Matthew was only five years older than Rebecca, but was already considered one of the most impressive talents in GCHQ. He had spent eighteen months as GCHQ liaison to CIA in Afghanistan but found he didn’t have the stomach for field operations – much to the relief of his father. Matthew was always embarrassed by his double-barrelled surname and felt like he had more to prove, with most assuming he’d been prematurely fast-tracked into his position. They couldn’t have been more wrong. Within six months at GTE, fresh out of Imperial College London with a First in Computer Science, Matthew intercepted a Chinese hacker contingent who had sprung some monumental malware on a British telecom giant ahead of a new product launch. If the attack had succeeded it would have cost them hundreds of millions of dollars, and until Matthew came along they didn’t even know they had a vulnerability. He coded faster than anyone Rebecca had ever seen. Sometimes she would just sit there and listen to him type. It was like listening to a pianist play a piano with muted keys. And he saw vulnerabilities in a way that made Rebecca sure he had hacking experience out of the office too. People that skilled can’t just shut it off after work. They have to constantly prove themselves, and you can only prove so much working in dry defence as GCHQ does. Rebecca knew as well as anyone: all the kudos, all the glory, was in attack. Over at MI6. Where all the action – and most of the knighthoods – ended up.
Mackintosh appeared behind Rebecca and tapped a glass of whisky against her arm.
‘I don’t drink,’ she said, still staring towards Mackintosh’s office.
Mackintosh offered a glass to Matthew, who accepted it, taking a drink immediately.
‘How does someone just fall from a balcony like that?’ Matthew asked.
Mackintosh answered, ‘The police found two empty bottles of wine in the living room, and it doesn’t look like anyone else was there. Two bottles in a girl her size. Accidents can happen three floors up.’
‘What do you think’s going on in there?’
‘They’re discussing who’s taking on the investigation. Trevor wants MI5.’ Mackintosh never called him ‘your dad’ in front of Matthew, thinking it made a child of him.
‘Did she say anything to you, Becky?’ Matthew asked. ‘Where she was going, what she was doing?’
Rebecca continued staring. It was hard to tell if she was upset or bored. ‘I’m not exactly someone people here confide in.’
‘Was she seeing anyone?’ asked Mackintosh.
Office romances were common in GCHQ, given the stress and nature of the job. It was almost impossible to have a relationship with someone you couldn’t talk about work to. Some were second- and third-generation analysts, going all the way back to the Enigma code breakers at Bletchley Park during the Second World War.
‘I don’t know,’ Matthew said, throwing his hands up in frustration. ‘Who knows what she got up to. She was always a black mirror.’
Rebecca said, ‘She told me she was seeing someone.’
‘She never told me that,’ replied Matthew.
Mackintosh’s back straightened. ‘Did she say who?’
‘No name,’ said Rebecca. ‘It was just a casual remark one day. “I’m seeing someone in London but it’s complicated.” That was the last she spoke of it.’
‘When was this?’
‘Four months ago.’
Matthew pressed her. ‘And you never asked her about it again?’
Rebecca shook her head. ‘Her situation held no interest for me.’
As Rebecca seemed to know more, Mackintosh asked her, ‘What about–’
Rebecca anticipated the question. ‘She’d shown no signs of depression. No rapid mood swings, loss of interest in work, changes in weight, or reckless behaviour.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Mackintosh said.
Matthew knocked back the rest of his whisky. ‘And they’re sure it was an accident?’
Mackintosh leaned forward on his knees. The news had clearly hit him hard. ‘Witnesses on the ground said she was holding a glass of wine, dancing along the window ledge when she tipped over the railing.’
‘Do you think that sounds like Abbie?’ Rebecca asked. ‘A one-night stay for work in London and she gets drunk by herself? So drunk that she falls off the balcony. She was too professional for that.’
‘I think we need to wait for the autopsy before jumping to any conclusions.’ Mackintosh flicked through his mobile. ‘The papers will have a field day with this: a story about intelligence we have to comment on.’
‘Has it hit yet?’ Matthew asked.
