by Andy McNab
‘Coffee, madam?’
‘No, thank you, Simon. My bill, please.’
The waiter nodded and melted noiselessly away.
Deveraux looked down at the last piece of chocolate pudding sitting invitingly on the plate and decided to leave it. There was much to do; her mind had instantly switched into operational mode.
39
The Warrior was parked up inside Northwood, close to the accommodation block. The driver and his three mates had left the vehicle fifteen minutes earlier, but Danny waited in the pitch dark of the cargo hold, just as Fergus would have done.
He ran through his grandfather’s instructions on how to enter the building and reach his target area, the first underground level. It would not be staffed at this hour, unlike the two levels below that, which were manned around the clock – this was where military and covert operations throughout the world were controlled.
Danny held his breath with his mouth open. He was using methods he had learned from his grandfather over the previous six months, attempting to keep his own internal sounds from drowning out whatever noises were coming from outside the vehicle. He heard nothing: no footsteps or muttered conversation, not even a stifled sneeze or a distant cough.
He let his breath out slowly and then pulled the small metal ring on the tailgate. It popped open and he lifted the cover a few centimetres and looked out at the parked vehicles. They were damp from the earlier rain and glistened in the glare of the security lights. Everywhere was still and silent.
It was time to move. Danny lifted the cover fully, jumped out quickly and lowered the top. He remembered his grandfather’s words: ‘Believe you are part of the camp. Once you’re inside, move around as if you belong there, because the third party will naturally think you do. Security is designed to keep people outside the camp, so the deeper you are behind enemy lines, the easier it is to move around.’
As well as the RAF guys, there were always civilian staff on the site, dressed in civilian clothes. Danny would be a lot younger than most there, but if he moved around with confidence rather than skulking in the darkness, he might just be taken for one of them. He had to believe he would.
The main building was about a hundred metres away. It was like a beacon in the night; every light appeared to be switched on. But that didn’t mean it was crammed with people; the lights were on as a security measure.
A concrete path, with well-trimmed grass on either side, led to the building. Danny walked quickly and confidently along it, with his head down and his hands jammed into his jacket pockets. One was wrapped around Elena’s Halifax card and the other held the CD.
As he neared the building, he found himself partially illuminated by car headlights from some way off to his right. He took a quick look and saw that a car was being held at the main gate. Danny could hear the engine running and he saw the driver stride purposefully into the guardroom.
The door of the main building was dead ahead. It was exactly as Fergus had described: a dark glass door, with more of the same overhead to protect the entrance from the elements. Danny’s grip tightened on the Halifax card: his key to gaining access.
But then there was a moment of panic. People were approaching the door from the inside. It looked as though there were three of them. Danny felt his heart thudding. He had to carry on. If he turned and hurried away he would arouse not only their suspicions, but also those of anyone in the guardroom who might be looking in his direction. He had to believe. He had to believe.
He pulled out the card and swiped it through the reader on the wall beside the door. The door buzzed, and as Danny pulled it open he saw the three figures, all clad in DPM camouflage uniform, just a couple of metres away. There were two women and a man, and they were chatting about the week’s leave one of them had just enjoyed.
Danny held the door open, his head tilted downwards. As the three passed through, he concentrated on keeping his voice low as he muttered, ‘Evening.’
One of the women answered, ‘Hello,’ and the others just nodded as they continued on towards the accommodation blocks.
Without turning to watch them go, Danny stepped through the door and allowed it to lock behind him. He had to keep moving and make it appear as though he used the door every day and knew exactly where he was going. Ahead was a long, narrow corridor with office doors on either side. The gentle hum of the air conditioners and the squeak of his own trainers on the highly polished floor tiles was all Danny could hear as he ventured onwards. That, and his pounding heart.
George Fincham was going through security clearance in the guardroom. Outside, his car engine was still running and two RAF guards were checking beneath the vehicle with torches.
The duty sergeant was showing Fincham all the respect he was due: after all, his ID card revealed him to be a high-ranking IB in the Intelligence Service. But correct procedure still had to be followed. ‘Now, sir, if you would place your right hand on the glass plate and look into the two eyepieces above?’
Fincham knew the drill. For positive identification his handprint had to be checked along with his irises, but it all took time. Valuable time. ‘Just get on with it, man,’ he said, lowering his eyes towards the two lenses, which looked as though they should be part of a pair of binoculars.
‘Won’t take a minute, sir,’ said the sergeant as he forced a smile and pressed the buttons to set the machine in motion.
As Fincham looked into the lenses, he placed his right hand on the length of glass. A strip of light ran underneath, copying his handprint. At the same time lasers were focusing on his eyes, checking the unique pattern of his irises.
The sergeant was satisfied. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He handed Fincham a pass – a plastic card hanging from a white nylon strap with a large black V, for visitor, emblazoned in the centre.
Fincham didn’t even nod a thank-you as he turned away and went back to his car to drive to the parking area.
The sergeant and another guard, whose duty it would be to escort Fincham into the main building, watched him go. ‘What a happy chappie,’ said the guard as he adjusted his cap and stepped out into the night. ‘I get all the good jobs.’
