‘But not if you want to keep the Special Relationship going’, Dixwell shot back. ‘Sorry, I meant the Essential Relationship. It would be easy. A couple of big bangs and the mullahs would be without their bomb for a few more years. We’ve got the intelligence and we’ve got the weapons.’
It was a good-natured exchange fuelled by the college’s extraordinarily good claret. The Master looked indulgently on. This kind of debate was what a college’s high table was for.
‘I think that’s slightly unfair’, Verney retorted, ‘perhaps you are too easily influenced by some of your other allies.’
Dixwell turned to the Master. ‘The problem with the good general is that he likes to pretend that things can’t work when they can.’
Mr. Jones hovered nearby, refilled both their glasses and began to move away.
Dixwell looked directly at Verney. ‘Under the fancy coats of arms that you Brits like to indulge in you have mottos in Latin. Maybe General Verney’s should be on the lines of “It does work but why don’t we just make it look as if the thing has broken down.”’ Dixwell laughed.
Jones was still within earshot just. He stood absolutely still. The head turned slowly and he looked back at the general. As the head turned Jones’ smile was gone. The usually kindly face wore an expression of hatred, pure full-on, outraged high-octane hatred – sharp and strong at first but then with a moment of confusion. The eyes blazed in barely controlled fury. Luckily no one could see Jones – it was frightening, as if he was having a fit. Then the face reposed once again, like a clown changing expressions, as he served the next guest.
Verney laughed too. The Master laughed but felt uncomfortable, although he could not work out why. The jibe was perfectly within the bounds of civilised conversation, even if Dixwell’s aura of triumph, “Gotcha” he believed the Americans called it, did seem over the top. Verney reached for his glass. His hand was shaking.
‘Rather a lot of Americans here tonight don’t you think? Time I think for some port.’ With that the Master pushed back his chair.
The Jamesian dons and their guests took their cue from the Master. They got up together gowns flapping and processed to the other end of the college’s Combination Room to drink port.
II
Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London SW1
– Tuesday 17th January,
100th Anniversary of Captain Scott’s Arrival at the South Pole
The prime minister’s morning intelligence report was due with the duty private secretary by eight o’clock. It was not yet dawn. But behind Gibbs’s 18th-century façade at 70 Whitehall and the guarded, bulletproof entrance, the second floor of the Cabinet Office was already busy. Colonel Daniel Jacot had been working half the night to make sense of over 100 separate intercepts and intelligence reports on the situation in Iran. The scarlet Cabinet Office folders bulged. But he had reduced the thousands of words to a side and a half. Really, couldn’t these politicians follow a complex story? Jacot was a soldier on secondment to the senior civil service. His passion for accuracy, attention to detail and critical judgment made him the ideal intelligence analyst. Immaculately turned out as was expected of a Guards officer, he wore plain and severely cut suits always in dark blue or dark grey. His highly polished black shoes made his colleagues feel underdressed.
Jacot also wore gloves – all the time. They covered his hands badly burned thirty years before during the Falklands War. The skin grafts taken from his thighs had worked well over the years but had a different tone and texture from the remaining original skin on his hands. The tips of some of the fingers were missing – burned through. Jacot had never minded their gnarled and blotchy appearance but as he grew older the skin scratched easily and the fingers ached after hours typing at a computer. The cool silk of the gloves soothed and protected. Usually black but occasionally, for fun, Jacot would wear brighter patterns and colours often given to him by friends and relatives. At least he never got socks for Christmas.
The pale blue eyes had a steadiness and clarity that many found reassuring. Towards the end of the day Jacot sometimes had an air of melancholy softening his brisk and military manner. The vulnerability this revealed was attractive to women – not that Jacot understood this for a moment.