‘The Mail Online has it. “Tragic balcony fall in Pimlico.” The Guardian’s got it too.’
‘Sanctimonious pricks,’ said Matthew.
‘They’re going to enjoy sticking the knife into us after all that Tom Novak stuff. There’s no mention yet that Abbie was GCHQ, but they’ll have it by morning. The police report’s probably being handed over in a brown envelope in front of some all-night burger van as we speak.’
Behind the three, a team of GCHQ Internal Security in black suits made their way over to Abbie’s desk. They started disconnecting the leads on her computer and packing up her desk.
Matthew craned his neck to see what was going on. ‘Can that not wait?’ he complained. ‘Her keyboard’s barely cold.’
‘Protocol, sir,’ one of the suits answered brusquely. ‘Section thirty-two of internal GCHQ code. All property of deceased agents must be collected for forensics within three hours.’
Matthew got up to pour himself another whisky. He had already poured it by the time he asked Mackintosh, ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Go ahead,’ Mackintosh replied, handing his own glass over for a refill.
Once the internal team had cleared all of Abbie’s files and taken her computer away, Rebecca woke her own computer up. It had been on screensaver since she got there. Ordinarily a death such as Abbie’s would have prompted nothing more than a statement of condolence from GCHQ. But a homicide on government property would necessitate at least the suggestion of an enquiry. Rebecca knew the drill with those by now. She would be asked to hand over hard copies of all recent communications with Abbie. A macabre task. One Rebecca wanted to get over and done with as soon as possible.
When she logged in to her email two new messages were illuminated.
“From: Abbie Bishop.
Sent: 23.44, 8th December 2018.”
At first it was sad, like finding an old voicemail from a dead relative on your phone. The timing put it heartbreakingly close to her time of death – Mackintosh said the paramedics called it sometime between twelve and half past.
Rebecca tried opening the email, then realised Abbie’s email had been encrypted using standard GCHQ hardware. But staffers rarely used encryption for internal messages. Whatever Abbie had sent she didn’t want anyone to be able to read it. Not even the formidable GCHQ databases.
She decrypted the email using the necessary digital key and the message appeared:
‘Rebecca, I’m sending you this because you’re the only one I can trust. I’m afraid I’ve been keeping a lot of secrets from you for a long time now. Secrets I’m not proud of. It might already be too late to stop it all, but I’m going to try. Tonight could be my last chance. My life is already in danger as it is.
The reason for that should become pretty clear from the files I’ve attached. The files are password-protected (you’ll figure it out), and one is encrypted: it’s too sensitive for email – I haven’t trusted our system for the last six months now.
I’ve hidden a key in a README file on the laptop – which I’ve hidden under a pillow in the bedroom wardrobe here in Moreton House. Input the key and it will decrypt the last file. It’s everything you need to prove who’s guilty, and who’s innocent.
You’re not going to like everything you read about me in this. I’ve been a liar – for a very long time – about any number of things as you will see. Some of it you will understand, some you won’t. Onc
e you’ve read all the files, you will know the full truth.
The files are my insurance policy. Should anything happen to me, you’ll know what to do with them. On a long enough timeline, the truth always comes out.
There’s only one other thing to warn you about: tell Alexander nothing. HE CAN’T BE TRUSTED.
Your friend, Abbie.
PS. the password: KING OF SCOTLAND - OGLING MONARCH - MOORISH GENERAL - SMALL SETTLEMENT - STORM’
Rebecca forced herself to stay still and not react in any way. She just glanced around the room to check where everyone was. No one was looking.
There was one line that really stood out.
‘Should anything happen to me...’
Even without that, Rebecca knew there was something off about the official take on Abbie’s death. First, typos: not one error in spelling, grammar, or punctuation. Then the fact that Abbie had had the foresight to encrypt the message. The tone was rational, clear-headed. This from someone who just half an hour later would be so drunk she fell off a balcony? If it was an accident, why did she think something might happen to her?
