The office was silent. A vague murmur of the traffic noise outside penetrated the double glazing; a change from the cat-calling, antics and hubbub of the busy room throughout the working day. Mariam hadn’t noticed any of it, immersed in her trove of secrets from another world. A world where project proposals and budget assignations turned into assets on the ground and programmes. Each of the folders on Buddy’s memory key contained a number of such programmes, detailed from initial proposals through to field trial reports; correspondence between field operatives, research programme directors and state. There was a huge amount of material, much of it demanding a great deal of work to even try and comprehend.
She closed the last folder of the batch she was working on and flumped back in her chair, awed and exhausted. She dialled Alan Kingsthorpe’s extension but it rang out.
‘You’re burning the midnight oil.’ Adel Ibrahim’s puffy face was accentuated by the scant lighting, his pate reflected the bright dot of halogen. It was dotted with little red marks where he had scratched at the shiny skin and scraped blocked pores.
‘This stuff is dynamite.’
He ambled over. ‘I thought it might turn out to be interesting. How’s Buddy?’
‘Scared. I left him at the pub once I’d got what I went for.’
‘You didn’t discuss putting him up somewhere while this all blows up? I would have thought he’d have wanted that. Does he think he can remain anonymous?’
‘I think so. We didn’t really go into it.’
Ibrahim scowled. ‘We might come to regret that. So what do you think you have there, young lady?’
Mariam scanned her list. ‘It’s going to take a hell of a lot of resource to go through this stuff properly, I’m just skimming to try and assess what we have. So far I’ve gone through four of the twenty-four folders. The first two relate to American weapons programmes. They basically used experimental drones and missiles against Iraqi, Afghani and Syrian targets. They were under pressure to get results, to report back successes. So they weren’t always as scrupulous about their targeting as they’d like to think they were. On a number of occasions they just picked random targets just so they could keep the programme on track. It’s commercialised murder. Some of these programmes fed into Israeli military R&D. They blew up Arabs in Iraq to help the Israelis refine blowing up Arabs in Gaza more efficiently so Israeli arms companies could sell weapons to third parties based on their expertise in blowing up the people they were occupying. It’s a sort of weapons-grade cluster-fuck. It would all make you angry if you had time to think about it.’
‘And the other two?’
‘One details the supply of helicopters and gas making ingredients to Saddam Hussein. The programme was halted after he gassed the Kurds at Halabje.’
‘That’s ancient history.’
‘It involves people whose careers have subsequently blossomed. They’re at the top of the administration now, they were young idealists back then.’ Mariam riffled through her notes and thrust a sheet at Ibrahim. ‘Here are some of the juicier names. Ronald Dumsfeld stands out quite nicely. Shame he’s dead.’
Ibrahim’s glaucous eyes widened and he licked his lips. ‘Good God.’
‘The fourth programme details CIA involvement in fomenting the popular rising against Bashar Al Assad. Military assistance, training and a programme of systematic destabilisation in concert with a number of opposition groups.’
‘I start to wonder if Alan wasn’t perhaps right. This is too big for us. We need to bring a partner on board, a major player that’ll offer us some degree of protection and better reach. This is going to be the biggest media story since WikiLeaks.’
Mariam, buoyed by exhilaration and emboldened by tiredness, shot at him, ‘And how do we know we’re not going to end up like them? I’ve just scratched the surface here; this stuff could bring down governments.’
‘You let me worry about that sort of thing. It’s way above your pay grade. Keep digging. I’m having dinner with a couple of editors, as it happens. Let’s see what we can rustle up in terms of providing us with some cover. We’re not committed to anything yet; we can still pull out if we can’t be sure we have a strategy. I’ll talk to Carmichael as well.’ He peered at Mariam. ‘Our lawyer. Iain Carmichael. Good man in a scrape.’
Mariam’s mobile rang. ‘Hi, this is Mariam—’
‘You have to help me. I’m blown. Everything’s gone to ratshit here. They’re onto me. I need out. Now.’ It was Buddy, his voice high pitched and strained, yet flattened by compression.
