro. ‘Remind me why exactly we should be thanking Marchant?’ He nodded towards the director of GCHQ on his left. ‘I’m not sure Cheltenham will be putting a photo of him in their hall of fame. If any halls are still standing.’

  Fielding had hoped he could let Spiro down gently, as relations with America had to continue, but it was hard to resist giving him a bumpy landing.

  ‘We believe Dhar was carrying two air-to-air missiles, and two thousand-pound laser-guided bombs. One of them was packed with radioactive caesium-137. I don’t need to remind anyone here of the devastation that would have been caused by a dirty bomb dropped either on the crowd at Fairford or on a town the size of Cheltenham. I’ve just come back from a debriefing with Marchant, and he confirmed that it was always Dhar’s intention to drop the dirty bomb on GCHQ – a personal bête noire of his. As we all know, the thousand-pound bomb that struck the building was, thankfully, a conventional one, and there was only minimal structural damage and one life lost.’

  ‘How can we be sure the bomb he didn’t drop was dirt
y?’ Spiro asked.

  ‘Royal Navy divers have found wreckage of the SU-25 in the Bristol Channel, and are in the process of stabilising the unexploded ordnance. They’ve confirmed the presence of caesium-137. We’re lucky it wasn’t detonated by the impact of the crash.’

  ‘So why did Dhar bother to drop anything?’ the director of GCHQ asked. ‘He’d clearly had a change of heart.’

  ‘Marchant talked him out of the dirty option, but failed to persuade him to abandon the whole idea,’ Fielding replied. He had to be careful what he said at this point. It was fair to say that Marchant might have been able to prevent the conventional attack too, but had been mindful of Dhar’s jihadi credentials. A discredited Dhar would have been of no use to anyone. Nobody in the room, not even Harriet Armstrong, knew that Dhar had finally been turned, and had the potential to be the biggest asset MI6 had ever run.

  ‘So what you’re saying is that Dhar only achieved one of his original three targets,’ Armstrong said, seemingly supportive.

  ‘Correct. And for that we must thank Daniel Marchant.’

  ‘It’s all very well you guys patting each other on the back,’ Spiro said. ‘I’ve got to explain to Washington why the most advanced jet fighter ever built was taken out by a lousy lump of old Russian hardware, flown by the world’s most-wanted jihadi and a rogue MI6 agent.’