‘It sounded like someone was hitting you,’ he says.
She perches on the edge of the bed with an arm around his narrow shoulders, and tells him that no one has done her any harm. He doesn’t need to worry. She and Dad are fine. No one is hurting anyone.
6
After a long walk he ends up at the Tate, where he drinks tea in the half-empty restaurant, surrounded by tourists, then wanders back to his hotel, where he lies on the bed watching the news. The logo whirls around the screen to magnificent electronic music. A globe of communication barrelling forward. Nothing about the analyst, the dead traitor. Robert shouldn’t have silenced him so definitively. What’s done is done, and must be dealt with.
While buttoning his shirt, Jonathan thinks through what needs to be said to Paddy McGuiness, the Minister of Defence’s perpetual advisor and naysayer. The opposition to be conquered. The anxiety to be pacified. He presses the cufflinks through the small slits. Then he selects a deep-red tie, ties it in a double Windsor knot, adjusting it as he examines himself in the mirror. The red nicely complements his graphite-grey suit. A suit of armour; now he is ready.
Twenty minutes later he is approaching the Ministry of Defence, that granite monument to Britain’s lost empire. He steps up to the navy-blue door through which he has passed on so many previous occasions. ‘The Catflap’ is what they call the tucked-away side entrance to the Ministry offices, intended for those who prefer to make a discreet arrival.
Inside, there is a dark hallway. He ambles along beneath the vaulted ceiling. Robert is standing at the foot of a broad staircase.
They hurry up the stairs, through a heavy wooden door and into a light corridor, where their footsteps are absorbed by thick carpet. The air is still, in the way that is only possible in an unoccupied building.
These are the offices of the Minister of Defence. On a Sunday, the rooms they wander past are deserted, but during the week the decisions emanating from here concern the defence of the United Kingdom and its international actions, the controlled use of death.
Jonathan hears muffled voices.
Two men are standing in the middle of the corridor that they turn onto, engaged in a muted discussion that stops abruptly as Robert and Jonathan approach. Their faces turn towards them, apprehensive. Then the men recognise them. One of them listlessly raises a hand by way of greeting.
‘Robert,’ says Paddy. ‘Give me a minute.’
They step to one side. Robert’s face contorts into a contemptuous mask. Being left to wait by Paddy is a bad sign.
A trickle of nervousness oozes out of Jonathan’s armpit and is absorbed by his shirt. Hercules has to happen, he thinks. He can’t bear the thought of seeing all the work they have done being laid to rest this afternoon. Only now does he realise that he has been taking it for granted that everyone, including Paddy, could see what a victory this operation could be. But now that he can see Paddy standing with his secretary, he is struck by quite how real the risk is of the operation never seeing the light of day, and it upsets him. He is already out of favour, thanks to the leak in Brussels, and he doesn’t have many opportunities left to save his career. Without Hercules, those chances are zero; of that much he is certain.
Paddy disappears through a pair of double doors with his secretary, leaving them standing in the corridor.
‘Bloody fool,’ Robert mutters.
Calm down, is what Jonathan wants to say. Robert is too tense, as if he might lose his self-control at any moment and storm after Paddy. The advisor is engaging in small-scale psychological warfare; there is no need to lose one’s balance over such pathetic attempts at mastery, and it annoys him that Robert cannot keep his cool. Jonathan stands by a window. Outside are the well-tended Whitehall Gardens, illuminated in shades of autumnal yellow.
It is a relief when the secretary reappears after a few seemingly unending minutes, smiling apologetically. ‘Please, come in,’ says the young man, watching Robert anxiously as he blunders past.
Paddy is standing by the tall French doors, outlined by the daylight cast through them.
‘Come in, come in,’ he says loudly but not particularly enthusiastically, and he approaches them slowly. They shake hands.
Jonathan contemplates Paddy’s broad shoulders and muscular arms that don’t quite fit into the dark-blue suit. Paddy the Bouncer. Perhaps this security advisor would have been happier standing outside a West End club denying people admission, Jonathan thinks as he sits down on the visitor sofa beside Robert.
