Games Traitors Play dm-2 Read online

  Myers picked up the handset.

  ‘I tested it this morning. With the direct audio input between the two units, it sounds just like a phone call is being made.’

  ‘So what now?’ Chadwick said. ‘Dhar is clearly not only alive, but several steps ahead of the Americans.’

  ‘It might not have been Dhar’s doing,’ Armstrong said. ‘All that was needed was a recording of his voice and his old SIM card, both of which could have easily been procured by Iran, his previous sponsors.’

  ‘Our view remains that Dhar’s too hot for Tehran,’ Fielding said.

  ‘So where is he?’ Chadwick asked.

  ‘Daniel Marchant is on his way back from Morocco,’ Fielding replied.

  ‘No surprise there. I don’t think anyone seriously expected that avenue to yield anything, did we, Marcus?’ Chadwick had been opposed to Marchant’s trip to Morocco from the start, fearing that it would only aggravate Britain’s already fragile relationship with America.

  ‘I know you didn’t,’ Fielding said. He had never had much time for Chadwick, and often wondered if the Americans had been on to something when they had tried to frame him. ‘As you all know, we had hoped Dhar would make contact with his half-brother, but he never did. However, something has come up in the last twenty-four hours which suggests that Marchant might have been right about Dhar seeking refuge in North Africa.’

  The assembled chiefs looked up, but before Fielding could tell them about the unmarked helicopter in the Atlas mountains, there was a knock on the door and Ian Denton, now Fielding’s Assistant Chief, put his lean face around the door.

  ‘Marcus, sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid Daniel Marchant’s dropped off the grid.’ Denton’s voice, laced with a hint of a Hull accent, had become even more sotto voce since his promotion, Fielding thought, but he liked the fact that his trained ear was alone in hearing every word. It was almost as if Denton was speaking in a code known only to his Chief. ‘He was meant to have boarded a flight from Marrakech this morning, but he flew out using his snap cover from Agadir.’

  ‘And?’ Fielding asked, wondering whether Spiro had already left the building. If Marchant had been taken, it could only be on the CIA’s orders. They had done it once before, smuggling him out of Britain on a rendition flight to Poland. Spiro had given assurances that it would never happen again, but he had evidently hoped the death of Dhar would serve as a distraction.

  ‘The local airline filed a false flightplan,’ Denton said. ‘All we know is that the plane has a very limited range.’

  ‘Find Spiro and bring him back here. And if he complains, tell him we’ve decided to go public about Dhar.’

  25

  Marchant felt a new pulse of pain overload his nervous system as the drill began to work its way deep into his molar. He remembered the power surges they used to have in Delhi. Every room in the house would suddenly become unnaturally bright, then there would be the sound of popping lightbulbs, followed by the tinkle of glass. Bright lights were flashing across his vision now, and it felt as if synapses, rather than bulbs, were exploding in his brain, their sharp-edged debris falling across raw pathways.

  He should have been unconscious, but Aziz would kill him if he passed out. Besides, the sustained eye contact had started to get to the Moroccan, breaking up his routine, causing his hands to shake. The turbulence didn’t help either. Occasionally, the drill would slip away from the tooth and cut into Marchant’s gum. He tried to focus on his teeth, their impregnability, the fact that they were the only body parts that survived intense fires. They were stronger than bones, weren’t they? His molar wasn’t going to split. It was too strong, too durable. He thought back to biology classes at school, labelled drawings of teeth: enamel, dentine, pulp, gum. Weren’t strontium isotopes found in enamel?

  Marchant was screaming now, deep guttural roars. Aziz covered Marchant’s eyes with a scarf, but for some reason that interrupted his stride even more. Perhaps he needed to see his victim’s eyes, open or shut. Would Meena have looked him in the eye if she were here? For a few brief moments, he had liked her at the bar anglais. He should have known better.