He pressed the speed dial key on his secure phone connecting him with the duty CIA desk in the complex below the White House. Although the middle of the night in Washington his American colleagues, some he counted as friends, would be working on the PDB, The President’s Daily Briefing. Most of the intelligence on the Middle East was shared – by official diktat. Slightly unfairly in Jacot’s view since much of it was actually acquired by the British in the first place. But he for the most part liked and admired his American colleagues. All of them were highly patriotic. Most of them believed in a ‘Higher power called Washington’.
‘Wendy. How are you? It’s Daniel. You sound exhausted.’
‘Yeah. These presidential briefings can be a pain.’
‘But I thought you liked Obama. And at least you get to see him. We are kept away.’
‘It’s not the President. It’s the Veep, Biden. He goes to the eight o’ clock briefing in the White House but we have to brief him on his own at 0630hrs and then one of us goes with him in the car in case of last minute developments. He’s a nicer man one to one than you might believe but I can’t brief him in a dressing gown. And the full Stepford-Wife-look that the White House prefers is costing me a fortune. Still, only a month to go and I think he rates me so it will be good for the future.’
‘Any developments in Iran?’ asked Jacot.
‘Nope. Not in the last 48 hours. Satellites not showing much. NSA not picking up anything other than routine messages but Iranian communications security is good. So all we will have is political developments.’
Jacot could not resist. ‘Wendy I am not sure that’s quite right. We reckon there might be some Revolutionary Guards on the move.’
‘Daniel. Don’t mess around, the whole region is close to meltdown.’
It was always fun teasing the all-knowing American intelligence people. ‘Easy Wendy. It’s just that for the first time since the mullahs took over the Revolutionary Guards have cancelled their annual party. No booze, no pretty girls but still a big shindig.’
‘Dan, for goodness sake. Our billion dollar satellites and eavesdroppers are telling us that at least for the next twenty four hours no major units of the Revolutionary Guards are likely to be on the move – so that’s it. What’s that Brit saying you taught me, “Brains of an Archbishop”? Yeah. It doesn’t take the brains of an archbishop to work out that the intelligence might of Uncle Sam is heavily focused currently on the guys with beards who guard what may or may not be their nukes. What is it with you people?’
‘Wendy, I’m not saying that our bearded chums are moving to a launch position or anything like that. Maybe they are up to something defensive. Their boss did after all get blown up a couple of months back in what the official news agency called ‘an unfortunate ammunition accident.’ All I am saying is that they have cancelled a feast. It’s like the Irish cancelling St Patrick’s Day. Therefore, it seems likely that these guys have something going down. Never mind that your billion dollar gizmos are suggesting all is well.’
‘A cancelled feast! Daniel, get real.’
Satellites and eavesdropping were one thing. But even with those you had to look for the clues. Iranian signals discipline was good. It was difficult to break into their command and control systems and even if you got in the messages were highly encrypted. If you couldn’t break into the centre you had to prowl the periphery – like finding out someone had cancelled a party.
‘Well there you go Wendy. And yes, you can call Mossad. You were going to anyway.’
Wendy rang off. The intelligence was reliable and would certainly enhance Wendy’s status with the Vice President. Jacot would send a written version to Langley later with the source details well disguised. You scratch my back. I’l
l scratch yours.
Jacot typed the last line, gathered up the key supporting documents and marched along the corridor connecting the Cabinet Office to Number 10. He was heading for the National Security Adviser’s office. A senior civil servant, she was the official who delivered the daily intelligence briefing to the prime minister. She never took anyone with her.
Held firmly in his hand was a Cabinet Office scarlet leather folder. It was a beautiful thing. Embossed with the royal arms and the classification in gold – Top Secret Cabinet Joint Intelligence Committee. It contained the fruits of Jacot’s overnight labours entitled: “Immediate Assessment – Middle East overnight.” The National Security Adviser, Lady Nevinson, would brief the prime minister in a few minutes. On her return she would make a few changes and then instruct Jacot to issue it. Emissaries from ministerial private offices across Whitehall and the intelligence agencies would then pick up their paper copies.
‘Come in Jacot. Sit down.’
