Dirty Little Secret. Jon Stock

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ know, yesterday’s attacks on the Royal International Air Tattoo at Fairford, where an F-22 Raptor was destroyed, and on GCHQ at Cheltenham, were carried out by Salim Dhar in a Russian SU-25 fighter jet. Although we think it was partly an act of proxy terrorism on behalf of the Russians, Dhar was essentially operating on his own.’

      A dissenting shuffle of papers. ‘And with more than a little help from one of your officers,’ the director of GCHQ said. ‘Daniel Marchant was in the cockpit with Dhar?’

      The gloves were coming off quicker than Fielding had expected.

      ‘As I outlined to the Americans in our earlier JIC meeting,’ he replied, trying to ignore the knots tightening like serpents, ‘Daniel Marchant succeeded in talking Dhar out of a far worse attack. Two points I’d like noted, please.’ A glance at the COBRA secretary. God help him, he thought: he was starting to sound like a politician, covering his arse at every opportunity. ‘First, the Russians wanted Dhar to wipe out a delegation of Georgian generals who were at the air show to sign a deal with the US. Dhar pulled out of the attack at the last moment – thanks to Marchant. It should also be noted that the attack would have killed the US Defense Secretary, a point that seems to have been overlooked in Washington.

      ‘Secondly, Dhar’s plane was armed with a thousand-pound radioactive dirty bomb. Caesium-137 – nasty stuff, particularly in a conurbation the size of Cheltenham. It was always his intention to fly on to GCHQ, twenty miles to the north-west, and drop this bomb on the building. In the event, he pulled out of that plan too, again thanks to the bravery of my officer, Daniel Marchant. Instead, Dhar opted for a conventional explosive that I gather caused only minor structural damage.’

      ‘And killed one of my colleagues,’ the Director of GCHQ added.

      A pause. Fielding thought about offering his condolences, but it seemed trite in the circumstances.

      ‘Thank you, Marcus,’ the Prime Minister said, after waiting in vain for Fielding to commiserate. ‘I think it would be fair to say that while those gathered here understand the role of MI6 in all this’ – a dry cough from the sidelines. Was it really Denton, Fielding wondered – ‘the Americans don’t. I’ve just come off the phone to the President, who is demanding to know why an MI6 agent was in a plane that destroyed $155 million-worth of USAF aircraft.’

      ‘It’s no exaggeration to say that our relationship with Washington is in tatters,’ the Foreign Secretary said. ‘Trade meetings cancelled, diplomatic initiatives dropped.’

      ‘I’ve just been informed that the proposed new Joint National Security Board has been put on ice,’ added the government’s National Security Adviser, glancing up at Fielding.

      ‘And the NSA’s Echelon cooperation thresholds on SIGINT have significantly risen across the grid in the past few hours,’ the director of GCHQ said. ‘It’s as if the UKUSA Agreement didn’t exist.’

      ‘I also understand France has now been asked to head up NATO’s joint sea exercise off Cape Wrath next week,’ said the Joint Chief of Staff. ‘It’s normally our shout.’

      Things must be serious if the Americans were cosying up to the French. For the first time, Fielding wondered if he would be forced to reveal his ace in the hole, but he knew he couldn’t. It was a secret that only he and Marchant were privy to.

      ‘It’s with all this in mind,’ the Prime Minister continued, ‘that I’ve asked the Foreign Secretary to head up a Cabinet working group that will focus solely on rebuilding all aspects of our relationship with America. Ian Denton will oversee intelligence sharing, which of course lies at the heart of the partnership.’

      Credit where credit was due, thought Fielding. Denton had played a blinder, distancing himself from a discredited Chief of MI6, and climbing into bed with the Foreign Secretary. Another knot tightened.

      ‘At the heart of our strategy is doing all we can to help the US find Salim Dhar,’ the Foreign Secretary said. ‘It’s the only thing that will pacify Washington, and it’s the least we can do, given Dhar’s unfortunate connection with Britain.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘As of thirty minutes ago, when Fox News broke the story against our wishes, I’m afraid it’s now common knowledge that Salim Dhar’s father was Stephen Marchant, the late Chief of MI6, and his half-brother is Daniel Marchant, a serving MI6 officer. Ian here will be working closely with JTAC, GCHQ, Five and of course Six over the coming weeks.’

      ‘And we still don’t know any more about Dhar’s last movements in UK waters?’ the PM asked.

      ‘We’ve got Sentinel and Sentry cover, they’re combing the entire area,’ said the Joint Chief of Staff. ‘So far, just the one abandoned trawler and three dead crew. A few minutes ago we picked up the acoustic profile of a Russian Akula-class submarine off the coast of Ireland, south-east of Cork, heading out to sea. It might have been part of Dhar’s original exit strategy, but I’m not sure how keen the Russians would be to help him, given he failed to attack the Georgian generals. I’m afraid Salim Dhar seems to have vanished into thin air.’

      4

      Dhar sat against the rocks, watching through narrowed eyes as the man descended towards him. The noise of the yellow Sea King helicopter was deafening, the downcurrent from its blades instilling a sudden panic in him. It took all of his self-control to stay where he was, pinned to the ground like quarry beneath a hovering hawk. His instinct was to run, along the foreshore, into the sea, anywhere. The helicopter brought back too many memories: his hasty departure from the Atlas Mountains, the unnecessary killing of the Berber messenger.

      The winch man was almost with him now, spinning on the rope like a dangling spider. He had a luminous orange stretcher under one arm and his feet were out to the side, to protect himself from the cliff face. Dhar checked for the handgun in his pocket. Earlier, he had dragged the Russian back to the boat and ordered him to remove his outer clothing. Then he had shot him, a double tap to the forehead and a prayer for the thousands of Muslim brothers slain by the SVR in the Caucasus. Struggling with his injured leg, he had climbed out of his flying suit and put on the Russian’s jacket and bloodied trousers, watched by his hollow stare.

      If the dead Russian had seemed to disapprove of Dhar’s new outfit, his distorted features had formed a smirk when he had reached for the vodka bottle and, for the first time in his life, tasted alcohol. He had closed his eyes as the liquid burnt against the back of his throat. You who believe, intoxicants and games of chance are repugnant acts – Satan’s doing. Allah would forgive him, would understand how important it was that his rescuers thought he was drunk. It was only drinking from the grape that was haraam, wasn’t it? And hadn’t the caliph Haroun Al-Rashid occasionally indulged?

      Dhar sat perfectly still now as the winch man touched down beside him, unhooked the stretcher and leant in close to his face. The alcohol’s alien effects made Dhar’s head spin when he closed his eyes. He hoped that his breath carried its sinful traces. Why hadn’t he thrown the half-empty bottle away, instead of slipping it into his inside pocket?

      ‘Can you hear me?’ the winch man asked, checking for vital signs. Dhar had decided that unconsciousness was the most credible state after a drunken cliff fall. The winch man had seen the bloodstains on his leg, the ripped trousers and the dark bruising below, and was now checking the wound. Tentatively he pulled back the material and spoke into his helmet mike.

      Dhar couldn’t catch the exact words, but he heard something about an incoming tide. Five minutes later his head was whirling like a dervish as the stretcher lifted into the sky. It was a relief when he СКАЧАТЬ