Danny took the stairway next to the lift. So far it had felt as though the building was deserted. It wasn’t. The place was like a warren. Many people were working on the levels below. Others might well be on the underground level that Danny was about to enter. CCTV cameras were fixed to the walls above the NO SMOKING signs. Someone somewhere could see what was going on. Danny had to believe he belonged there. It had worked so far.
He slid on a pair of plastic gloves, the type available to drivers at filling stations for protecting their hands from fuel. In Danny’s case they were to keep his fingerprints off the keyboard once he got onto a computer. If he got onto a computer. He pushed through a fire door and stepped into the corridor of floor – 1. He turned to the right, just as Fergus had instructed, and kept walking.
The layout was the same as on the ground floor. Danny was heading for room – 1/44, the Stand By Room, which was reserved for use by visitors when they were working in the building. Fergus had been in the room many times when at Northwood for briefings.
Most of the office doors were closed, but as Danny walked along the corridor he saw that one up ahead was ajar. He heard a single voice speaking: someone was talking on the telephone. It was the duty officer. Danny didn’t see him, but as he passed the room, – 1/37, he heard the words, ‘Of course it’s not. Who’d be using it at this time of night?’
Danny reached room – 1/44: the sign on the door said STAND BY ROOM, and the door was unlocked, just as Fergus had told him it would be. He quickly went inside and closed the door. The room was in darkness apart from a soft glow of light emanating from the floor on the far side. The light silhouetted a desk with a PC sitting on top. Exactly what Danny needed.
He carefully moved over to the light and looked down at a long rectangular piece of plate glass, set into the floor where it met the wall.
/>
Danny’s eyes widened; he was staring down into the control and command centre itself. It was one huge area, like an aircraft hangar. Massive screens covered the walls. Officers from all three services huddled around computers as maps and live video feeds from Iraq and Afghanistan filled the screens.
He wanted to stay there watching all night. But there was a job to be done. He turned away, powered up the PC and took the CD from his pocket.
The lift stopped at level – 1 and the door glided open. George Fincham stepped out and strode into the corridor, with the escort struggling to keep up.
Further down the corridor the duty officer emerged from his room to meet the visitor. ‘The Stand By Room is ready, sir. It’s just along here.’
Fincham said nothing, just kept walking, and the duty officer fell in with his hasty step, the escort still trailing behind. When they reached room – 1/44 the duty officer stopped, grabbed the door handle and began to open the door. ‘The Stand By Room, sir.’
Fincham stopped walking and glared. ‘I’m not here for the Stand By Room. I’m going to the Depository.’
The duty officer, a young flight lieutenant, exchanged an anxious look with the escort. The Depository was the most secure area in the building, where secret documents could be accessed and read. Even the walls were lined with lead so that radiation from the computer’s screen could not be detected by someone out in the corridor with an electronic decoding reader.
The duty officer was well aware of his responsibilities. ‘But… but, sir? Do you have the correct clearance to access the Depository?’
Fincham had been expecting this and he was prepared. He was staking everything on this ultimate gamble. He pulled out his Intelligence Service ID card and thrust it towards the officer. ‘How dare you question me! Do you know who I am? Take me there now, or do I have to wake up your commanding officer and let you explain why his idiot of a junior officer is slowing down a time-critical operation? We are fighting a war!’
The stand-off lasted for long seconds as the two men stared each other down and the escort watched. Then the duty officer buckled. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Of course not, sir.’
40
Danny was still beneath the desk. He had dived down when he heard the footsteps stop and saw the door begin to open. He had listened to the argument, too panic-stricken to realize that the raised voice was one he had heard before, many months ago.
The operation had already begun when the interruption came. Danny had inserted the CD into the PC and was on his mobile, with Fergus at other end. He had been ready to start the script. And then all hell seemed to break loose and he dived for cover. When the bust-up finally ended, the door was pulled shut and footsteps echoed away down the corridor.
Now it was quiet again and Danny still had the mobile clamped to his ear. ‘All clear.’ He clambered cautiously from under the desk and went back to the PC. The CD was gently humming in the drive and the PC was online. All that was needed now was to activate Black Star’s script, which was on screen.
WOW! I DIDN’T THINK YOU’D MAKE IT THIS FAR! SO YOU WANNA USE MY SCRIPT? Y OR N?
Danny’s finger hovered over the Y key as he spoke softly into the mobile. ‘I’m ready to go. You ready?’
In the gloom of the industrial unit, with only the spill from outside security lights for illumination, Fergus and Elena were alone. Joey had been dispatched to wait for Danny at the prearranged meeting place outside Northwood. Elena’s laptop was on her knees, her script was on the hard drive and she was connected to the hotzone, ready to go. Her screen also had a message from Black Star attached to the script.
REMEMBER: THE SCRIPTS MUST BE RUN AT THE SAME TIME! GOOD TO GO? Y OR N?
‘Are you ready?’ asked Fergus.
Elena held her finger over the Y key and nodded.
‘Good,’ said Fergus. They had rehearsed the countdown. ‘OK, both of you. Stand by. Stand by. Go!’