‘You’re calling me from Skype?’
‘Yes, they don’t know about this account.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In a car.’
‘Yes, but where.’
‘You don’t need to know. I need protection.’
‘Hold on.’ She hit ‘mute’.
‘It’s Buddy. He says he’s blown and wants protection.’
Ibrahim’s eyes widened. ‘My, this is all getting a little spicy.’
Moisture bloomed on the pink forehead. He ran his hand over his brow. He noticed the damp on his palm and wiped it on his trouser leg, leaving a dark streak. ‘Tell him yes, we’ll offer him protection. Have you any experience in this kind of thing?’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Find him and put him in a hotel. I’ll pick up the tab.’
She hit the ‘mute’ button again. ‘Buddy? Hi. Okay, you’re on. We have a safe location for you. Where can I find you?’
‘On the memory key, in folder twenty-four, there’s a file called pub.txt. I’ll be there at nine fifteen precisely.’
‘Do you always meet people in pubs?’
‘I don’t have time for humour. Are we on?’
Mariam opened the file. The White Cross, Richmond. ‘Yes, we’re on. Nine fifteen.’
‘At the bottom of the steps.’
‘Got you.’
She let the handset drop onto its cradle. ‘So, that’s that.’
‘Where’s the location?’
Mariam frowned. ‘It’s probably best you don’t know.’
‘Don’t you think you’re being melodramatic?’ Ibrahim grinned, his finger tucking into his collar.
‘No.’
His grin faltered. ‘Right, then. I’ll leave it to you. I’d best go see my editors. Do you have Alan’s mobile?’
‘I don’t, no.’
‘Here.’ Ibrahim scrawled on one of her Post-Its. This is mine, this is his. Call him before you do anything else and bring him up to speed. I’ll ring you after my dinner. You realise this is going to put you in danger, too, don’t you?’
Mariam nodded. Truth be told, she felt alive for the first time in months. Ibrahim reached out to pat her shoulder, thought better of it, wheeled around and left. She watched the door close behind him and turned to her computer. If she had to spend the night with Buddy and Adel was paying, she might as well book somewhere decent. And a suite at the Syon Park Hilton seemed just the ticket. She’d been there for a friend’s wedding and spent the evening fighting off a bore from Clapham.
Lawrence Hamilton held the door open with his backside as he shook his umbrella. He stepped inside, handing it to Brookes. It was a filthy night in London, the morning’s cold weather giving way to roiling skies during his drive up and now finally this evening downpour, the rain dashing from the heavens and pattering on the pavement and steps behind him as the Babington Club’s sprung wooden door swung shut with a series of diminishing concussions.
‘Thank you, Brookes. Is Mr Foster here, yet?’
‘Yes sir. The Library, sir. Nice to see you back, I must say.’
‘I dislike London, Brookes. This is the only decent place in the whole bloody city.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
It was something of a ritual they had danced together over the past four decades and more. Brookes was gnarled, twisted like an old olive tree. Hamilton guessed the man should have retired ten years ago, bu
t the Babington kept him on and would do as long as Brookes wanted the position and the committee, which Hamilton served on, kept voting to retain the post and the man who had filled it since he had been a cheeky bellboy and Hamilton a registrar at Guy’s.
Hamilton made his way into the Library, where Bill Foster sat by the fire toasting himself and cradling a brandy. The room was empty otherwise, the lining of books an imposing surround to the club chairs and reading table with its brass lamps. Each of them had an individual push switch.
Foster’s hand was on the arm of the chair, leaning forward. Hamilton gestured him back. ‘Don’t bother, Bill, not on my account. Where’s Clarke?’
‘Blighter’s been gone these past twenty minutes. How are, you, Larry?’
‘All the better for getting here. Bloody journey. This weather.’ He raised his voice. ‘Clarke?’
‘Nice to see you back, sir.’ There he was, uniformed as always, white sideburns and rosy cheeks, heavy jowls and an ingratiating grin that Hamilton sometimes was tempted to wipe off the man’s face but had lately found rather homely. He must be mellowing.
