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

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СКАЧАТЬ I get to wear the Ambassador’s GPS, then what?’

      Leila paused. ‘You both keep running while Cheltenham tries to intercept the satellite signals.’

      ‘Tries?’

      ‘They’re keen to pull you out, Daniel, put someone else in.’

      ‘I bet they are.’

      ‘But it’s going to take time, and we haven’t got any.’

      ‘Pradeep’s knackered.’

      ‘I know. We’ve got a feed from the BBC helicopter above you now.’

      Marchant had forgotten about it, hovering high above him. So Armstrong could see them, he thought. He could never forgive what she and others in MI5 had done to his father. Stephen Marchant was a man who had lived and breathed for the Service, only to be accused, at the pinnacle of his career, of the very thing he had always despised in others. Some people died of a broken heart; his father had died of shame, within weeks of being forced to retire as Chief. There was nothing more important to his father than loyalty. Even the best assets he had recruited, the ones who made his reputation in Delhi, Moscow, Washington, Paris, had filled him with a deep loathing for mankind and its willingness to betray.

      ‘Don’t Munroe’s babysitters have a radio link?’ Marchant asked. Things might become easier for him and Leila after this; the family’s reputation might be restored; he might get his old job back.

      ‘They’re linked to each other,’ Leila replied, ‘not to the outside world.’

      ‘That figures. Is there a code for this yet? Something to reassure the Ambassador I’m not from Albania when I relieve him of his watch.’

      ‘Tell them it’s a Defcon Five. Try “Operation Kratos” if that doesn’t work. Once you’ve got the GPS, persuade Munroe to leave the course as soon as possible. He must be out of there before Tower Bridge.’

      ‘What is it with the bridge?’ Marchant asked, remembering Pradeep’s words.

      ‘It’s where the biggest crowds are, apart from the finish. We’re trying to clear the area now. Bomb disposal are on the way. We’ve got blues assembling in all the back streets, from you to Tower Bridge.’

      The line suddenly dropped. There was not much more to say. Marchant moved up to join Pradeep again.

      He had some jelly beans on board for the final few miles, but he decided to pull the bag out from his pocket now and offer them to Pradeep, who visibly rallied at the sight of them.

      ‘Beats the gels,’ Marchant said, taking a couple himself after Pradeep had grabbed a desperate handful. ‘I’m going to talk to the Ambassador, then I’m coming back,’ Marchant said. ‘It’s going to be OK. I promise. Sab theek ho jayega, Pradeep. Everything’s going to be fine.’

      Marchant hoped his rusty Hindi had reassured Pradeep as he moved up towards the Ambassador. He knew a bit about Turner Munroe, who had arrived in London six months ago. He was a hawk, best known for his outspoken views on Iran, where he favoured regime change by military intervention. And he had fought in the first Gulf War, serving with distinction. Marchant now knew that he was also a fitness fanatic, who liked to run with an iPod.

      Experience had taught Marchant to stick to protocol when dealing with the Americans (it reduced the chances of being shot), so he approached the Ambassador’s outriders first. When he explained that they were in the midst of a critical, Defcon Five incident, they asked him for some ID, as Marchant knew they would. They finally agreed to let him approach the Ambassador when he name-checked one of his old CIA contacts who was still based in London, but only after they had briefed their boss.

      ‘How you doing?’ Munroe asked, taking an earpiece out of his right ear. Marchant swore he was listening to Bruce Springsteen. ‘Tell me you’re kidding about the Defcon Five.’

      ‘No, sir, I’m afraid it’s true,’ Marchant said, knowing Munroe would appreciate the ‘sir’.

      ‘You realise I’ve never run a 3.30 before? Boston: 3.35.10, Chicago: 3.32.20. Right now I’m heading for 3.29.30, and you’re telling me to quit?’

      ‘You might never be able to run again if you hang around here,’ Marchant said.

      ‘Is that so?’ Munroe said sarcastically. Marchant glanced at one of the sweating Security Service officers, who was nodding towards the side of the road.

      ‘Sir, we need to break off,’ the officer said, moving alongside the Ambassador. At the same time, his colleague closed in on the far side.

      ‘But first I need your Sat-Runner,’ Marchant said.

      ‘Am I being mugged here?’ Munroe said. ‘That’s what it feels like. Mugged on the London Marathon. Can you believe it?’

      ‘I really need the GPS,’ Marchant said, as the Ambassador’s babysitters began to ease him across the road. ‘And please don’t slow down.’

      Munroe looked at him as he undid the strap and handed the receiver over. ‘3.29.30. A PB was on the cards here, never mind the heat. Somebody’s going to pay for this.’

      He watched as Munroe was almost lifted to the kerb, where he stopped, reluctantly. Then Marchant strapped the GPS to his own wrist. Pradeep was now ahead of them, glancing anxiously over his shoulder.

      ‘We’re in this together now,’ Marchant said, coming up on Pradeep’s shoulder and showing him his wrist.

      3

      Paul Myers was unpicking encrypted emails and eating his fourth Snickers of the day when he took Leila’s call. He’d always liked her, ever since she had attended his course on jihadi chatrooms and had asked the first question, filling the awkward silence that always followed his introductory talks. All MI6’s new recruits were invited up to GCHQ in Cheltenham for a week, to give them a break from training at the Fort, and, Myers thought, to show them where the real work was done.

      Paul had liked Leila’s boyfriend, too, though only begrudgingly at first. On the surface, Daniel Marchant had seemed to be the archetypal obnoxious MI6 man: Oxbridge, well travelled, smooth-talking, handsome and good at games–everything Myers wasn’t. But then he read his file and learnt about the dark stuff–the benders, the brawls, the twin brother who was killed when he was eight in a car crash in Delhi, the mother who never recovered, dying a depressive–and began to warm to him. Everyone in life was struggling to keep it together, he thought. According to Leila, Marchant had never got over losing his brother, and had been drinking himself slowly to death until he stumbled out of journalism and into the Service. It must have been like coming home, what with his old man running the show.

      They might have been friends sooner if Paul hadn’t somehow convinced himself that Leila carried a torch for him, despite the obvious chemistry between her and Marchant. He knew it was insane, an attractive case officer like her falling for a short-sighted, overweight desk analyst, and common sense soon prevailed, but those early feelings for her had stayed with him. Now she was on the phone, breathless and posing one of the most interesting questions he had been asked in months: could he screw up the Americans’ GPS network for a few minutes?

      Given the history of the navigation system, and in particular СКАЧАТЬ