by Alan Judd
Chapter Nineteen
The Present
Charles sat unmoving for a while after closing the file that evening. He was by no means the only late-stayer in the office – more people worked longer hours now, not always to commensurately greater effect – but he wished he were. It would have been appropriate to be alone because in closing the file he felt he was closing a chapter of his own youth. The image of Federov the survivor had stayed with him over the years; those thoughtful dark eyes, the heavy deliberate manner, the sense of hidden hinterland. His account of his return to the abandoned camp remained, for Charles, the key to the man. Federov’s subsequent successes, the compromises he must have made, the betrayals, the switched loyalties, getting himself accepted by the Party and his subsequent pursuit of ascendency, he must have justified to himself by reference to his time in the camp: ‘I was here.’ The system that had done this to him deserved no loyalty, he would have told himself.
Provided, that is, he had felt the need for justification at all. Charles suspected he had too sentimental a view of the man. After all, he had secured his heart surgery in London and then returned to Moscow where he lived for another year before suffering a stroke, without re-emerging to repay the debt he had promised. The only information he had given was the cryptic reference to Deep Blue and that had proven inconclusive. When the case was closed it was not as a failed but as an undeveloped case, unlikely ever to be reopened. Except that Charles had reopened it, though even now he couldn’t be sure that his attempt to give it posthumous value wasn’t wishful thinking.
He had to wait until dinner with Sarah that night to hear more about the current Deep Blue.
‘You know I offloaded that Triple A case to Timothy and his merry men,’ she said. ‘Boys and girls, I should say. Well, I was seeing him about something else today and couldn’t help noticing a reference to Deep Blue on his screen. Of course, I shouldn’t be telling you this, serious breach of professional etiquette and client confidentiality. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
Charles poured more wine.
‘We really should eat better,’ she continued. ‘That’s the second time this week you’ve had pizza. I’m proving a rotten wife, aren’t I? Don’t say you weren’t warned.’
‘I thought you were about to demonstrate what a good one you are.’
‘Spy, not wife. Much easier.’ She sipped her wine. ‘What I saw was a summary of a case conference, not all of it. Done by one of Timothy’s juniors, I should think. It referred directly to Deep Blue, which is what caught my eye. Though it only gave that name in brackets, “often referred to as”. I think its technical designation must have been on the previous page. Anyway, it appeared to be a commentary on or summary of a case Triple A wants to make on health and safety grounds – those two dear friends of the legal profession – to have Deep Blue removed from the industrial estate just outside Newcastle where I told you it now lives. They claim it’s too easily accessed and is vulnerable to terrorist hijack, without saying what terrorists would do with it if it didn’t kill them in the process of taking it. They’ve got the local MP involved, too. You know what it’s like with anything radioactive – mention the word and everyone goes into spasm. It’s not much of a case, from what I could see, just an excuse to make trouble and draw attention to themselves. Coincides with the forthcoming riot – sorry, rally – they’re planning in Trafalgar Square.’
‘How soon is that?’
‘Next Saturday. You should pay more attention to the news and less to all your secret stuff. Actually, I got the impression from Timothy that this case is really just a dry run for the removal of the nuclear submarines from Faslane and Coulport. At least they’re going the legal route.’
‘Unless it’s a twin-track approach like the old IRA one – bullet and ballot box.’
She sighed. ‘When I was growing up in Northumberland we had a Jack Russell like you. Ben. Whenever he found a rat-hole he’d dig away at it for days, long after all the rats had fled, barking, barking, barking. Used to drive my mother mad. You really think that, at the same time as taking legal action to move Deep Blue, Triple A would be so daft as to pinch it? I know you don’t think much of what your friend James thinks, but he’s not actually that stupid, is he?’
‘He’s bright but he’s bitter and his judgement’s always been a bit iffy. He’s capable of it.’ He went through his theory again.