‘Good to be back. A large brandy for Mr Foster, I’ll take my scotch.’
Clarke twisted his hands, bobbing. ‘We don’t actually have the Lagavulin right at this moment, sir. We ran out a few weeks back.’
Hamilton sat opposite Foster by the fire. ‘Do you have a Laphroaig at least?’
‘We have both the ten and forty-year-old, sir.’
‘I’ll take the forty. And you can charge it as a Lagavulin.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Hamilton waited for Clarke to leave the room. ‘So, Bill. How goes our fund raising?’
‘Well, so far. Jolyon Raynesford will be joining us in,’ he flicked his wrist and glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes.’
‘What the hell do I want to do with that fat bully?’ Hamilton grimaced.
‘He’s heading up the intelligence select committee. He virtually speaks for the Minister these days. They’re the ones who’ll be making us the grant we need. The funds are being essentially provided by Parker. It’s complicated. But I’ve got it pretty much tied up. ’
‘Parker’s a good man. He has shortcomings, of course…’
‘That’s as may be. But right now he’s a little too closely identified with some of the wrong Republicans. He’s being cautious, keeping his head down. It’s cost us valuable time.’
Hamilton tried to keep a lid on his asperity. ‘American politics!’
‘They’ve had to manage a number of balls-ups recently and the Odin field trial was almost the straw that broke the camel’s back. Let Parker have a little rope; he’s playing the best game he can right now. He’s a bit sore over the spat you two had, as well. Raynesford’s on the side of the good guys, for all he can be a pain in the arse.’
‘Parker was wrong about Lebanon. It was his men, not our science. It was discipline failing.’
Foster was conciliatory. ‘Let’s put that behind us, Larry.’
Clarke returned with a silver salver bearing a cut glass brandy balloon and a clinking whisky tumbler. He handed Hamilton the tumbler and turned to present Foster with his brandy. ‘Mister Raynesford is here, sir.’
‘Send him in, Clarke.’
Clarke was nearly at the door when Hamilton called him back. ‘Clarke?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Another Lagavulin. More ice this time, if you please.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Raynesford was gross by any man’s estimation, pear-shaped and massive. The great jowls wobbled under a face swimming in a pool of sweaty pink folds. Clarke ushered him in through the door, sweeping his arm wide to avoid the man’s belly threatening to knock Hamilton’s drink off the little salver in Clarke’s hand. Raynesford translated instead of walking, a waddling movement that impelled him in side-to-side heaves of his bulk. His suit was beige, dark patches under the rucked armpits. A tie flowed down the packed folds of cotton shirt, the belt lost somewhere under the great overhang. The eyes set deep in the dough glittered with porcine meanness. Clarke dragged a chair into position facing the fire at the end of their coffee table. Hamilton glanced at Foster as Raynesford lowered himself with a low grunt into the armchair. Foster gestured expansively. ‘Jolyon. How very good to see you again. What’s your poison?’
‘A crème de menthe. On the rocks.’ Raynesford reached into his pocket with sausage fingers and plucked out a little tin of Parma violet dragées, placing one on the moist tongue flicking out of the full lips. Clarke nodded and backed away. Hamilton waited until the door closed. ‘Bill and I were just talking about the funding round.’
An irritated wince drew Raynesford’s bushy brows together. The couched eyes flickered. ‘You’ll get your money. The select committee sits next week. The Americans have contributed as we agreed, despite the embarrassment of Lebanon.’
‘It was their—’
‘Which is precisely why they are being so very docile at this juncture. So it does us no good arguing or pressing for pointless moral victories. What’s done is done. The Shaw girl is with you, I hear.’
Hamilton glanced at Foster, who nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘She is safe and in good hands.’
Clarke knocked on the door and entered, laying down a port glass of green liquid with an ice cube bobbing in it. Raynesford sipped, holding the stem of the glass between thumb and forefinger. ‘Cheers.’ His little finger was raised. He rumbled approval, licking his lips to hoover up the faintest trace of the drink. ‘You should have let us finish the matter. It’s a loose end and I don’t approve of loose ends.’