Celia Nevinson was the classic English diplomat. Understated, beautifully turned out, with a dry sense of humour and a formidable brain. She had been brought in to restore credibility to the centralized government intelligence machinery after the intelligence fiascos of the middle Blair years. Contrary to expectations, she had proved a grand success managing to clean up the system without putting too many noses out of joint. When the Coalition Government limped into power she became the first National Security Adviser. Jacot was privately amazed that she had managed to last as long as she had, but she exploited the insecurities of the new government to imprint her personality and methods on the collection, analysis and dissemination of intelligence.
She was more of a sceptic than the spies were used to, and openly boasted in the presence of senior spies of various types that she had never seen a Bond film or watched what she called ‘That ridiculous television programme, Spooks’. For a woman in her early 60s this seemed unlikely. Rather healthily, she regarded spying as a below stairs activity and assessed intelligence as a useful guide rather than holy writ. It wasn’t clear where she stood on politicians. But whereas her predecessors had returned from their morning meetings in the prime minister’s ‘den’ charmed, stimulated and exalted by their closeness to power, Nevinson usually looked as if she could do with a stiff drink. She conceded that the public school manners of the Coalition Government were an improvement on the blokeish paranoia of the previous regime but you could tell that she did not really like professional politicians. While she believed passionately that she should serve whatever ministers had been put in place by the electoral process it did not mean she had to admire them. If you came to see her late in the evening she would often have a glass of whisky on her desk and sometimes offered her subordinates one if something that day had especially pleased or amused her. It was rather good whisky Jacot reckoned – smokey and peaty. He always accepted a glass if she offered but he preferred white burgundy or gin.
She looked just a little bit harassed, if not hungover. She barely glanced at the briefing on the Middle East. But then she had been reading intelligence reports for over thirty years. ‘OK, so no major developments on this front but a question mark over some especially unsavoury group of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards. A seedy and unattractive looking bunch those Iranian leaders. No doubt the PM is ordering what is left of the RAF into the air as we speak. Come to think of it, it’s the deputy prime minister this morning. Do you know some of his advisers really do wear shoes shaped like Cornish pasties? What a treat. But don’t go. I have a late breakfast at the Travellers’ Club. My guess is the security people would agree to me being walked across the park by a Guards officer and I’ll buy you coffee.’
The voice remained casual but the pale green eyes focused on Jacot and were deadly serious.
‘Yes, of course, Lady Nevinson. I’ll meet you at the back door after your briefing.’
Forty-five minutes later they met at the back door of the Cabinet Office and walked along Downing Street towards Horse Guards Parade. Something generations of Londoners had been allowed to do until the IRA security alerts of the early Nineties. The armed policemen at the door of number 10 acknowledged Nevinson as she passed and went down the steps just by Lord Mountbatten’s statue. It was a cold morning. The threat of rain meant fewer tourists and it was still early. Nevinson did not speak. In the middle of St James’ Park she looked around as if nervous of being followed.
‘What does the word Magenta mean to you?’
‘Nothing really. Ask me one on sport or pass are the appropriate answers.’ Jacot could not see her face but sensed that she was not smiling.
‘I have had complaints about you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. From the US Embassy and from the deputy head of the CIA.’
‘But I get on well with our American friends and…’
‘Yes. I know. You are friendly with a number of their analysts. James there isn’t much I don’t know about you.’
‘It’s not that I dislike Americans at all – I have American relatives. But what I cannot stand is this idea that their interests are the same as our interests. And while I enjoy socializing with the CIA I cannot bear the endless kowtowing that seems to have to go on with them. It’s all right at our level. But the higher up you go the more obvious and ridiculous it gets. That JIC meeting last week with “C” getting hysterical because you chopped out some precious piece of US intelligence from a paper on the Middle East. The CIA had gracefully passed to us what appeared to be the views of someone close to the Iranian leadership but it had Mossad all over it. Doesn’t mean it was wrong but shall we say “Designed to influence as well as inform”. And the meetings on Afghanistan make me weep. We have got soldiers dying there. Do we get any credit for that?’