She shook her head. ‘All very interesting, Mr Thoroughgood, but what this court wants to hear is evidence and all you have produced is supposition and theory, as your MI5 man said. You’ve lined up your ducks in a row but they’re all your own ducks, they’re not evidence independent of you. Maybe you’re right that James is daft enough to want to repeat what he failed to achieve years ago, but how does that fit with the strategy of the organisation of which he’s a prominent part and what on earth do they think they’re going to do with Deep Blue when they get it? They’re not terrorists intent on mass murder, as you admit yourself.’
‘Some – a few – may be. We don’t know. It only takes one or two. As for strategy, a secret twin-track approach would make sense from their point of view. Call it surface fleets and submarines, to make it more topical. The surface fleet is the legal case and Trafalgar Square demos and all that public sort of thing, the submarine fleet is direct action to spread panic, confusion and recrimination. I’d certainly consider that if I were them.’ He had always enjoyed gaming the opposition, whether states or terrorists. It was fun and usually left the gamer – aware of the weaknesses of his own side – feeling he could achieve far more than the opposition, if only he were that way inclined. ‘Or maybe it’s just that James and his Rob S. Ready friend – whoever he is – are part of a maverick group operating unknown to the rest. You could see their reasoning, either way. But working out what they intend to do with it when they get it is another matter.’
This time she poured the wine. ‘I’ll tell you what I’d do.’
The next morning, Charles rang Simon Mall on the secure phone. Neither had time to meet and the call was shorter than Charles would have liked but, in view of what he planned, he felt he owed it to Simon to give him one more chance to act. He outlined his thinking, as before, adding Sarah’s theory about the possible use of Deep Blue. ‘It fits with what the Russians might have done with it when they tried to pinch it during the Cold War,’ he concluded. ‘Not to mention James’s involvement both times. That can’t be coincidence and he must be itching to make up for his cock-up last time.’
Simon’s pause was long enough for Charles to imagine his expression. ‘Let me run that back past you to check I’ve got it right,’ said Simon. ‘Your pair of mavericks break in and steal Deep Blue, with or without the knowledge of the rest of Triple A. They don’t, as terrorists might, take it to a football stadium and kill thousands or leave it on a commuter train. Instead, they then take it to the nuclear submarine base on Faslane, or the Coulport weapons arsenal in nearby Loch Long, and drop it in the water and kill all the fish. That’s what you’re saying?’
‘Maybe not all the fish, because I’m told alpha radiation doesn’t travel far in water, which is why it’s kept in a well. But enough fish to be noticed and cause panic. Alternatively, they could put it on land in or near the base where it would presumably kill any vegetation or animals or people within range. But that would include them unless they’ve worked out a way of not exposing themselves. So it’s more likely they’ll dump it in the loch.’
‘But why? I can see it would cause some trouble but it’s not going to do any real harm, unlike a mass-casualty attack.’
Despite his bureaucratic caution, Simon Mall was in some ways a political innocent. Charles chose his words carefully, beginning with the opposite of what he meant. ‘You’re right, of course, it would be nothing like as deadly as a mass-casualty attack. But at the same time it would be more than just “some trouble”. It would be a media sensation, a gift to the anti-nuclear movement and a powerful politic
al weapon for the SNP, who want Trident out of Scotland. Everyone would assume it was the nuclear subs or their missiles that had caused the radiation deaths and it could easily become politically impossible to resist SNP demands to move them. And perhaps politically difficult to find an alternative home for Trident, because although you can apparently tell very quickly that it’s the wrong kind of radiation to have come from the subs or missiles, government denials would never be believed. The damage would be done.’
There was a pause. ‘How sure are you that dumping Deep Blue in the loch would have such an effect?’
‘Almost certain, but it’s being confirmed now.’ Charles exaggerated – he had asked Elaine to ask the MI6 counter-proliferation team but hadn’t heard back. ‘The thing is, it’s essentially a political act, intended to bring about a political change and not done with the intention of killing people, though it may have that result. Still a criminal act, of course, and probably falling under the Terrorism Act, which would mean you’re entitled to investigate it.’