The attachment was an untitled folder, password-protected. At a glance the password clues were as impenetrable as anything she’d seen in a long time. She then reminded herself Abbie wouldn’t have set her something she couldn’t break.
Before she set about cracking it she opened the second email.
If the first was sad, the second one was downright chilling.
“From: Abbie Bishop.
Sent: 23.57, 8th December 2018.”
‘help’
That was all it said.
Rebecca instinctively put her hand to her mouth in horror, thinking about the circumstances in which it must have been written.
Then a pop-up flashed at the bottom of her screen.
Rebecca jolted in her seat and took her hands away from the keyboard, as if it had suddenly become incredibly hot.
She glanced towards the office to see if anyone had noticed her reaction, but the blinds were closed.
‘You have one new message from Abbie Bishop.
Sent: 01:48, 9th December 2018.’
Her fingers trembled on the mouse as she opened the email.
‘FIND TOM NOVAK. EVERYTHING DEPENDS ON IT.’
Rebecca squinted at the screen. Tom Novak? she thought. Of all people, why him? And who the hell sent this?
It hadn’t been delayed in sending, as internal GCHQ emails recorded the time at which messages were composed, as well as the time of sending – both were the same. The email had been written and sent within the last minute from Abbie’s laptop. Rebecca checked the IP address from the email, in case someone had somehow hacked Abbie’s email account, but the IP address matched the previous message, and all the others Abbie had ever sent her.
Someone had taken Abbie’s laptop from the safe house.
She looked up at Mackintosh, who was across the room with Matthew, their glasses raised.
‘To Abbie,’ Matthew said sombrely.
Mackintosh chimed his glass with Matthew’s, and said nothing.
Camp Zero, Command Control – 2.43am, local time
After Malik’s body was taken to the infirmary, and McNally and his men had cleared out, Sharp was left alone in command control, hassling Langley on the phone.
‘...I know that, sir,’ Sharp explained, ‘but this source is credible. MI6 confirmed his status.’
Sharp’s superior, Bob Weiskopf, division chief of CIA Counterterrorism Centre wasn’t exactly conducive to Sharp’s appraisal of the situation. ‘What do you want me to do with that? Put every major public figure in a bunker for the next month?’
Sharp pleaded, ‘I’m saying let’s ground POTUS and the veep until we at least know where this is headed.’
‘Do you know how many credible threats you’ve passed to the Secret Service in the last year?’ Before Sharp could reply, Weiskopf told him, ‘It’s thirteen. And how many had legs?’ Weiskopf waited this time.
‘Zero, sir.’
‘You make the boy who cried wolf seem like a fucking oracle.’
Sharp replied, ‘You remember the wolf still comes in the end, right?’
Weiskopf wasn’t in the mood for his semantics. ‘You’ve got a dead MI6 agent on your hands, Walt. Find me some actionable intelligence and you’ll have my full attention.’ He hung up.
Hampton returned from the lockaway where detainees’ possessions were kept in evidence. He slumped at the table then said, ‘I’m sorry, sir. They took everything of Malik’s.’
Sharp pushed his hands back through his hair, trying to contain his frustration. At least in front of Hampton.
‘I took Fahran back to his quarters,’ Hampton said.
‘How is he doing?’ Sharp asked.
‘He’s a bit shaken up. He took this job to get away from executions.’
‘Didn’t we all,’ Sharp replied.
‘Is Mr Weiskopf moving on the threat?’ Hampton asked.
‘He’s right. We don’t have it.’
‘I don’t get it. I mean, Secretary Snow is in London tomorrow, right? Can’t they beef up security, at least?’
Sharp said, ‘He’s the United States Secretary of Defense. The only way to beef up his security further is to put him in a tank like Michael Dukakis.’
Sharp’s mobile started ringing, the caller ID flashing up. ‘Jeremy. What have you got?’ Sharp gave nothing away, listening intently, then he clicked his fingers urgently at Hampton, pointing at the paper and pen just out of Sharp’s reach. Hampton handed him both.
‘Are you sure that’s the name...’ he said, writing. ‘As in the...? Thanks, buddy. I owe you.’ Sharp hung up, then handed Hampton the paper with a name written on it. ‘Get him.’
