Free Dead Spy Running by Jon Stock

match Leila for presence. Her sassy smile, the sexual poise, that worldly, cosmopolitan voice: sorted rather than arrogant. He explained that he had grown up abroad, moving from one embassy to another around the world until he had been packed off aged thirteen to a boarding school in Wiltshire. He had been told to be upfront about his father, who had recently taken over as Chief, so he joked about keeping it in the family. ‘Spies are like undertakers, they run in families,’ he continued. ‘And I’m in good company, I guess. Kim Philby’s father, St John Philby, had been a senior member of the Service.’ It was a quip he later regretted.
    â€˜After Cambridge, I worked for a couple of years as a hard-up foreign correspondent, stringing from Africa for various British broadsheets and drinking too much cheap Scotch. I landed some of my best stories, including a splash about Gaddafi, thanks to a contact at the High Commission in Nairobi. It was only later that I discovered he worked for I/OPS in Legoland. I was young and naïve at the time, and didn’t realise that it was his job to present the media with stories that helped the national cause. It was on his advice that I eventually returned to London to apply.’
    He looked around at his new colleagues, gauging how honest he should be. The room had fallen awkwardly silent. ‘I was in a bad way, to be honest. Rudderless. Broke. You know what hacks are like. There were also a few personal issues that needed resolving.’ He paused again, deciding not to mention his brother. ‘The bloke from I/OPS found me in downtown Nairobi one night, worse for wear. Told me to stop being in denial and apply. I’d always wanted to make my own way in life, not rely on my parents, my father, but I guess the family calling eventually proved too strong.’
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    Leila came back into the safe-house bedroom, a towel wrapped around her drying hair like a turban. ‘Remember that first day at the Fort, when we all had to stand up and speak?’ Marchant asked, putting on a cotton dressing gown.
    â€˜Yes, why?’
    â€˜We never did find out who was lying.’
    After everyone had spoken, their instructor had announced that the life story of one person in the room was entirely false. They had each been told to write down who they thought it was, and why.
    â€˜I don’t think it was any of us,’ Leila said. ‘The only one lying that day was the arsy instructor.’
    â€˜It wasn’t you, then?’ Marchant asked.
    â€˜Me? Is that who you wrote down?’
    â€˜All that Bahá’í back-story. I’m amazed they let you in.’
    â€˜It happens to be true, you cheeky sod,’ she said, kissing his forehead as he lay there on the bed, watching her pull on some knickers. ‘My mother’s an amazing woman. The only reason I made it to Cambridge. I actually found the vetting process very therapeutic, answering all those questions about her, learning more about the Bahá’í faith, her allegiance to Britain.’
    â€˜Were the vetters worried, then?’
    â€˜Not by the time they’d finished. She’d lived in Britain for twenty-five years.’
    â€˜You never talk about her any more.’
    Leila fell quiet. He remembered her tears again and reached up to her waist, gently pulling her down to sit beside him on the bed.
    â€˜What is it?’ he asked quietly.
    â€˜Nothing,’ she said, wiping beneath an eye with the back of her hand.
    â€˜The marathon?’
    â€˜No. It’s OK.’ She rested her head on his shoulder, trying not to lose control, taking comfort in his warmth.
    The only time Marchant had ever seen Leila cry was when she had come off the phone to her mother in their early days of training at the Fort. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it. When he tried to raise the matter later, she had resisted.
    â€˜Is it your mother?’ he asked. ‘Have