‘Every one of us.’
‘Hassan was a disappointment, in many ways,’ Leila said, checking that Jago was distracted again. The boy seemed to be deep in thought, contemplating his imminent transformation.
‘Really?’
‘I think he was just lonely.’
‘Did you…?’
‘Squeeze the pips? Yes.’
‘And?’
‘When pushed…squeezed…he mentioned the Russians, said how they had liked the instability of last year, of seeing the Service wobble.’
‘I’m sure they did. It wasn’t the Russians.’
‘No’. She paused, squatting down next to Jago. She had forgotten how brusque Fielding could be in his dismissals.
‘What’s that?’ the boy asked, pointing almost directly beneath them.
‘That’s called a carousel,’ she said, looking at a circular disc of colours far below them. They were almost at the top of the wheel now. Midnight was approaching. ‘Horses and music and…’
‘Oh yes, we saw it down there,’ he said, already looking elsewhere, across the river towards Big Ben.
‘There’s something else I need to talk to you about,’ Leila said. She stood up and walked over to Fielding, who was still looking upriver.
‘Of course.’
‘I need a break. From Britain, from everything that’s happened.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, you can have as long off as you want. Travel, see the world as a tourist for a bit. I thought HR had talked to you about this?’
‘I don’t want a holiday. I need to keep myself busy while he’s away. But not here.’
‘Your next foreign tour is, when, next year?’
‘July.’
‘I’m sure we could bring it forward.’
‘I had something else in mind. The CIA’s exchange programme. They’ve just advertised another position.’
He looked at her for a moment, studying her face. She was strikingly beautiful, he thought, particularly in the soft light of the setting sun. ‘Is that what you really want? I’m surprised. Genuinely. Langley’s no fun at all, you know that.’
‘It’s not in America. A three-month tour on the subcontinent. India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka. I’d start in the Delhi station.’
A thought crossed Fielding’s mind with the fleeting transience of one of Jago’s random musings; but it left a trace that was to linger much longer than he would have liked.
23
Spiro looked again at the grainy image of a two-tonne, dark-blue military truck, standing in heavy traffic on the northern edge of Warsaw.
‘Grom. Polish special forces. When was this taken?’ he asked, pulling hard on his cigarette.
‘20.30 hours,’ Carter said.
The room had gone quiet as everyone stared at the truck.
‘Bring us in closer,’ Spiro said, walking up to the wall as the image grew bigger and more blurred. ‘This part here, the windscreen.’
The truck’s windscreen was highlighted with an animated dotted line, before it expanded to fill the entire wall. The driver could clearly be seen on the right-hand side of the cabin, and the outline of another figure was visible in the passenger seat. But it was the profile of a third person between them that had interested Spiro.
‘Can we rebuild this?’ he asked.
The atmosphere grew tense as Carter and his team exchanged glances with each other, realising that Spiro was about to show them up. They had been more interested in establishing where the truck had gone next, and whether any of the city’s other unreliable cameras had captured its progress.
In a few moments the image had been enhanced enough to reveal the blurred features of a familiar figure. Spiro turned to address the room, one side of the projected figure dappling his own. ‘Hugo Prentice, employee of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Warsaw station. I guess his mother loved him. Langley wants him fried.’
Hugo Prentice wandered through Kolo Bazaar, aware of at least one set of watchers on his tail. He had already counted three of them, and spotted a fourth in the antique mirror on the stall in front of him. They had picked him up after he had left the embassy by car after lunch, following at a safe distance. He knew what their presence meant: they had spotted his image on the traffic CCTV. On the journey down from Stare Kiejkuty he had leant forward in the Grom truck at almost every set of lights, hoping that at least one of the ancient police traffic cameras had been working.
He walked down to the end of the market, stopping occasionally to look at items that genuinely caught his eye: Russian samovars, iron crosses, old leather sofas. It was important for his followers to believe that they had not been spotted. When he made his move, he must do it with the purpose of an intelligence officer who was taking the usual precautions before meeting his agent, rather than someone who was panicking under surveillance.
Spiro was agitated, watching Prentice on the main screen as he moved through the market in the fragmented images of the city centre’s CCTV network.
‘He’s about to dry-clean,’ he said. ‘Moscow rules, British style. They should put this guy in a museum.’
Spiro knew what Prentice was up to. Marchant was too hot to be kept at the British Embassy–they needed to deny all involvement–so he had been secreted somewhere in the city. Prentice was now on his way to meet him. Spiro had asked old friends in the WSI for assistance, but he wasn’t sure if they would be in a position to help after the Stare Kiejkuty fiasco.
‘Eyes on the tram, unit three,’ he said, as Prentice quickened his pace.
The number 12 pulled in just as Prentice reached the stop. He stepped aboard, glancing casually at his watch as he did so. The tram was crowded with afternoon commuters, and there were no seats available, but he wasn’t going far. At the next stop he would get off, descend into the nearby underpass by a subway, and then leave from exit four, one of six possible exits, which was at street level. The street was one-way–the wrong way for any vehicle that might have been following the number 12 tram.
‘Somebody better be following him,’ Spiro said as Prentice disappeared down the underpass. ‘He’s in dead ground.’
‘Unit four?’ the junior officer said.
‘The busker’s playing our song,’ a relaxed voice said on the intercom.
An image of a guitarist, sitting on the floor of the underpass, flashed up on the main screen. Carter allowed himself a nervous smile, pleased that his men were performing well on Spiro’s watch. But Spiro wasn’t impressed.
‘Something’s not right here,’ he said. ‘It’s all too predictable, even for the British.’
‘Exit four,’ said the junior officer.
Spiro watched as Prentice sauntered up onto the street.
‘We have a problem. It’s one-way.’
‘That’s better,’ Spiro said. ‘The old soldier’s warming up.’
Prentice slowed down to look in the window of a shoe shop, checking for trams as he did so. Number 23 was coming down the road, but was still fifty yards from the stop. If he increased his pace now, he just might make it. But he needed his tail to catch the tram too, and he was still packing up his guitar in the underpass.
The lights ahead changed, delaying the