There was another pause. He could sense Simon’s sceptical smile. ‘Ingenious idea, Charles. Come up with it yourself?’
To say that his wife had suggested it over dinner and a little too much wine was unlikely to convince. ‘I was persuaded of it by looking at the old case when James tried it before and adding that to what we know now about his involvement with Triple A and rumours of direct action.’
‘Seem, might, may, could – it’s all hypothesis. We have no actual evidence that this is what they’re planning.’
‘You haven’t looked for it.’
‘Hard to mount an investigation of this sort without informing Melanie or without her finding out about it. Also hard to believe she doesn’t know about it given that she lives with James. And if she does she’d surely try to stop it, given her closeness – former closeness – to the Home Secretary. If we investigated without telling her and she found out—’
‘But it must be possible. Give it a nickname and pretend it’s something else.’
Someone interrupted Simon. When he came back he said, ‘Sorry, I’ve got a meeting. Interesting theory, Charles. I’ll think about it. We should discuss it again.’
‘Of course, they might be planning a mass-casualty attack after all.’ Charles threw that in just before the line went dead. He didn’t believe it, didn’t believe that James would intend mass murder. Sarah’s Faslane theory was more plausible, and cleverer. But nor did he trust James’s judgement. Simon had responded much as he had anticipated – no commitment and the usual reluctance to investigate. He had done what he could to interest those who ought to be interested, so half his cover for his own action was in place.
‘No problems, Charles, we can fix that, I’m sure.’ Robin Cleveley sounded pleased to be consulted. ‘She’s in Brussels this afternoon, flying back this evening, coming straight back to the office, of course. No surprise there. I’ll get something in the diary and ring you back with the time. Great to speak.’
Charles replaced the receiver with a wince, only then realising that Elaine was standing in his office door, observing. ‘I can usually tell who you’re talking to by your face. One of the SPADS?’
‘You’d think after decades of secret service on behalf of Her Majesty I might have learned to dissemble better.’
‘Well, I’ve got some answers to your questions about radiation from the counter-proliferation people so you can practise being an expert on that. Or would you rather they came and briefed you themselves?’
‘I might. Let me see.’
The notes had what he needed.
Early that evening he was in the Foreign Secretary’s large corner office overlooking Downing Street and St James’s Park. Robin was there along with Elspeth Jones’s private secretary, a thin, earnest, bespectacled young man of a type often found in Whitehall private offices, meticulously efficient and possessed of tenacious memory.
His presence was initially queried by Robin, who turned to the Foreign Secretary. ‘I’m not sure whether Alasdair—’
‘I think he should stay,’ said Charles. ‘No need to be off-record.’ The Foreign Secretary looked momentarily taken aback at the intervention but Charles reckoned it worth the risk. He wanted a meticulous record.
The Foreign Secretary flopped into one of the leather armchairs, waving the others to do the same. She looked tired but her manner was businesslike. ‘Charles, you’re hoping I can give you a date for your move from Croydon. I’m afraid I can’t. In fact, it’s worse than that. Government policy, as you know, is wherever possible to move departments out of central London, so moving one back in would be hard to justify no matter what assurances my predecessor gave. On top of that, the Chancellor announced at Cabinet yesterday that he’s going to ask all departments to freeze office moves for the rest of this financial year at least and probably for the next. Austerity bites on.’ Her smile was brief and wintry. ‘So no moves at all. Sorry about that.’
‘Thank you, Secretary of State. It’s helpful to know we won’t be packing our toothbrushes just yet. But it wasn’t that that I asked to see you about. I want to discuss something that Robin and I have been following for a while now with growing unease.’ He told her everything, including Simon Mall’s reaction and exaggerating only Robin’s role, relying on the flattery of inclusion to secure his agreement. Robin nodded.