Danny and Elena hit their Y keys at precisely the same moment.
Fergus and Elena watched as a matrix of numbers and letters swarmed across the laptop screen, constantly changing as a cacophony of telephone key tones burst from the speakers. Elena’s script was trying to connect with Danny’s.
The letters and numbers switched and changed faster than the eye could follow and the key noise grew until it sounded like one constant tone. They watched and waited.
And then everything stopped and the computer went silent.
Fergus looked at Elena and she shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.’
The seconds passed agonizingly slowly and still nothing happened.
‘Black Star said it would work,’ breathed Elena. ‘That we could go anywhere we-’
Before she could finish, the laptop screen burst into life as pop-ups suddenly appeared on the screen as they passed into four different levels of security:
Restricted
Confidential
Secret
TOP SECRET: UK EYES ONLY
Elena laughed out loud; she couldn’t stop herself. ‘We’re in! We own the mainframe. We can go anywhere we want.’
‘Sshhh, keep it down,’ hissed Fergus. He spoke quietly into the mobile. ‘You got us there, Danny. You did it.’
Danny could see that for himself as he read the four levels of security on his own screen. There was nothing more he could do now but watch and wait. Everything depended on Elena.
Another pop-up appeared on her screen, asking which operation or name was required. Elena typed in ‘Fergus Watts’ and within seconds there were three F. Wattses on the screen, but only one with a regimental number.
‘That’s me, Elena. Let’s find out what they’ve got on me.’
Elena was amazed at what appeared on the screen. Details of Fergus’s entire life, everything from his school history to hospital records and military career, were listed. There was even information on a conviction for speeding more than twenty years earlier.
But Fergus was unimpressed. ‘This is useless, it proves nothing about me being a K.’
Elena looked up from the computer. ‘I could delete all this. You wouldn’t exist. I could give you a new name, new social security number, new driving licence, a whole new life. You could even claim the dole.’
‘But in my head I’d always be on the run,’ said Fergus as he stared at a lifetime on the screen. ‘And Fincham won’t give up until I’m dead, whatever I’m going by. The only place we’ll find anything about me being a K or operating in Colombia is in Secret Ultra.’
‘Secret who?’
‘It’s the only place left that’s worth checking, and getting to that is probably impossible.’
‘Maybe not for Black Star.’
Elena went back to the Deep Web. Black Star was there. Waiting. Lurking. Eager for information on the progress of the ultimate exploit.
Elena punched in her request. Could Black Star help? Could Black Star get them to Secret Ultra?
She got an immediate reply:
NOTHING YOU LIKE SO FAR?? YOU WANNA GO DEEPER? CHILL, GOLA, YOU WANT IT YOU CAN HAVE IT. BUT THIS TIME YOU GOTTA GIVE ME A FEW MINUTES…
In the Depository at Northwood George Fincham was looking at his own life history as it rolled out on a screen. His national security and passport number, DNA, handprint and iris identification details, and medical, dental and university degree records.
Fincham was deleting them all, erasing every aspect of his life held on any mainframe, anywhere. Soon George Fincham would not exist. Everything from his bank accounts to his gas bills would be gone. George Fincham would have disappeared and George Davies would be flying to Moscow on the 8.30 from Heathrow.
Outside, in the corridor, the escort waited, having been told by Fincham before he closed and locked the door that he was not, under any circumstances, to be disturbed.
Fincham worked quickly but methodically. Soon there was only one place left to go; the one place no one would ever have known he was able to go – SECRE
T: ULTRA.
This was the reason why Fincham had demanded to be admitted to the Depository. There were only three places where access to SECRET: ULTRA could be gained: the offices of the heads of the Intelligence and Security Services, and the room Fincham was in now.
But Fincham did not need the three code holders, each with their separate codes, to be present. He took a USB memory clip from his jacket pocket and plugged it into the PC.
The screen went blank for a second before a box popped up asking for codes A, B and C. Slowly three sets of numbers and letters began to appear next to the three corresponding letters.
Fincham smiled at his own brilliance and ingenuity. It was all down to the second Gulf War. Twice during the conflict he had been present as all three code holders entered their separate codes in the office at Vauxhall Cross to access the latest intelligence on Saddam Hussein.
The codes were long and complex. There was no fear amongst those present that anyone could memorize all three, not at the speed at which they were entered and for the brief time they were individually on screen. But George Fincham could. He was blessed with a photographic memory, and each time his eyes had flicked onto the screen like a clicking camera shutter, capturing the codes, which were then logged away in the photographic darkroom of Fincham’s mind.
Later he had downloaded the codes onto the clip. As a backup. To ensure that they were never lost. Even by him.
The screen informed Fincham he now had access to SECRET: ULTRA. Fincham had no idea if there was anything relating to him in the files, but he had to know. Everything had to be deleted if he was to disappear completely.
He keyed in his name and Intelligence Service number and hit ENTER.
George Fincham was brilliant. But so was Black Star. There was a reference to Fincham in SECRET: ULTRA. It linked him to the one name to which he seemed destined to be linked for ever: Fergus Watts.