Hampton did a double take before turning back to his computer. ‘What’s his involvement with all this, sir?’
Sharp stood over Hampton’s shoulder. ‘NSA did a comms sweep of the local area from tonight. My guy found an email sent from the middle of a field near the airport. NSA snagged the metadata. It’s literally the only email in a fifty-mile radius during that chase. It’s got to be the runner from earlier. You’d have thought he’d be contacting someone local. Instead he emails a journalist in New York. What the hell is that?’
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Hampton said.
‘Jeremy said the email the runner sent had an attachment, a video file. They can’t view it, but they know it’s there. It’s got to be the video of Malik from the airport. And if JSC and McNally are cleaning shop like I think, they’re going to be after anyone who has this video.’
Hampton angled the computer screen towards Sharp, showing the phone number for The Republic.
Sharp dialled, then checked his watch. ‘Damn. It’s nearly nine p.m. there...’ He pursed his lips as it kept ringing. ‘It’s taking too long.’ The call went to voicemail. ‘Shit.’ He hung up, then said to Hampton, ‘Get me an editor’s number.’
Hampton scrolled as quickly as he could. ‘Mark Chang. Senior editor.’ Before Hampton could read it out, Sharp had dialled from over Hampton’s shoulder.
It rang twice before being picked up.
He was the last person left in the office, and wired on too much coffee. ‘Mark Chang, The Republic.’
‘Mr Chang. This is Walter Sharp with CIA. I need the location and phone number of one of your reporters: Tom Novak.’
Chang, who had a call waiting on another mobile clamped to his other ear, and was rummaging through a foot-high pile of White House press briefings that had covered his desk all day, wasn’t exactly paying attention. ‘Look, if this is another death threat or marriage proposal, send him a DM on Twitter like everyone else. I’ve got an important call on the other line.’
Sharp said in his firmest voice, ‘Mr Chang, this phone call is currently being relayed to you via two-hundred and forty-eight-bit encryption on three satellites over two continents, and requires an NSA operator with ten yea
rs’ experience just so you can hear my voice right now. All told, this call is costing the U.S. taxpayer around a thousand dollars a second. Believe me when I tell you: this is the most important call you’re getting tonight. I’m CIA officer Walter Sharp.’ He added, ‘I’m guessing you’ll remember this time.’
Chang’s other call came through, but he hung up on them straight away and dropped the phone. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I have reason to believe Tom Novak’s safety may be compromised. I need his cell number and location.’
Chang fumbled for the other phone – now on the floor – searching for Novak’s number, which Sharp wrote down.
After he hung up Sharp said to Hampton, ‘Novak’s in Washington. He’s got a hearing at Congress tomorrow morning.’ He scrolled through his phone.
‘Do you want me to call him, sir?’ Hampton asked, a little confused why Sharp wasn’t.
‘We’ll get to Tom Novak,’ Sharp said. ‘But first, I want to find out who this is.’ He showed Hampton his phone screen. Sharp said, ‘I left it in his cell to see who he’d call. After William Blackstone there was another outgoing listed at 1.17 a.m., a call with the international code four four.’
Hampton said, ‘British.’
Hampton said, ‘British.’
Sharp paced slowly round the room, thinking aloud. ‘Say you’re an agent in the field whose cover’s been blown. You’re in fear for your life. You’re also in fear for your handler’s life. Who do you call?’
‘My handler,’ Hampton replied.
Sharp said, ‘Malik told me his handler was in London. The call he made has the same local code as the call I made to Blackstone. Also in London.’
‘Malik tried to warn them.’
Sharp tapped on the number, then selected Call. ‘We’ve got to find this guy.’ Sharp’s heart found a new gear. He hadn’t slept in twenty hours, but he felt wide awake. ‘Come on, pick up. Pick up...’ The ringing stopped, then came the pause he was dreading. ‘Voicemail.’
‘Is there a name?’ Hampton asked.
Official Secrets Page 4