When he had finished Elspeth Jones sighed and looked down at her hands clasped upon her lap. ‘So are you saying that the SNP might be party to this Triple A plan in the same way that they’re supporting the Trafalgar Square rally?’
‘I don’t know, they could be. Probably not. The only link with them is the involvement of this SNP renegade. We don’t even know for certain that Triple A itself is behind it. What we do know is that two people associated with both organisations seem to be involved in it.’
‘It. Whatever “it” is. If it exists. It’s no more than your own unproven hypothesis at the moment.’
‘But we do know that one of the same people tried it before.’
She picked at something on her dark skirt and flicked it to the floor. ‘Do you think those involved include the Home Secretary’s SPAD, this Melanie . . .’
‘Stokes,’ said Robin. ‘Melanie Stokes. It’s hard to believe she knows nothing, despite what she said to Charles. Given who she lives with. And if she knows then presumably the Home Secretary . . .’
Elspeth glanced sharply at him. ‘There’s no indication that he knows anything of this?’
‘Not yet.’
She continued to look interrogatively at Robin, then gave another cool smile. ‘Mind you, he’s privately no friend to Trident so it probably wouldn’t break his heart if it were moved or dismantled as a result of overwhelming public protest. But there are a lot of ifs in this.’ She looked back at Charles. ‘What are you asking? Are you suggesting we should be doing something about it and, if so, what?’
‘I’m suggesting what I suggested to the DDG of MI5: that we should take action to find out whether they’re doing what I suspect, at the same time taking steps to ensure that Deep Blue is safe. That would mean putting the suspected conspirators under surveillance and moving or guarding Deep Blue.’
‘You know very well I have no power to authorise surveillance of British subjects in the UK. That’s very much the Home Secretary’s prerogative and he’s hardly likely to agree a warrant application from you which is not supported by MI5.’
‘I think the relevant legislation specifies authorisation by the Secretary of State, without saying which secretary of state, you or the Home Secretary. So technically you could.’ He knew it was a hopeless case but he wasn’t making it with any expectation of winning. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Alasdair assiduously noting the exchange, which was what he wanted. ‘Or you could of course ask the Prime Minister to put pressure on the Home Secretary.’
Elspeth looked at him as if suspecting he wasn’t serious, then ignored his point. ‘Who owns Deep B
lue, anyway?’
The question hadn’t occurred to Charles. ‘I don’t know. The Department of Business and Skills? The Atomic Energy Authority? Some private—’
‘I suggest you start by finding out and then tell them your theory. Then it’ll be up to them to ensure its safety and you’ll have done all you reasonably and legally can.’
She was right. That would of course be the sensible thing to do. As often with sensible things, it was less appealing than the alternative. Charles nodded. ‘Thank you, Secretary of State.’
Afterwards he and Robin meditatively descended the grand staircase, Charles running his hand down the wide banister. ‘Frankly,’ said Robin, ‘I think that went about as badly as it could have.’
‘In one sense, yes.’
‘In what sense didn’t it?’
Charles hesitated. It could be useful to involve Robin, but he was Elspeth’s creature and his loyalty, such as it was, would always be to her. He decided against it. ‘Of course, I should have mugged up on who owns Deep Blue.’
Robin said nothing as they turned the corner of the stairs and a couple of young men hurried past, laughing. Then Robin stopped. ‘Between ourselves – strictly between ourselves – I’m as frustrated about this as you are and equally convinced there’s something serious going on. I’ve got a friend who works for . . . well, in the software industry, in a company – and he’s found out a bit more about Rob S. Ready and your friend James. Ready’s been doing Google searches of an industrial estate in Newcastle and James has been taking HGV driving lessons. They’ve also been talking dates. Haven’t told Elspeth because what my friend’s doing may not be completely legal and she’d run a mile at that.’
‘Which dates?’
‘I don’t know. He just told me this on the phone. I stopped him going into more detail.’
‘Is it seriously illegal?’