‘Thank you for taking the time to meet like this on a Sunday,’ Robert says with surprising warmth.
Paddy nods absently, massaging his temples with his coarse fingertips and squinting at Jonathan.
‘So, Jonathan,’ he says. ‘Are you watertight in Brussels now?’
‘Yes,’ he replies lightly, ‘the leak is under control.’
‘Very good,’ Paddy mutters, not the least bit impressed.
That’s exactly how the Ministry sees it, Jonathan reflects. A matter of incontinence; a tired, incompetent body leaking secrets of state. He hates the thought of Paddy and everyone here in London talking about him like that.
Paddy is in a bad mood, as if vexed by having to be here with these spies on a Sunday. He glowers at his visitors.
‘So, Robert. You think the time has come for Hercules?’
Robert nods seriously, as if he has great sympathy with the advisor’s scepticism. It is splendid theatre when Robert calmly explains what he has already told Paddy at three other meetings: how important Operation Hercules is in the battle against Islamic State, how crucial Pathfinder is to it all.
Paddy listens impatiently.
‘We’re ready,’ Robert says, holding up a hand to forestall Paddy, ‘despite the mishap in Brussels.’
‘Mishap?’ Paddy cries out, exposing his blunt teeth in an acerbic smile. ‘It’s a bloody catastrophe.’
‘And as a result of what happened in Brussels,’ says Robert, ‘we’ve decided not to use the House. We won’t be using those methods, Paddy. Apart from that, the operation will go ahead as planned.’
Jonathan looks at Robert. Are they closing down the House? It is a pleasant surprise but it astonishes him: he had thought Robert was against it. But his friend has the right idea. He is engaging in damage limitation and calming Paddy down, ensuring he feels confident enough to approve the operation.
‘Good,’ says Paddy. ‘We don’t like that facility.’
The honourable Paddy is lying. He doesn’t care about the House and has always appreciated the information extracted from its clients. What he doesn’t like is the risk that his Minister will have to take public responsibility for the House. The wrong people getting hold of the right information and beginning to ask questions is what Paddy is afraid of.
‘We still have a chance to secure Pathfinder,’ Jonathan says, ‘but time is scarce.’
Robert calls upon Jonathan to speak.
Step by step, he details the plans in the same way as in the last three meetings with Paddy. But this time, the advisor is nodding in a way that indicates a more positive outlook.
‘So the plan remains to pay a ransom to the rebels for Pathfinder?’
He nods; that is the plan. Paddy grimaces, and Jonathan knows why: over recent months they have spent hours sitting on this sofa trying to make Paddy understand that they must negotiate with Ahrar al-Sham if they want to get to Pathfinder.
‘They’re terrorists,’ Paddy mutters.
‘Jihadists, actually,’ he says.
‘And an enemy doesn’t have to become your friend to be useful,’ Robert interrupts. ‘Paddy, we’ve already discussed this. We’re buying information that is for sale. We need this man.’
Paddy sulks.
‘Give me one good reason for buying a taxi driver off some terrorists for one million pounds.’
‘Paddy,’ he says, ‘you know what it takes to win. We need names, addresses. Precision. Hercules is the operation that can give us all that.’
‘Are you certain of Pathfinder’s identity?’
‘It’s the right man,’ says Robert.
‘Why not let the Americans take him and buy the information from them?’
‘Paddy, please.’ Robert is now struggling to remain calm, and his voice trembles with suppressed rage. ‘The Americans? Do you really want to advise our government to get into bed with that bloody clown of a hotelier to create stability in the Middle East?’
Paddy hates being spoken to so brusquely, and Robert’s tone is too harsh. Worst case, Paddy might say no simply because he feels offended.
They wait while Paddy rubs his forehead. It seems as if he is close to making a decision about the operation.
