The Daniel Marchant Spy Trilogy: Dead Spy Running, Games Traitors Play, Dirty Little Secret. Jon Stock
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fled to Britain, along with many other Bahá’ís, hounded out by the Revolutionary Guard, who had no time for unrecognised religious minorities.
Leila was born and brought up in Hertfordshire by her mother, while her father worked in various jobs around the Gulf, sometimes joined by his family. Her earliest childhood memories were of the fifty-degree heat in Doha. When she was eight, they all went to live in Houston for two years. For as long as the Ayatollahs ruled, however, there was never a chance of returning to Tehran, because the Bahá’ís remained enemies of an Islamic state that continued to persecute them.
She told the room, in English, how she had applied to the Service in her last year at Oxford, after the master of her college, a former Chief (Stephen Marchant’s predecessor), had invited her for dinner. She feared the worst, not convinced she wanted to join an organisation that still seemed to recruit over a glass of Oxbridge Amontillado, but was surprised by his lack of pomposity, and by the vibrant mix of the four other young people who had been asked along to the same dinner. Only one of them was white, a demographic that was reflected in the room of aspiring spies that day at the Fort. It reminded her of the time she had visited the BBC’s World Service at Bush House.
‘Naturally suspicious, I went back to my room after dinner and sat up all night reading the website, about how people from ethnically diverse backgrounds would be welcome at MI6. I knew MI5 was recruiting multi-racially, but I thought the Service was the last bastion of the white, middle-class, safari-suit-wearing male. People like Daniel here.’ Laughter filled the room. ‘There was a catch, though, as we all know: you had to have at least one British parent. Luckily, my mother always had a thing about English men.’ More laughter. ‘The vetting takes an age, though, didn’t you find? They interviewed my mother for weeks. It must have been the shisha pipe she kept offering round.’
‘Have you ever been back to Iran?’ the instructor asked. He was the only one not laughing.
‘Back? I never lived there.’
‘It must have sometimes felt like home, though,’ the instructor continued. The room’s relaxed atmosphere tensed.
‘I went there once, in my year off,’ she said, fixing the instructor’s eye. ‘I assume everyone here was asked the same question in their first interview, whether they had ever persuaded someone to do something illegal. Well, I told them about my trip to Iran, how I talked a guard on the Turkmenistan border into letting me across to visit the rose harvest in Ghamsar for my PhD on perfume. The gardens were beautiful. I’ll never forget–whole families picking roses in the dawn mist, the dew still wet on the scented petals.’
Marchant had spoken next, knowing that he could never match Leila for presence. Her sassy smile, the sexual poise, that worldly, cosmopolitan voice: sorted rather than arrogant. He explained that he had grown up abroad, moving from one embassy to another around the world until he had been packed off aged thirteen to a boarding school in Wiltshire. He had been told to be upfront about his father, who had recently taken over as Chief, so he joked about keeping it in the family. ‘Spies are like undertakers, they run in families,’ he continued. ‘And I’m in good company, I guess. Kim Philby’s father, St John Philby, had been a senior member of the Service.’ It was a quip he later regretted.
‘After Cambridge, I worked for a couple of years as a hard-up foreign correspondent, stringing from Africa for various British broadsheets and drinking too much cheap Scotch. I landed some of my best stories, including a splash about Gaddafi, thanks to a contact at the High Commission in Nairobi. It was only later that I discovered he worked for I/OPS in Legoland. I was young and naïve at the time, and didn’t realise that it was his job to present the media with stories that helped the national cause. It was on his advice that I eventually returned to London to apply.’
He looked around at his new colleagues, gauging how honest he should be. The room had fallen awkwardly silent. ‘I was in a bad way, to be honest. Rudderless. Broke. You know what hacks are like. There were also a few personal issues that needed resolving.’ He paused again, deciding not to mention his brother. ‘The bloke from I/OPS found me in downtown Nairobi one night, worse for wear. Told me to stop being in denial and apply. I’d always wanted to make my own way in life, not rely on my parents, my father, but I guess the family calling eventually proved too strong.’
Leila came back into the safe-house bedroom, a towel wrapped around her drying hair like a turban. ‘Remember that first day at the Fort, when we all had to stand up and speak?’ Marchant asked, putting on a cotton dressing gown.
‘Yes, why?’
‘We never did find out who was lying.’
After everyone had spoken, their instructor had announced that the life story of one person in the room was entirely false. They had each been told to write down who they thought it was, and why.
‘I don’t think it was any of us,’ Leila said. ‘The only one lying that day was the arsy instructor.’
‘It wasn’t you, then?’ Marchant asked.
‘Me? Is that who you wrote down?’
‘All that Bahá’í back-story. I’m amazed they let you in.’
‘It happens to be true, you cheeky sod,’ she said, kissing his forehead as he lay there on the bed, watching her pull on some knickers. ‘My mother’s an amazing woman. The only reason I made it to Cambridge. I actually found the vetting process very therapeutic, answering all those questions about her, learning more about the Bahá’í faith, her allegiance to Britain.’
‘Were the vetters worried, then?’
‘Not by the time they’d finished. She’d lived in Britain for twenty-five years.’
‘You never talk about her any more.’
Leila fell quiet. He remembered her tears again and reached up to her waist, gently pulling her down to sit beside him on the bed.
‘What is it?’ he asked quietly.
‘Nothing,’ she said, wiping beneath an eye with the back of her hand.
‘The marathon?’
‘No. It’s OK.’ She rested her head on his shoulder, trying not to lose control, taking comfort in his warmth.
The only time Marchant had ever seen Leila cry was when she had come off the phone to her mother in their early days of training at the Fort. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it. When he tried to raise the matter later, she had resisted.
‘Is it your mother?’ he asked. ‘Have you spoken to her recently?’
Leila remained in his arms. She had once told him that her mother often talked of returning to Iran one day. She wanted to be a widow amongst her own family, her people, and to care for her own, ageing mother. But Leila had told her that it was too risky for a Bahá’í to return to Iran while her religion was being systematically persecuted.
Instead, she had been admitted into a nursing home in Hertfordshire, after showing early signs of Alzheimer’s. Leila said that she was bitterly unhappy there, and was soon complaining of being badly treated by the staff, but it was impossible to prove anything or to work out how much was a result of her confused state of mind. Marchant had offered to accompany Leila on a visit, but she didn’t want him to form his only impression of her mother when she was not herself.
‘You did well yesterday, I hope Fielding told you that,’ Leila said, more together now, walking over to the dressing table. ‘You thwarted a twisted plan.’
‘I couldn’t have done it without your help,’ Marchant said, then paused. ‘Pradeep had a son. He showed me a photo.’
The events of the marathon were finally catching up with him, too. Leila sensed the change in his voice. She came back over to the bed and stroked his neck. ‘They were going to kill the boy if he didn’t go through with it,’ Marchant continued. ‘Do you think they did?’
‘He died trying to carry out his mission, and the London Marathon