The Daniel Marchant Spy Trilogy: Dead Spy Running, Games Traitors Play, Dirty Little Secret. Jon Stock
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of slow-moving traffic were being projected onto the main wall.
‘Gridlock,’ Spiro said. ‘Just like Route 28 after a Red Sox game.’
‘If the truck was coming into Warsaw, it would have entered the city on the Moscow–Berlin road,’ Carter said, looking over his junior colleague’s shoulder at the computer screen again. He was avoiding eye contact with Spiro as much as he could. The screen was split into three sections: the main traffic image, a city map, and a database displaying a list of camera positions throughout the city. ‘Switch to camera 17,’ Carter said. The junior officer scrolled down the list.
A new image, less grainy than the first, was projected onto the wall. The queue of traffic leaving the city was moving slower than the cars arriving.
‘How long does it take to get from Stare Kiejkuty to Warsaw by truck?’ Spiro asked.
Carter nudged the junior officer, who looked at his map again and zoomed out from the city to an image of the north of the country. A route highlighted in red wormed its way almost instantly from the airbase to Warsaw.
‘Two hours fifteen,’ Carter said, reading from the screen.
‘Can you get us into traffic archive?’ Spiro asked him.
‘It’ll take some time.’
‘I want everything from eighteen to twenty-one hundred hours. Let’s see if that truck showed up in the city last night. We also need passenger lists from Warsaw, Krakow and Gdansk airports. And I want the names of any Brits who are even thinking about flying out of Poland; then crunch them through Langley. How many have we got up at the airport?’
‘Two units. We called in back-up from Berlin.’
‘Marchant cannot leave this lousy country, is that clear?’
21
Marchant lay on the bed, watching Monika as she undressed and slipped onto the sheets next to him, at ease with her nakedness. Earlier she had offered to take his ticket to her friend, who could postpone his flight by a day. He had been more than happy to let her, falling into a surprisingly deep sleep while she was away. The less time he spent on the streets of Warsaw, the better, and they would be watching all the airports. Changing his flight departure might buy him a little time. The alarm would have been raised by now, and Prentice had made it clear that the Service’s help was over.
Monika’s kindnesses continued, but Marchant was far from certain that they were unconditional, particularly when she announced that she would be coming with him to the airport.
‘India is calling you, I can tell,’ she said. ‘But first…’
She hooked a leg over his, but just as she started to kiss Marchant, he stopped her, noticing for the first time his rucksack in the corner of the room.
‘Something wrong?’ she asked.
‘Did you bring my rucksack over?’ he asked, propping himself up on one elbow.
‘Of course. You’re staying over, remember?’
‘Did anyone see you, carrying it?’
‘No, why? Is there a problem?’
He said nothing, and sank back on the bed. So far, he had avoided telling Monika anything that might arouse her suspicion, sticking as close as possible to his legend: he had been bumming around Europe, checked into the Oki Doki before flying out to India, but had been delayed by the bohemian charms of a beautiful receptionist. Par for the course for David Marlowe. But he knew he would soon have to say something more: their journey to the airport would need to be discreet. He decided to opt for the truth, give or take a few dollars.
‘The Americans are looking for me,’ he began, taking a pack of her cigarettes from the bedside table and lighting up. He had forgotten how it felt to embark on a lie, that exquisite moment when you step off from ordinary life into the shadows of deceit, where anything is suddenly possible. For a moment the thrill was intoxicating.
‘Why?’ She seemed genuinely surprised, resting her chin on both hands to listen.
‘I needed dollars for India, the new bank at the US Embassy was offering the best rate, so I went along. But they wouldn’t let me in without searching my rucksack.’ He paused, relishing the options, wondering which way to take his story. ‘I had a row.’
‘You should have left your rucksack somewhere, like at the station. It’s the same everywhere.’
‘I know. But I’d only just arrived in Warsaw. OK, I also had a bit of puff on board. I didn’t want a scene.’
‘Was it just a row?’ Monika asked, putting one hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. I just can’t imagine you angry. Did you get very cross? Like really crazy?’
Her manner was coquettish, playful, and he wondered again whether she was playing a game too. ‘There was a bit of mutual pushing. Your police were called, but they weren’t interested.’
‘But the Americans are?’
‘Maybe I’m being paranoid. I had that rucksack with me, that’s all. And they started to ask what was in it when I wouldn’t show them.’
‘No one saw me, Mr Angry-man. And you’re with me now. I checked you out.’ He stared at her through his smoke. ‘From the hostel,’ she added, kissing him.
22
Leila had met Jago, a tousle-haired six-year-old, once before, but this was her first time on the London Eye. Fielding had emailed her earlier in the day with the unusual time and place, explaining that he would have a godson in tow. Everyone in the Service knew the Vicar had an inordinate number of godchildren (fourteen at the last count). Less well known was how he found time to see them all. They were a lucky bunch, she thought, as Fielding led them through the shadows to an empty capsule, bypassing the long queue. He ushered Leila and Jago before him, nodding at an attendant as the doors closed. It evidently wasn’t Fielding’s first visit.
As Jago swung on the metal handrail, looking fearlessly at the Thames below him, Leila took in London from a new perspective. All around her, as they rose almost imperceptibly into the night sky, buildings coyly revealed parts that had seldom been seen by the public before: pointed skylights, roof gullies, curved domes.
‘We always try to get a sunset flight,’ Fielding said, looking west, where the high clouds were tinged with red. ‘Don’t we Jago?’
But Jago was too preoccupied by a passenger boat making its way up the river, its wake spreading like spilt salt behind it.
‘He’s grown up a lot since I last saw him,’ Leila offered, doubting whether Fielding’s effort to include his godson in their conversation was genuine.
‘They do, you know,’ he said, still looking out west. ‘Sorry to bring you up here.’
‘It’s great. I’ve never been.’
‘We just can’t be sure about Legoland at the moment.’
‘No?’
She presumed he meant MI5, but Fielding didn’t elaborate. ‘Stay away from the doors and these pods are almost impenetrable,’ he continued. ‘At least at the top. Curved glass, you see. Sometimes I reckon there are more of the world’s intelligence services flying the London Eye than tourists. Word’s got out.’
‘Uncle Marcus?’ Jago asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘Are we moving faster than a clock?’
‘A clock? Well, faster than the long hand, slower than the second hand.’
‘What’s the time now, then?’
‘The time?’ Marcus repeated, barely missing a beat. It was why he always accepted