Marchant knew, though, that Fielding was right: his Morocco days were over. He had already booked himself onto the early-morning flight back to London. In India, when he was a child, his father had once told him to live in each country as if for ever, but always to be ready to leave at dawn. At the time, his father was a middle-ranking MI6 officer who had served in Moscow before Delhi. He was used to the threat of his diplomatic cover being blown, of tit-for-tat expulsions.
Marchant wasn’t being expelled, but there had been an incident of some sort in the mountains and he had witnessed it. Whether anyone had seen him, he wasn’t sure, but he knew MI6 couldn’t afford for him to be caught up in another controversy, not after the events in India. And if he was right about Moscow’s involvement, an international row might be imminent.
After finishing his Scotch he ordered another. He had swapped his djellaba for jeans and a collarless shirt before coming to the pub, and guessed the waiter had marked him down as just another drunken Western tourist, tanking up before a night at the clubs. So be it. He needed to cut a different figure from the one who had ridden out to Tizi a few hours earlier.
It was after an hour and too much Scotch that Marchant saw the dark-haired woman walk up to the bar. He recognised her at once as Lakshmi Meena, the local Operations Officer the CIA had sent to keep an eye on him when he had first arrived in Marrakech. London had briefed him about her. She was a beneficiary of the CIA’s ongoing programme to recruit more people from what it called America’s ‘heritage communities’, particularly those who spoke ‘mission critical’ languages. MI6 had always recruited linguists, unlike the CIA, which had been found wanting after 9/11. Even in its National Clandestine Service, only 30 per cent of CIA staff were fluent in a second language. Meena spoke Hindi, some Urdu and, most importantly, the Dravidian languages of southern India, which had been upgraded to critical in the ongoing hunt for Salim Dhar, whose parents were originally from Kerala.
Marchant had also been told that she was a breath of fresh air, one of the recent intake who had joined the Agency on the back of the new President’s promises of change. He had yet to see any difference, at least in the CIA’s attitude to him.
Meena was young, late twenties, dressed in jeans and a maroon Indian top with mirrorwork that caught the light around her neckline. Officially, she was in Morocco teaching English as a foreign language, working at the American Language Center up in Rabat. Marchant had to admit that she looked the part, one up from his own student cover. He wished he’d thought of it for himself.
Meena walked over to Marchant’s table in the courtyard, checking her mobile phone before putting it away in her shoulder-bag. Marchant was momentarily wrongfooted by the direct approach. They had met face to face only once before, shortly after Marchant had arrived: a cold exchange in the foyer of a hotel.
‘Do what you have to do,’ Marchant had said, trying not to see Leila in Meena’s limpid eyes, her dark olive skin. ‘Just don’t expect any answers from me.’
‘You flatter yourself,’ she had replied. ‘We ask questions later, remember?’
It hadn’t been the beginning of a beautiful friendship. He knew afterwards that he had played it too cool, that she was only doing her job, but he wasn’t in the mood to mix with female field agents, particularly ones who reminded him of a woman who had betrayed him. Meena was taller, her manner more hardened, but there was unquestionably something of Leila in her: an attitude, sexual poise. And Marchant knew that any likeness was no coincidence, that it was a cruel joke by Spiro. Frustrated that he wasn’t allowed to lock Marchant up and torture him again, Spiro had sent someone to remind him of his past. But Marchant ignored the ploy, ignored Meena. For the following few weeks, they had played cat and mouse on the streets of Marrakech, before Meena had finally backed off to Rabat.
‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked, taking a seat.
‘Go ahead,’ Marchant said, concealing his surprise. A waiter was standing beside them. For a moment, he was back in a pub in Portsmouth, chatting up strangers as part of a training exercise. All new recruits at the Fort, MI6’s training base in Gosport, were dispatched to the city’s bars and pubs to chat up unsuspecting locals and solicit private information: bank-card details, National Insurance and passport numbers.
‘Bourbon and Coke, thanks. Daniel?’
Marchant knew Meena was taking in the scene, measuring the milligrams of alcohol in Marchant’s blood, whether his defences were down. The only consolation was that she wasn’t the sort to flirt. He didn’t think he could handle that right now. Leila had used her sexual charms shamelessly, in the office and in the field, but he sensed that Meena did things differently.
‘A Scotch, thanks,’ Marchant replied, nodding at the waiter.
‘I thought you’d given all that up,’ she said, fingering her Indian necklace. ‘Gone native.’
‘Celebrating. I didn’t think you drank either.’ He had read her files: vegetarian, non-drinker, decaffeinated coffee, herbal tea.
‘Celebrating, too.’
Marchant thought her necklace was from south India, similar to one his mother had once worn. He raised his glass, trying to run his own check on himself, calculate the damage. A drinking session after three months’ abstinence wasn’t a good idea, but he was sober enough to extract some leverage from the situation, fool Meena into thinking he was drunker than he was. At least, that was the plan. His dulled brain could think of two reasons why she had stepped out of the shadows tonight. To say goodbye, having heard that Dhar was dead; or to find out if he knew anything about the helicopter in the mountains. He had a problem if it was the latter.
‘You heard the news then,’ she said, glancing around the bar before looking at Marchant, his already empty glass.
‘I heard,’ he said, thinking it could still be either.
‘Mixed feelings, I guess.’
He sat back, relieved that she had come to talk about Dhar.
‘To be honest, I don’t really know what to say,’ she continued, brushing some crumbs off the table. ‘Langley’s kind of over the moon, as you’d expect. But it’s a little more complicated for you guys.’
‘Is it? He tried to kill your President. Now you’ve killed him. End of story.’
‘But, you know, the whole half-brother thing.’ Meena leaned in towards Marchant. ‘I realise you didn’t exactly grow up together, but that could have been new territory, for all of us –’
‘Why did you come here tonight?’ Marchant was suddenly irritated by Meena’s appearance on his last evening in Morocco, riled by how much she knew, her after-work pub manner. He had been about to leave, take one last walk around Djemaâ el Fna. Now he was in an English bar, having a drink with someone he had avoided for the past three months.
‘I figured you’d be pulling out of town,’ Meena said. ‘Thought it would be civil to tie this whole thing off, say goodbye.’
Marchant allowed the awkwardness to linger for a few seconds, in case there was anything else to flush out. But there was nothing. The Americans thought they had killed Dhar, and he was happy to let them. Marchant wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or sudden empathy for a fellow field officer, but something made him change tack and end the awkwardness, drop his guard.
‘Thanks,’ he said, watching the waiter place their order on the table. ‘You know, for coming. We should have had this drink three months ago.’
She wasn’t so bad, he told himself. He was the one who had been stubborn, too angry with the way he had been treated by the Americans. Meena was younger than him, still believed that she was making a difference. And she could have made his life a lot more difficult.
‘I wasn’t really getting the right vibes,’ she said, smiling, putting her hands up in mock defence. ‘Hey, look, I don’t blame you for not trusting us. Not at all.’
‘I gave up trusting people when I signed