  But amongst all the pain and anger, a crude plan had crystallised, forged from a visceral survival instinct. As far as Marchant could tell, the pilot had made no contact with Aziz since they had taken off. Marchant presumed he had been told by Meena to circle until he was ordered to land again. No questions, no reassuring chit-chat over the intercom. Which meant that it was just Aziz and him. When the clamp was in his mouth, Marchant was powerless, but Aziz would be removing it again in a moment to ask more questions. At least, he hoped he would. That had been the routine so far: questions, answers, clamp in, clamp out, more questions, more answers, clamp in…His only chance was at the point when the clamp was being unscrewed. Aziz was vulnerable then, leaning in close, inches from Marchant’s face.

  The plastic tie on his right wrist was still not broken, and it would take time before his hand was free. He also knew that he would need something to attack Aziz with. As he sat there strapped into a dentist’s chair, only one course of action presented itself. The thought appalled him, but he was beyond caring now. Aziz was the one behaving like an animal. Marchant was simply responding in kind: a tooth for a tooth…It didn’t get much more primitive, but Marchant had run out of options.

  Aziz stepped away from him into the aisle and shook his head like a disappointed school teacher. He hadn’t been able to get a clean run at the molar with his drill. He looked at Marchant for a moment, and then leaned across to unscrew the clamp in his mouth. His left hand was just above Marchant’s open lips as his fingers loosened the screws on his right jaw. Marchant closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to acquaint himself with the scent of Aziz’s skin: the sweet musk of his aftershave. Then, as Aziz lifted the clamp out of his jaw, Marchant opened his eyes and stared at his torturer, holding his gaze. It was enough to distract Aziz. Marchant’s right hand broke free.

  His arm flew upwards in a sweeping arc, clubbing the back of Aziz’s head. Grabbing at his hair, Marchant pulled him down onto the brace that was holding his own head in position. Aziz grunted as his face crumpled against the steel frame. But the pain of the impact was nothing compared to the agony that started to shock-wave out from his right cheek. Marchant tried to put the taste of warm salt out of his mind as his front teeth closed, locking their two heads together.

  With his right hand Marchant thrashed around for one of the tools on the fold-down table in front of him. He found one, and slashed at the tie holding his left hand, cutting his own wrist as he did so. Aziz’s body made it hard to see what he was doing. When both hands were free, he held Aziz’s head on either side as if he was kissing him, removed his teeth from the Moroccan’s cheek and pulled him down hard into the steel frame again, bracing himself against the impact that shuddered through his spine. This time Aziz slumped to the floor in the aisle.

  Marchant spat out whatever was in his mouth. It seemed to halt his rising nausea, so he spat again, and then again, purging his body of Aziz, expressing his disgust, at Aziz, at himself, at Meena. He knew that he was about to collapse. The adrenaline was draining away from his body like bath water, leaving his raw pain exposed. He unscrewed the steel head brace, then freed his legs. Next he lifted Aziz into the chair and secured his legs and arms, using the remains of the ties. He didn’t bother with the brace, but he put the clamp in Aziz’s bloodied mouth and jacked it open as far as it would go. At least he would be able to breathe.

  26

  Spiro was in no rush to call off the dogs, but he phoned Meena as he crossed Horse Guards Road and walked into St James’s Park. He needed to take some air after the meeting.

  ‘What do you mean you can’t contact him?’ he said, drawing hard on a cigarette as a gaggle of Japanese tourists cycled past him on hired bikes.

  ‘He’s with Aziz, as you ordered.’

  ‘And where’s Aziz?’

  ‘Twenty-fiv
e thousand feet above the Mediterranean.’

  ‘Christ, can’t you get ATC to contact the pilot?’

  There was a pause. Spiro knew it would take time. Meena had refused to contact Aziz earlier, but he guessed she would be more cooperative now that he was calling time on the dentist.

  ‘Has something happened, sir?’

  Spiro drew hard on his cigarette again, watching the flamingos. His hand was shaking.

  ‘Dhar’s not dead. He set us up, fooled Fort Meade, fooled fucking all of us, including six dead US Marines.’

  He had been looking forward to disciplining Meena for her insubordination, but that would have to wait now. He was no longer in a position of strength. All he could ask of her was to clean up the mess.

