Читать книгу Dirty Little Secret - Jon Stock - Страница 32

‘I’m not happy with where things are going,’ Turner Munroe said. He was in the back of his official car, with Fielding beside him. Oleg was in the footwell. ‘Not at all happy. What I just saw in Vauxhall is an embarrassment – to Washington. It shouldn’t be happening. I knew Spiro was going ahead, but I needed to see it with my own eyes.’

‘Me too.’

‘You know I’ve worked hard over the last few years on the relationship. We’re meant to have a presidential visit next year, when it’s set to be upgraded from “special” to “essential”. That might not sound like a big deal, but it is in my world – the culmination of a lot of hard work by my staff in London. I’m not prepared to see it all going to waste over one lousy jet.’

‘Quite an expensive one, I gather.’

‘Production’s already halted on it. The F-35 will be the game-changer. And hey, we spent twenty billion last year on aircon alone in Afghanistan.’

On paper, Fielding should have despised Munroe. The Ambassador was widely regarded in Whitehall as a hawk, and he had been a surprise appointment by the incoming President in 2008. Like Spiro, he had fought in the first Gulf War and believed that military intervention was the only way forward in Iran. He was also a fitness fanatic, running 3.30 marathons around the world, whereas Fielding limited himself to a daily swim in the basement pool in Legoland. If all that wasn’t enough, he preferred Bruce Springsteen to J.S. Bach.

But despite their differences, Fielding was more than happy to step into his car. It was Munroe’s behaviour in the chaotic aftermath of the London Marathon that had changed his opinion of him. He had gone away, studied the evidence, and concluded that it was Leila, not Marchant, who had tried to kill him. Marchant had saved his life. And it seemed he was prepared to be equally open-minded about Marchant’s role in the air show. Unfortunately, his was a lone American voice.

‘There are people in Langley who want you out of office, Marcus, you know that.’

‘They’ve almost got their wish.’

‘You’re not going down without a fight, though?’

Fielding paused, looking out of the window at a slowly waking London. The street cleaners were out already, sweeping up the excesses of the night. He was too tired to fight.

‘The latest CX to cross my desk points to a Russian mole high up in MI6.’

‘When wasn’t there?’ Fielding knew what was coming. The Americans had long suspected him of treachery. He had been too close to Stephen Marchant, his predecessor.

‘My source says it wasn’t Hugo Prentice.’ Fielding flinched at the name of his old friend. No one had wanted to believe Prentice had been a traitor, least of all Fielding. ‘Apparently someone framed him to protect themself.’

‘And Langley thinks it was me?’ Fielding asked, wondering for the first time if there might be more to Primakov’s allegations about Denton than he had thought. Nothing would make him happier than clearing Hugo Prentice’s name, even if it were posthumously.

‘They want to believe it was you, but there’s no evidence.’

‘There’s a surprise.’

‘Find the mole and your position will be safe. Nothing scares us Yanks more than British intelligence run by Moscow.’

‘And does your source know who this mole might be?’ Fielding thought again about Denton. Why was he reluctant to point the finger at his deputy? Because it was he who had appointed him? Fielding had brought Denton on over the years, encouraged him to apply for jobs, happy to see the cosy old mould of MI6 being broken by an intelligent grammar-school boy from Hull.

‘I’m working on him. First, I wanted to check that you had the stomach for a fight. And that you’re close to finding Salim Dhar. That would kinda help the relationship.’

‘We’re close.’