‘But is the leak definitely under control?’ Paddy says, shaking his head and seeming once again hesitant. ‘The Minister must have plausible reasons for being able to deny all knowledge of the kind of operation that has been conducted at the House.’
Jonathan can feel small droplets of sweat sliding down the small of his back and abdomen.
This is the man who always starts by saying no, only to – reluctantly perhaps – change his answer to maybe. A cautious strategist, and a furious defender of his Minister.
Paddy’s voice rises to a whining crescendo: ‘The Swedes are aware of the House and our work in Syria. So will I be reading about this in the Guardian, like I did last time?’
No, he thinks, don’t bring that up again. They all remember how their joint European counter-terrorism initiative, launched by the Home Office five years ago, had gone. A young Swedish diplomat torpedoed the entire venture, and it all ended up in the papers.
Then something unexpected happens. Robert leans forward to Paddy and whispers into his ear. Jonathan sees the change in the advisor’s expression. It becomes calmer, his eyes widen.
‘I understand,’ he says quietly, once Robert leans back.
Whatever his friend has said, it seems to have worked, because when Robert softly asks whether they should discuss the operation, Paddy nods wordlessly, as if still in shock over what he has just been told.
‘So the leak is . . . under control.’
An anxious look of resistance passes across the Bouncer’s tired face.
‘Okay,’ he says.
It takes a second for them to realise that the Minister of Defence’s closest advisor has just given them his approval. He will speak to the Minister this evening, he adds wearily.
Robert grins broadly, as if they have never been anything but the best of friends.
‘No more issues, mind,’ says Paddy, raising a finger.
When they leave Paddy, he is standing by the window in his office looking out. They hurry along the corridors and down the stairs, as if worried that the advisor might catch up with them and say he has changed his mind.
‘What did you whisper to him?’
‘That the traitor killed himself last week,’ says Robert, flashing a smile at him. ‘Don’t worry, Jon. Everything will be fine.’
7
If anyone without clearance asks her what she does for a living, then her first line of defence is to reply that she works for a company in Brussels. If anyone pursues a further interest, then she says she develops computer systems; and if, in spite of that, someone wants to know more, she starts talking about databases until she has extinguished all curiosity.
She is used to diverting other people’s interest with concepts such as structured information management, bulk data, the programming of system procedures, and other such soporific terms; she knows how to get people to stop caring. In the unlikely event that anyone were to look up the company, they would encounter the second line of defence: a website describing a dynamic and global information technology business. The third line of defence is an infrequently manned reception desk on the eleventh floor of an office block a few streets away from Rue de la Loi, where the curious visitor will be handed leaflets referring them to the website. Amusingly enough, the shield works. Very few suspect those who lie about everything, and do so with a smile.
As usual, Fredrik drops her off not far from the office. He cannot be permitted to know the exact address, which he understands. She asks whether they will see each other this evening. He shakes his head. Unfortunately he has a work meeting.
She kisses him hastily. Then she gets out of the car and they part ways. Fredrik knows what her job is – she doesn’t lie to him, but exercises restraint with the truth. He doesn’t know where her office is, and this is as close as he is allowed to get to the part of her life that belongs to the Security Service.
The team are already there. She passes two technicians who bid her good morning with hearty politeness, which puts her in a good mood. She has an indisputable impact on the room: her presence generates a swell of attentive faces.
They trust her. All their work is driven by a deep whirlwind of loyalty and trust, with her at its centre. It is a draining and vaguely erotic experience.
The Section for Special Intelligence is such a secret part of the Swedish intelligence world that it does not appear in any regulatory documents and is known to no one except the handful of people back home in Stockholm who need to know. Joining the Section is to make a covenant, promising absolute silence and fidelity.