  ‘And you think Marchant knows where Dhar is?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t go dumb on me, Lakshmi. Of course not. But the British are holding all the cards right now, and if they find out Aziz is pulling Marchant’s molars, we’ll all have toothache. Get him off the plane, away from Aziz. And dump him somewhere nice, where he can recover. We might need him.’

  He hung up just as Ian Denton appeared out of nowhere next to him. Spiro didn’t know where to place Denton. The Vicar was easy: he was an upper-class, suspiciously unmarried academic with a bad back and too much sympathy for Arabia. Denton was more complicated. In theory, he should have been an ally: a grammar-school kid from Hull who had risen through the ranks because of hard graft and dirty tricks in the SovBloc, rather than old-school favours and fair play in London. But Spiro remained wary of him. There was something reptilian about Denton’s body, lean and sinewy like a long-distance runner’s. He also had an unnerving ability to be present in a room without appearing to have entered it. And that quiet voice.

  ‘Daniel Marchant’s missing,’ Denton said, cutting straight to the chase.

  ‘It’s OK. He’s fine. A little misunderstanding with our station in Rabat.’

  ‘We had an agreement,’ Denton said, surprising Spiro with the suddenness of his attack. Denton usually stayed in the long grass.

  ‘Did we?’

  ‘We go public about Dhar if anything happens to Marchant, is that clear?’

  Spiro paused, looking at Denton, listening to his accent, its roughness softened by the quiet delivery. Denton’s eyes were soulless, unblinking behind small oval glasses. It had been a smart move by Fielding to make him his deputy. Every Chief needed a troubleshooter, a hard man to sort out the messy stuff. Fielding liked to refer to Denton as his gallowglass. Spiro had played a similar role himself for the previous DCIA. But Denton was different, less muscular, more serpentine. Apparently, he had once saved Fielding’s life in a tight spot in Yemen. Now it was payback time.

  ‘Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. I never got the chance to say.’

  Denton refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he just looked at him with his lifeless eyes.

  ‘Marchant’s doing fine, Ian,’ Spiro continued, turning to head off into the park. ‘The tooth fairy’s watching over him.’

  27

  Lakshmi Meena took a deep breath before the member of the ground-crew staff opened the plane’s heavy door. Her life seemed to be punctuated by deep-breath moments, she thought: informing her father that she wasn’t going to pursue a career in medicine; telling Spiro that she wasn’t prepared to sleep with him or with anyone else at Langley to further her career.

  Now her lungs were full again, her chest tight. Did other people have to summon composure in the same way, make such a conscious choice to square up to the world each day? Her father, a structural engineer, had always stressed the importance of blending in, but when she looked at him now, designing bridges in Reston, West Virginia, she sometimes struggled to see anyone at all.

  She bunched her right hand tightly around a silk handkerchief and nodded at the two ground crew. The three of them were standing at the top of a set of steps, bringing them even closer to the hot Moroccan sun. There was no shade on the runway, but at least the twin-turboprop had taxied to a quiet corner of Agadir airport, away from the restless tourists queuing to return home to Britain. Beyond the plane, a military ambulance stood waiting, two medics idling by its open doors, smoking and talking to an armed policeman and a couple of Aziz’s intelligence colleagues.

  One of the men put a hand up unnecessarily to keep the door open as Meena stepped into the plane. She had learned to command authority since joining the Agency, but it still felt like an act, not something that came naturally. She hoped Marchant hadn’t suffered too much. Despite their differences, she liked him, envied his equanimity. He seemed to possess an inner calmness that she would never know. And although she had refused to help Spiro set Marchant up with Aziz, she knew she could have done more, protested formally to Langley.

  It had also taken too long for her to be patched through to the pilot. As she had suspected, he had been given orders to circle for two hours and then return to Agadir. He had had no contact with Aziz during the flight. The cockpit door was locked, and Meena sensed that the pilot preferred it that way. It clearly wasn’t the first time Aziz had taken a passenger on a tour of the Med.

