‘Family keeping well?’ Fielding asked, as Otto cleared away some cups from the night before and headed for the door.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you. Mr Denton is here. Be seeing you.’
Fielding’s brief moment of sympathy for Leila passed as quickly as it had arrived when Ian Denton, unshaven and carrying a coffee from the canteen, reminded him of what her work for the Iranians might have entailed: not only betraying her country by facilitating a wave of terrorist attacks, but personally destroying his predecessor’s career.
As Fielding filled Denton in on the night’s developments, he became increasingly certain that Leila was the mole who had done so much to destabilise the Service in the past year, leading to Stephen Marchant’s early retirement, ill health and death. Britain had made no secret of its opposition to Iran’s nuclear programme, and although the government had fallen short of supporting America’s calls for a military invasion, Fielding was only too aware of the Treasury funds that were currently being channelled through MI6 to opposition parties, bloggers and students in Iran who supported regime change.
He and Denton both knew, though, that it would take time to prove Leila’s role in the wave of bomb attacks that had preceded Marchant’s departure. An unknown cell in South India, with links to the Gulf, was thought to be behind the blasts. But the trail had invariably gone cold, the network analysis maps always had holes. The terrorists had been at least two steps ahead of MI5, prompting fears that they had inside help. MI6’s role had been to explore the overseas links, and Leila, working for the Gulf Controllerate on the second floor of Legoland, had been a part of the team liaising with MI5. It was all so obvious now.
South India had been in the frame again for the attempted London Marathon attack, although the chatter and network analysis had increasingly pointed to a Gulf connection. That speculative link had since become a reality, thanks to Paul Myers, whose transcripts pointed to Iran’s involvement, as well as Leila’s.
‘Should we have suspected her earlier?’ Fielding asked. He was worried about Denton, who worked too hard and was always ill when he took leave, which was not often enough. (Fielding had to persuade him to use up his annual holiday allowance.) He had never seen him unshaven before, either.
‘It depends on when we think she started to work for VEVAK,’ Denton said.
‘From the off, I fear. They must have made their approach soon after her mother returned to Iran, and before Leila started at the Fort.’
‘And the Americans? Did they know from the beginning?’
‘No. It took them the best part of a year to notice her mother was back in Iran.’
‘A year quicker than us.’
‘Quite. Once Spiro had got wind of the mother’s whereabouts, he used it to recruit Leila.’
‘And Spiro had no idea she was already working for the Iranians?’
‘None. Leila must have convinced him that she hadn’t been compromised by her mother’s move. The CIA was looking for someone close to the head of MI6. Who better than the lover of the Chief’s son? Leila agreed to work for them. She could hardly believe her luck. It was her insurance policy against any future mole-hunt in Legoland.’
Fielding took a piece of flat bread and spread it with labneh. He gestured at Denton, inviting him to share his breakfast, but he declined. Denton preferred a sausage sandwich from the canteen.
‘Leila’s been very smart, Ian,’ Fielding continued. ‘If the West queries her actions, she knows they’re consistent with her undercover role for the Americans. Why did she find herself near the American Ambassador, one runner in 35,000? Because she was working for the CIA, who were worried about an attack. Did she set up Marchant at the marathon, giving him his old phone? Maybe, but if she did, it was on behalf of the CIA, whose distrust of the Marchants was well known.’
Agreeing to spy for America, in other words, had provided Leila with the perfect operational cover for her real job: spying for Iran. A part of Fielding admired her technical prowess. The Service’s instructors at the Fort spent weeks insisting on the need for good legends. Leila must have been listening.
But there was one thing that troubled him above all: why had she remained committed to working for VEVAK? If she was so concerned for her mother’s safety, couldn’t she have asked the Americans to protect her when they discovered that she was living in Iran? They agreed to pay for her mother’s private hospital treatment, so why didn’t she take them into her confidence, explain that VEVAK was threatening to kill her? Perhaps she was in too deep; but Fielding felt there was something else.
‘We still don’t know why she sabotaged the London attack,’ Denton said, interrupting Fielding’s line of thought.
‘No.’ Fielding picked up the transcript of the first conversation between Leila and her mother, on the evening after the marathon, and handed it to Denton. A section of the dialogue had been highlighted in green marker pen:
Mother (Farsi): ‘You told me they wouldn’t come. Others here have suffered, too.’
Leila (Farsi): ‘Never again, Mama. They won’t come any more. (English) I promise.’
Mother (Farsi): ‘Why did they say my family are to blame? What have we ever done to them?’
‘You can see that the mother was clearly told that her family–Leila–was to blame,’ Fielding said, watching Denton as he read the dialogue. ‘When word reached Tehran that the bomber hadn’t detonated his belt, VEVAK turned up and beat her mother’s much-loved cook. If there was a deal between VEVAK and Leila, she had clearly broken it by preventing the attack.’
‘And she didn’t go through with it because of Marchant?’ Denton asked, passing back the transcript. ‘Because she didn’t want her lover to die?’
Fielding hoped so. It would prove that Leila had a weakness–and spies lived for human flaws.
‘Maybe her relationship with Marchant counted for something, I don’t know. Perhaps she felt, for some reason, that a successful attack would have blown her cover. Either way, the Iranians stuck with Leila because she wasn’t just working for MI6, she’d wormed her way into the CIA too. A priceless asset, in other words, who deserved a second chance. And she knows she can’t afford to mess up again. We need to get to Delhi.’
But before Fielding had reached for his jacket, there was a commotion outside. He heard Otto swear–twenty-first-century expletives this time–and then the door swung open. Harriet Armstrong stood there, Sir Marcus Chadwick by her side.
‘We need to talk about Daniel Marchant,’ Chadwick said.
37
Marchant stood in the shade of a stall selling strings of sweet-smelling jasmine, watching a group of bare-chested temple workers stride down the middle of the road. Their manner was urgent, almost sexual, with their shaven heads and toned bodies, wrapped in thin cotton lunghis. Further down the street, they turned into the main entrance of Mahabeleshwar Temple, the religious centre of Gokarna. A young Western couple passed by in the opposite direction. They were stripped to the waist too, except for her bright orange bikini top and his loose-fitting waistcoat. They both looked stoned.
Earlier, Marchant had walked around the temple’s outer courtyard, where cows mingled freely with Hindu pilgrims. He had left his sandals beneath a sign saying ‘Footwears Prohibited’, and watched people going into the candlelit inner sanctum at the centre of the temple complex. The priests stopped Westerners from entering, unsure if they had bathed. Marchant caught a whiff of his own clothes, and conceded that they had a point.
According to Sujit, the man who had sat next to him on his bus journey to Gokarna, the town derived its name from the legend of Lord Shiva, who had once emerged here from the ear of a cow. Another story said it was the home of two brothers, Gokarna and Dhundhakari. Gokarna, born with cow’s ears, wandered the world as an ascetic, while Dhundhakari became