Out in the corridor she helps herself to an apple from a bowl next to the printer. Today she is due to have a conference call with Stockholm. She needs to speak to Mikael, but first she goes to the mail room to empty her locked pigeonhole. She has received around ten reports about Syria and Islamic State, the kind of thing that now arrives on a daily basis, as well as an analysis of Russian military priorities and two reports about changes in the White House following the unlikely election a week earlier. She glances through the papers while wandering back to her office and dedicates some time to the analysis of American politics and what it might mean for the world. A new War on Terror, perhaps. New alliances in the Middle East and a heightened risk of tension between Shias and Sunnis. An easily annoyed, sociopathic liar as President of the United States makes all developments the more unpredictable. She chews the apple thoughtfully. The acidic juice makes her teeth feel pleasantly dry.
Mikael looks up from his screen with a brief good morning when she enters his office. She sits down in his visitor armchair and squints at the screen. What is he writing? Something about IT security.
While she waits, she has time to notice that his office is surprisingly cluttered; there are books and folders all over the place, in addition to various bicycle paraphernalia. A saddle. A sophisticated pump for thin racing tyres. He really ought to tidy his office, she thinks to herself. But she trusts his judgement; his mind is as ordered as his office is messy.
‘Will you be done soon?’ she says jokingly.
Mikael is fit; the clear lines of his back are visible through his shirt. It would be a problem if he were beautiful. But he is neither good-looking nor flirty, and has always maintained a stolid focus on his work. It’s restful; it makes for a clean and clear relationship.
A final flurry of tapping sees him finish. He brings up the British news.
She looks at the dead man’s face.
‘It’s no suicide, Mikael.’
Mikael nods slowly; he doesn’t believe for a second that the man has taken his own life, even if the British police haven’t found any signs of resistance or a struggle. For a spy, death doesn’t come as a bullet in the back of the neck but as two smiling colleagues. He had presumably let his murderers in, of his own volition, because they were his colleagues. They might very well have had a beer together, as friends, before they interrogated him and killed him.
‘We have eyes upon us,’ he says.
Naturally, they will have got the m
an to tell all. Anyone facing their impending death always does. Mikael says that they need to assume that the Brits know who he contacted. There is a risk that they are now monitoring the Section. What they need to do now is obtain a clearer picture of the situation to assess the threat.
Mikael spins in his office chair.
‘What do you think about targeted surveillance of the Brits’ office?’
It is tempting. They need to know what the British are saying . . .
She sighs. Perhaps they could tap Jonathan Green’s mobile. They have his mobile number. But she would rather not. It’s so risky. They’re talking about bugging MI6, and she feels as if they’re moving onto an increasingly thin crust of earth that might give way beneath them at any moment. If they are discovered, a sinkhole will open up; the Section would be unable to survive a catastrophe of that kind.
‘We’ll have to see what Stockholm thinks.’
Over the last few weeks, she has felt deep down that it would have been easier if the leak hadn’t happened. Or if the Brit hadn’t come to them, if she had said no, if someone else had been lumbered with knowledge of the House and the British silent war against Islamic State. She had never asked for that kind of responsibility.
She gets up. There is a report on Syria lying on Mikael’s desk, the same one as in her pigeonhole. A British product, an analysis of the battles in Aleppo that have intensified in recent weeks. Perhaps it is an analysis based on what has been said during interrogations of some of the Brits’ so-called clients? The thought makes her downhearted. They are so dependent on the British.
As she wanders out into the corridor, she reflects that her office, and the entire Swedish intelligence service, is floating on a surface of turbid, bloody water. The British are close partners, and their knowledge of the Middle East is priceless, but this House sullies everything. Apart from her and Mikael, only management in Stockholm is aware of it – of that she is certain. She cannot be left on her own in this matter; she needs to know what they think.
Down in a sandwich bar by the Luxembourg station her spirits are lifted as she finds herself in the midst of the usual pushing, chatty mass of office workers thronging to order their lunch. She pushes her way past a young man wearing a suit, with a well-groomed beard, who laughs in surprise and calls out in French, ‘You must be very hungry, madame!’ He is joking. ‘Make way,’ he says. ‘Hungry woman coming through.’
The Silent War Page 7