Entranced by the performance, Hamilton gulped. ‘She has no recollection of events and is being closely monitored. Trust me, she presents no trace of a loose end.’
‘And are your current endeavours bearing fruit?’
Another glance at Foster, another subtle assent. ‘We are very excited at the progress we are making. This round of funding will allow us to progress to field trials. We have already achieved remarkable levels of augmentation.’
‘Anything tangible, or just printouts again?’
Foster leaned forward. ‘The field trials will be tangible enough, but we have to complete the development phase to achieve that sort of result.’
Another tip of the liqueur glass. Hamilton was reminded of an insect sipping nectar, although this bloated thing was no insect. Raynesford caught his eye and Hamilton glanced away, certain the man had read his thoughts.
‘My masters would like you both to know they are uncomfortable, as it happens. They don’t like it when people make a mess and between you and your friend across the water, I’m afraid you made something of a mess. It is provident the whole disaster took place where it did.’
Hamilton, used to giving and not receiving lectures, felt the heat rising in him. He ignored Foster’s glare. ‘How so provident, Jolyon?’
The great face turned to him, chins wobbling. Those little deep-set held his and Hamilton fell himself drawn into the shiny blackness. Raynesford sneered. ‘Nobody cares a shit about murdered children in a failed Middle Eastern state. That’s your lucky break. You won’t get another.’
Raynesford drained the glass. It looked like dolls house furniture in the pudgy hand. ‘Thank you for the drink, gentlemen,’ he heaved himself out of the chair, wriggling to pop out of its embrace like a cork from a bottle. The effort reddened his face. ‘I shall see myself out. Keep that girl quiet. If any hint of Odin threatens to become public, you will both go to jail or worse. Goodnight.’
Hamilton stared down at his hands. There was a small scar on his right knuckle, a reminder of a young man’s temper and physique. He looked up to meet Foster’s cool regard. ‘I know, I know. I shouldn’t have let him rattle me.’
‘No, you were fine. You gave him what he wanted, he’s happy now. Jolyon feeds on unhappiness, not consensus. You’d better be very sure about that girl, though. They’ve clearly got her in their sights.’
‘She’s fine, Bill.’ Hamilton drained his glass and patted his knees. ‘I need to get back to my work. We’re close to breakthrough, I know it.’
Foster stood and held out his hand. ‘It was good of you to come up. It was important Raynesford got a look at what he’s buying.’
‘Really? All that way for a few minutes’ conversation?’
‘They bought on paper. Raynesford just wanted to see the pen that wrote it.’
‘And what did he mean about worse than jail?’
Foster’s pitying look told Hamilton he was still too much the naïve academic caught up between forces that were at times distressingly darker than he’d like to think was necessary. He had his answer. He shuddered as he stalked off to find Clarke and sign his chit before retiring to his hotel.
Mariam parked up by Richmond’s Hill House. The rain had eased up, but the ground reflected the street lights in glittering ribbons. Her steps echoed against the wall, a car’s wheels splashed through the puddles behind her. The muffled hubbub of voices from the busy bar reached her, along with a whiff of smoke from the little group clustered outside.
She prowled down the terraced walkways in front of the White Cross pub to the waterside. The Thames flowed by, torpid and sparkling with reflections. A hardy couple was necking on the towpath. Mariam peered upriver and down. A shadow moved under the bridge, a slight form detached itself from the darkness. Mariam strolled towards the bridge and the miserable-looking figure hunched in a hoodie. Buddy didn’t smile as she approached. ‘You’re late.’
He stank. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Seemed like a good idea.’
‘You’re alone?’
He grimaced. ‘Sure I am. Never been lonelier.’
‘I mean did you make sure you’re not being tailed?’
‘I know what you meant.’
‘How do you know you’re blown?’
‘MPs looking for me. Usually not a good sign, you know?’
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