  Meena saw Aziz first, head back and to one side, his mouth wide open, as if he was singing grotesquely in his sleep. But there was no sound, and for a second she thought he was dead. She moved forward, trying to process the scene: the clamp in Aziz’s mouth, the dark, congealed stain on his cheek, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the tools littered across the floor. Her orders were to get Marchant away from Aziz, but where the hell was he?

  She glanced around at the two rows of seats in business class. Aziz was in an aisle seat, its upholstery stained and torn. The seats around were also flecked with blood, the crisp paper headrests ripped or missing. Then Meena saw him, slumped on the floor, his back against the open door of the lavatory, hands by his side. Marchant’s eyes were open, but he was barely conscious. The bottom half of his face was badly bruised, his lips bloodied and swollen like slices of overripe peach.

  ‘Daniel,’ she said, putting the handkerchief to her mouth, as much to reassure herself about her own lips as to cut out the stale smell of burnt flesh, which was suddenly overpowering. She rushed over, but by the time she was kneeling down beside him, Marchant’s eyes had closed.

  28

  Giuseppe Demuro was good at recognising guests. It was part of his job, one of the reasons they came back to his resort year after year. Guests liked to be remembered. Some of his colleagues kept notes on the high rollers, hoping that a personal aside on arrival — namechecking the children, asking after a relative — would secure a more generous tip. But Demuro was in no need of any props. He also had a unique manner, honed over the years into what he hoped was a self-respecting obsequiousness, somewhere between a butler and the boss. But it was his memory for faces that had helped him rise to become manager of one of the most luxurious resorts in Sardinia. It was also why he was in the employ of several of the world’s intelligence agencies, who provided more reliable revenue streams than gratuities.

  These organisations weren’t after state secrets or sexual scandal. (A friend of his at a nearby resort made even more money by tipping off the newspapers whenever politicians came to stay with unsuitable companions, but that was beneath Demuro.) All they wanted to know about was unusual combinations of visitors: patterns. In recent years, the resort had become popular with Russians, from oligarchs who moored their yachts offshore to extended families who paid in cash, stayed mostly in their rooms (always sea-facing), lifted weights in the gym and consumed vast quantities of watermelon and cucumber. If an oligarch’s holiday overlapped with a prominent politician’s, Demuro would ring the relevant contact.

  He liked working for the British the most. There was something glamorous — almost Italian — about the MI6 officers he had met, particularly the man they called the Vicar. He would have preferred working for a priest, of course, but he didn’t complain, provided his monthly retainer was in euro
s.

  Demuro had no hesitation, then, in dialling a secure London number after the young American woman checked in to a sea-facing room with a recuperating guest. It wasn’t that he recognised her as CIA. Nor that she had a sick companion. The Americans had brought injured people before. It was the fact that a young Russian couple had arrived shortly after them, asking to be near the sea, too.

  Normally, he would have greeted the couple in fluent Russian. The previous winter, in the off-season, he had been sent to study at a language school in St Petersburg for three months. There were now more Russian than Italian guests at the resort during July and August. But something made Demuro hold back, and speak in broken English. As he walked with the couple to their room, pointing out the tennis courts, pool and restaurant, he overheard a brief exchange between them. It was only a few Russian words, but when he repeated them on the phone, the Vicar hinted at a bonus and Demuro offered a quiet prayer of thanks.

  29

  Marchant awoke to the sound of a chipping noise. It took him a few seconds to realise that it wasn’t coming from inside his mouth. He put his hand up to his jaw, which felt disfigured and swollen. His gums were throbbing, but the pain was less than it had been on the plane. Where was he? He was lying on white cotton sheets, in a whitewashed room. The ceiling was high and latticed with cream-coloured wooden beams. On one wall there was a large mirror, framed in pearl mosaic. A twenty-four-inch television screen perched on a chest of drawers, and fruit — peaches and apricots — had been left in a bowl in front of it. Beside his bed, on a writing table, there were several bottles of pills next to an orchid and some mineral water. He leaned across and picked up one of the bottles: it was amoxicillin, an antibiotic. The other was diamorphine.