The Daniel Marchant Spy Trilogy: Dead Spy Running, Games Traitors Play, Dirty Little Secret. Jon Stock

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СКАЧАТЬ hear from me in fifteen minutes, try calling the office.’ She paused. ‘Speed-dial 1. They’ll find me.’

      Marchant glanced back at Leila as she pulled up on the side of the road, feigning a hamstring injury. She looked up at him, and for a moment he wondered if she might never make the call, leaving him to run on in his imaginary world of bombers and belts.

      He knew she had tried to walk away from what they had together–God, how they had both tried–but each time one of them had relented. It wasn’t like him at all. For the first time in his life, a woman had got under his skin. Now they might be at the heart of a major security incident, and his involvement wouldn’t do her career any favours. Suspicion still hung over the Marchant family like a poisoned fog.

      She gave a small wave and disappeared in the sea of runners.

      2

      It took ten minutes for Marchant to find Pradeep again. His head was bowed, his feet scuffing the road, running like a drunken tramp. The American Ambassador was in the group immediately ahead of him, still with company. He was moving strongly, chest out, no signs of tiredness. Worryingly, the field seemed to be tightly bunched around Pradeep, not as spread out as it was further back. And then Marchant saw the reason why: up ahead, just beyond the Ambassador, was an official pacemaker, running with a sign above him: eight minutes a mile. Stick with him and the marathon was yours for three hours thirty minutes. Marchant looked at Pradeep again, and feared that he didn’t have long, maybe ten minutes at most.

      ‘Pradeep? It’s me. You’re doing great.’

      ‘It’s too late.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I’m so tired, too weak.’

      ‘Do you want to stop, take a rest?’ Marchant said, bluffing. One final check, just to reassure himself about the GPS.

      Pradeep’s glance at his belt gave him his answer. He was right.

      ‘How about we keep running, but turn off the course, up here, say, right at the pub?’

      Pradeep shook his head.

      ‘Is the marathon route programmed into your GPS, your Sat-Runner?’ Marchant asked. That was something else his father had told him, shortly after he’d joined the Service: never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.

      Pradeep didn’t respond. He was really struggling now, continually losing his footing. Marchant looked at his frame, lean and sinewy, and thought that in other circumstances he would be a natural marathon runner. No doubt that was why he had been chosen. But the mental pressure on Pradeep was sapping every ounce of his energy. Marchant could feel them slowing moments before the GPS beeped.

      ‘Come on, Pradeep, we’re going to get through this,’ Marchant said, trying to pick up the pace again. They had to keep running until Leila rang. She would have an answer.

      ‘Two beeps and we’re gone,’ Pradeep replied, suddenly grinning, almost laughing. Marchant realised Pradeep was losing control. ‘You don’t understand, my friend,’ he continued. ‘The American. I can’t leave him.’

      ‘The Ambassador?’

      Marchant looked up at Turner Munroe, who was five yards in front of him. The Ambassador checked his watch, and for the first time Marchant noticed that its bulky design was identical to Pradeep’s.

      ‘Eight minutes a mile. He always runs the same,’ said Pradeep, suddenly sounding like a trainer admiring one of his charges.

      ‘Three hours thirty,’ Marchant said. ‘He’s running a 3.30.’

      ‘One hour forty.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘He reaches Tower Bridge after one hour forty minutes.’

      ‘And?’

      Pradeep smiled again, tears welling now. They had been running for one hour thirty minutes. Marchant desperately wanted Leila to ring, more than when they had first tried to split up, more than after their first date at the Fort, MI6’s training centre in Gosport. He looked at the phone in his hand and saw that the commercial networks had been knocked out. Should he try ringing her? The office would be surprised to hear his voice, but she would have told them and they would patch him through to wherever she was. He lifted his head, looked around, and for a moment he thought he saw his father running ahead of him, trundling along at a surprising speed for his age.

      He blinked, wiping the sweat away from his eyes, and looked again at the handset. He had to stay on top of this: Pradeep was wearing a belt of explosives linked in some way to the GPS receiver on his wrist. He seemed to be an unwilling participant, rather than a suicide bomber. If he slowed down, the explosives would detonate: ditto if he took any deviation from the marathon course, the waypoints for which had been entered into his GPS. And for some reason it seemed that Pradeep had to stay close to the Ambassador, possibly because of a similar GPS receiver on his wrist.

      Suddenly Leila’s TETRA phone was vibrating in his hand. A couple of runners ahead of him glanced around at the sound of the loud ringtone.

      ‘Leila?’ he said, hearing the panic rise in his own voice. He had to remain calm.

      ‘Did you try ringing me?’ she asked.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Don’t, OK?’ she insisted. ‘Please. Just don’t. There’s some sort of problem with TETRA. Are you still with him?’

      ‘Yes.’ Marchant glanced across at Pradeep, managed a smile, then pulled back a few yards, out of earshot.

      ‘Listen very carefully,’ Leila was saying. ‘I’m on the grid at Thames House. MI5 picked up someone in Greenwich and have been sweating him all morning. You’ve got to get the GPS off the Ambassador’s wrist.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘It’s just like you said. The Asian guy’s GPS receiver is linked to his belt using Bluetooth. Only we think the belt can be triggered by Munroe’s GPS too.’

      ‘If Munroe drops off the pace as well, you mean,’ Marchant said.

      ‘Yes.’ Marchant thought of Pradeep’s words, how he said he couldn’t leave the Ambassador. ‘And maybe if the link between the two GPSs is broken, if they’re separated,’ Leila added. ‘Technical’s working on the permutations now.’

      Marchant could hear other people in the background. He imagined the scene at Thames House, MI5’s headquarters, as news of the situation spread and increasingly senior people arrived, duty officer giving way to Harriet Armstrong, MI5’s Director General, who had helped to hound his father out of office. Leila would be consulted less and less, particularly once his own involvement had become clear. It was a nightmare for MI5: having to rely on someone from MI6, and a discredited case officer, too. It would confirm their worst suspicions about their rivals south of the river. And then the US Secret Service would try to take over, reigniting old turf wars.

      ‘What about the Americans?’ Marchant asked. ‘Are they running the show now?’

      ‘Not yet. They wanted to lift Munroe and for us СКАЧАТЬ