‘Daniel calm down. I am not walking across the park with you to give you a dressing down. I know how you and some others feel. I need your help.’
‘You can get a grip of the Joint Intelligence Organisation for a start.’
‘Come on Daniel. It’s not that simple. Listen, I need your help. As I said before what does the word Magenta mean to you?’
‘Nothing. No, I tell a lie. I think the sporting colours of my house at school were magenta and silver. We were rather successful I remember.’
Nevinson laughed. ‘Some Englishmen never become old boys of their schools. It’s as if they are stuck there forever.’ Her smile faded. ‘This is not schoolboy stuff Jacot I am afraid. Magenta is the codeword we use for a small group of people within the intelligence establishment who, shall we say, have secrets to keep from the Americans. It also applies to the special communications arrangements those people have to use.’
‘You’re joking of course?’
‘No. And I want you to be part of the group. It’s small for now anyway but all of us are absolutely on side.’
‘Who else?’
‘Never mind. Not yet. We are not big enough. Well here we are at the Travellers’. I don’t think there’s time for coffee. I will give you a cup in my office when I get back.’ She turned and walked up the steps into the Travellers’ Club.
Jacot was stunned as he made his way back to the office across the park and busied himself with reading a Foreign Office report on the ins and outs of Shia Islam, particularly as it affected Iranian politics. It was a long document, profusely and beautifully illustrated. The ranks, views and factions of the Shia clergy in Iran were fascinating. It was a shame Anthony Trollope’s clerical novels had been confined to Barchester. But the Foreign Office had made a good effort. Background reading was essential in the intelligence business and Jacot was absorbed for nearly an hour and a half. His mind was far away in the Middle East listening to the Muezzin’s call and the gentle clacking of prayer beads when the intercom on his desk buzzed. His presence was required by Lady Nevinson – probably a few routine details needed changing in the morning report.
She looked up at him as he went into her office. ‘The Chief of Defence Intellige
nce, General Verney is dead.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘No. Found early this morning in a guest room at St James’ College, Cambridge. Looks like a heart attack. News embargo for now but it will become public soon.’
‘How awful.’ Jacot was genuinely shocked. But after nearly a month working on the Middle East 18 hours a day he was looking forward to going on leave that afternoon.
‘I was due to go up to Cambridge today for his lecture. The car is ready outside. I last saw him at the Joint Intelligence Committee meeting last Wednesday. He was grumpy and agitated. He emailed me yesterday asking for a private chat on a matter of some urgency – using a private and unbreakable cipher. And now he’s dead.’
‘Well, Lady Nevinson. Maybe it was his heart making him uncomfortable. He never stopped smoking.’
‘I need you go to Cambridge. Now, this morning. St James’ is your old college isn’t it? I have rung the Master.’ Celia Nevinson was used to ordering men around. Most took it fairly well. Jacot never had a problem with her. She was clever, charming (when she wanted to be) and attractive in an English house-master’s wife sort of way. But there was something strange. Her eyes contained only authority and the voice sounded confident. The hands drummed on the scarlet folder on the desk. Usually a sign of impatience, something about the rhythm suggested fear.
‘Get down there or up there or whatever it is these days, Jacot. Find out what happened. I am convinced it was a heart attack but we need to be sure. Anyway he wasn’t in a bag or anything like that. Thank God. Poor man. I have already issued some instructions as you might expect. The Cambridge Police are handling the investigation. Because of who Verney was there will also be a Military Police detachment in attendance. There will be no, I repeat no, intelligence people there. None of the agencies and no military intelligence, except for you. We have had enough trouble recently, with code-breakers being found in suspicious circumstances, and then the cloak and dagger adolescents muddying the waters. If you see anyone you don’t like the look of get the Cambridge Police to arrest them and let me know. Anyone under military discipline deal with yourself and hand over to the Military Police. Is that clear Colonel?’
The Falklands Intercept Page 2
