25

      Fielding walked briskly along the south side of Grosvenor Road. Oleg was at heel, surprised but happy to be on a night-time walk. They had slipped out of the Dolphin Square flat unnoticed by the Special Branch guard down on the street, which gave Fielding a kick. He might not be Chief for much longer, but he hadn’t lost any of his old field skills.

      He wanted to see for himself if Spiro had really parked his tanks on MI6’s lawn. The threat, relayed by the PM, had sounded real enough, and as he turned south onto Vauxhall Bridge, dawn beginning to break over London, he knew his career with the Service would soon be over. They weren’t tanks, but two large US military lorries were positioned across the road, stopping what little traffic there was at that time of the morning. He could see more US military vehicles down by the bus station, closing off all approaches to the usually busy junction. It was a scene not unlike the ones that had recently caused Fielding to wake in the middle of the night, dripping in sweat: tangible proof of Britain’s submission to America.

      Up in front of him a solitary car was turning around, followed by a motorbike, both being instructed by a helmeted US Marine waving a gun. A gust of wind blew up from the river. Fielding tugged at his coat collar and considered turning around too, but he wanted to see if Spiro was there, tell him to his face that he was making a fool of the United States, and not just MI6. He was certain now that Dhar had made his way to Tarlton, the Marchant family home, from where he had rung Daniel on an old secure line. It was a desperate decision for a man on the run, but perhaps he had nowhere else to go.

      There was nothing Fielding could do about it. What power he still had was slipping through his fingers like desert sand. It was up to Marchant now. He would find a way out of the Fort, and make his way to Tarlton. That was what he was best at: kicking out against his own system. Like Fielding, Marchant would want to know what the hell Dhar was playing at. He just hoped that others wouldn’t get to Tarlton first.

      He kept walking, tugging at Oleg, who seemed less eager to confront the scene up ahead.

      ‘No access, sir,’ the Marine said as Fielding approached the roadblock.

      ‘Is Jim Spiro around?’ Fielding asked. ‘Tell him it’s Marcus Fielding, Chief of MI6.’

      The Marine looked him up and down, then got on his radio mike. Two minutes later, Spiro was sauntering over as if he had just conquered London. Fielding was surprised he wasn’t smoking a stogie.

      ‘Nobody seems to be at home,’ Spiro began, looking over his shoulder at Legoland. The lights were all out and the windows shuttered. ‘We knocked on the front door, like the polite people we are, but there was no answer. Don’t suppose you’ve got a key?’

      ‘If I had more time, I’d gladly show you around.’

      ‘Where is he, Marcus?’

      ‘He’s not in Legoland, for Christ’s sake.’

      ‘I kinda figured that. Not even the Brits would be that dumb.’

      ‘So why are you here?’

      ‘Wanted a drive through London without the traffic. And our trucks are cheaper than those open-topped buses. Or them crazy Yellow Duck tours. We’re bringing Marchant in too, by the way. He took the call. He’ll know where Dhar is.’

      ‘And when you find him, what then? Will our problems be over?’

      ‘I reckon the world will be a safer place with a dead Salim Dhar, don’t you?’

      Fielding didn’t answer. Without realising it, Spiro had gone to the core of what had been troubling him ever since he and Marchant had signed off on their deal. Would their plan lead to a safer world? It didn’t matter now. The operation was in pieces, shattered before it had begun.

      Fielding turned and walked slowly back across the bridge. If this was what the intelligence community had become, there was no place in it for him. He glimpsed an oystercatcher in the mud down on the Thames. At least he would have more time for birdwatching. He wasn’t interested in going back into the City, or working in oil, despite various approaches that had already been made. The money was eye-watering, but he had never wanted for much. And he hadn’t talked Gaddafi out of his nuclear ambitions in order to feather his own nest.

      He would call up old friends he hadn’t seen for years, cook them pomegranate chicken with fattoush salad, baba ganoush and sesame couscous cakes. There would be time to spoil his godchildren with trips to Russian circuses. Improve his flute-playing. And travel. Ever since reading From the Holy Mountain he had longed to journey through the lands of the ancient Byzantine Empire, visiting monasteries, churches and Stylite hermitages.

      There might even be time for love. He knew what the office gossip was: the Vicar was gay – either that, or celibate. It wasn’t surprising. He had made a conscious, cold-hearted decision to put that side of life on hold when he joined the Service fifteen years earlier. There had been a woman in his life once, when he was working in emerging Middle Eastern markets before he had joined the Service. Later, during his initial vetting process, questions were asked about her. Kadia’s parents were Libyan, and she and her family had spent a life in exile, mostly in London. Despite her opposition to Gaddafi, Mossad had passed a file to MI6 suggesting she had links with Palestinian terrorists. It turned out to be untrue, but he had learnt his lesson. Love had nearly ruined his career before it had started.

      As he was nearing Dolphin Square, a 4x4 Subaru with blackened windows slowed down beside him. Fielding tensed, suddenly regretting his decision to go out without protection.

      ‘Get in,’ the voice said. It was Turner Munroe, the US Ambassador to London.